Page 99 of The Match Faker
“Oh, Yasmin.” Fuck yeah, I remember Yasmin.
I grin and I’m not even trying to make her blush but she does. Those are the best blushes, when they’re unplanned. “Yeah. Love Yasmin. How’s she doing?”
She shrugs. “Fine, I guess. I was just thinking…”
I place my fork down and reach across the table for her hand. “Thinking about what exactly?”
My hope is always that she’s thinking about sex. Specifically, with me, though I’m not picky. But based on her inability to meet my eyes and the fact that ever since she got sick a few days ago something has been just a little bit off, my hopes are not currently high.
She mulls over her words quietly, her lips pursing, her brow crinkling until I want to reach across the table and smooth her out. Or maybe take her to the bed and keep her there until every muscle and nerve is relaxed, incapable of a single fold.
“I was thinking that –”
Rocco chooses this moment to fly up the stairs in three loud leaps. They kick the door once with their boot and don’t wait for a response before they open it. “Beer delivery is here.” They’re breathless, hunched in the doorway hands on their knees.
I keep Jasmine’s hand in mine as I turn to face them. “And you couldn’t be the one to intake that because…?”
They straighten, flashing a notebook at me, like I’m supposed to know its contents. “Cuz me and Jasmine are talking about the new cocktail menu.”
She squeezes my hand. “We’ll talk about it later.”
“We can talk about it now,” I insist, but she smiles, pulls her hand away, and takes my empty plate to the counter along with her full one.
“Show me the menu,” she says to Rocco.
So, I guess we can’t.
Roberta,the beer delivery woman, spends most of the delivery talking about how October in the city is the perfect time of year. Cool without being cold, warm without the sticky, stuffy humidity. While I agree, I’m not a great conversation partner. My attention is stuck halfway up the stairs. Only when she asks after Ed do I pull my attention back to her. I’m always happy to share how he kicked chemo’s ass and impressed his doctors with his recovery from surgery.
Finally, I sign off for Roberta on the dotted line and make my way slowly back up the stairs. My parents were ecstatic to learn that Jasmine and me were back together, or together for real, at least. Mom’s scream nearly broke my laptop speaker when we FaceTimed them. Dad is happy but he’s made his concerns about the intertwining of our professional and personal relationships abundantly clear.
And I get it, but goddamn would it kill him to be supportive for once?
I’ve tried not to let it bother me, and Jasmine and I have worked hard to create boundaries since the beginning, ones that will “create longevity for all levels of our partnership”, according to Jazz. That’s why we haven’t moved in together; though, I don’t think she’s ready to officially leave Jade anyway. That’s why we keep our finances separate. It’s why we haven’t even thought of words like fiancée or marriage license. But if she wanted to, I’d marry her in a fucking second.
For a guy who’d never really done commitment before, I feel like I’m kind of fucking killing it. Maybe that’s why this sudden, subtle distance from her feels like a gap I can’t help but mind. Things feel wrong, off, like the way Jade looks when she’s forced to use a microfiber cloth: uncomfortable but suffering through it. I want to fix it for Jasmine, whatever concerns, worries, or god forbid, doubts she might have.
But what if I can’t fix this.
As I reach the top of the stairs, Jasmine and Rocco’s hushed voices drift through my apartment door, slightly ajar. It’s all a jumble of high-pitched hissing until Rocco’s whispered screech breaks through, “Aren’t you on birth control?”
I stop at the top of the stairs, my last few steps quiet. I don’t strain to hear what she and Rocco are talking about on the other side. I don’t even hold my breath to hide my arrival. But I don’t not do those things, either.
Yes. Yes, Jasmine is on birth control. She’s had an IUD since I’ve known her. I can’t hear her response through the ringing in my ears but I assume that’s what she says.
Shit. Fuck. Damn. This is not what we need right now. It’s not what we want; at least, not what I want. If I was ever going to consider the possibility of offspring, it would be with Jasmine, but I never got the sense she wanted them, either.
While it’s certainly not the worst thing about a potential pregnancy situation, the fact that my father may now be able to employ his favorite saying, “I told you so”, doesn’t make it better.
“You guys haven’t discussed this before?” Rocco asks, and while it's uncommon I’m surprised to hear judgment lacing their words.
Jasmine says something inaudible and then with a tremble in her voice, “Please don’t tell Nick.”
“Of course not, sweetie,” Rocco responds.
A claustrophobic panic closes my airways like anaphylaxis. I nudge the door open with my foot. “Don’t tell me what?”
If my heart wasn’t hammering in my throat, I’d laugh at their twin faces of shock and shame. Rocco is frozen, the same look of horror on their face as when they unwittingly muttered shut up into a live mic during Underground Karaoke when a patron would not, in fact, stop talking.