Chapter 5 Jaden
Jaden
I don’t know why I thought my parents would understand this app deal.
The only reason their restaurant has any social media at all is that I set it up for them when I was home last Christmas.
Last time I checked, the only posts were the ones I did of their menus and the pic of my dad’s famous jelly burger.
My little brother, Beck, should probably just take it over for them at this point.
He’s twelve and pretty much lives on his tablet.
“Your dad doesn’t understand why you’re worrying about dating apps. But you know him—he never wants his princess to date. I’m proud of you for putting yourself out there.”
I flop down to sit on the edge of my mattress and blow up at the loose hairs falling over my eyes. I start to push them back but let my hand linger over my face. My fingertips push into the corners of my eyes as I laugh silently.
“I’m not really on a dating app, Mom. I’m like a spokesperson. That’s what I’ve been telling you. It’s basically a modeling gig.”
“Well, you’re very beautiful. I always thought you should be a model.” Her confident tone is flattering, even if it’s the kind of thing a mom has to say about her daughter.
“Thank you. The important thing is that my tuition is handled. They’re going to pay me monthly,” I explain as I switch my phone to speaker so I can pull my damp shoes from my feet. I still can’t believe Bryson dropped me in the fountain.
“Jaden, you know we will always find a way to pay for your schooling, right?” Her tone is suddenly serious, so I freeze with one shoe in my hand and tilt my ear toward the phone.
“Yeah, I know.” I wait a beat, but when she doesn’t zoom in with another topic, my stomach squeezes. I tend to feel dread when it’s unwarranted. Thank you, anxiety. But this time my chest feels just a little tighter.
“Is something wrong, Mom?” Money in our household has always been tight.
My spidey senses have become fine-tuned to the nuances in how my parents talk about their business.
They never tell me directly that things are slow, but they do tell me when things are busy.
And they haven’t mentioned a boom weekend in several months.
“No, no, no,” my mom finally says through a breathy laugh.
I twist my lips and consider probing deeper.
“So . . . what’s the next modeling gig, then? Is it for a clothing brand? Maybe you’ll get to keep the clothes.” My mom is pivoting the conversation, so I’ll tuck the clues away for now.
“Mom, it’s only for the app. That’s the gig. I’m the face of this new dating app. Along with Bryson—”
I regret those three extra words the second they hit the air. Especially the name-drop. That name.
“Oh, so you are on the dating app! And you’re dating this Bryson boy. Can I see him? Is he on Instagram like the burger shop?”
I swallow hard, my mind buzzing with the various ways my mom could wreak absolute havoc on social media.
Thankfully, I know she’s not great at putting her phone on speaker to get at her apps mid-conversation.
And she’s probably forgotten the password I set her up with anyhow.
I’m mid-parent-induced spiral when Taryn slides into my open doorway, leaning her cheek against the jamb.
We’re supposed to be heading to the courts soon, yet my roomie looks like she just slid out of a coma.
“Again . . . I’m not on a dating app. I’m only on the ad for the app. That’s it.” I exhale and feel bad that my frustration is audible. “Mom, I’ve got to get to practice, so can I call you and Dad later to explain better?”
Or maybe the three of us pretend I took a job in the mail room instead. One that pays five grand a month.
“Sure, sure . . . I’ll just look up this Bryson in the meantime. I’ll talk to you later, honey. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
I don’t bother sighing until I’ve ended the call and my eyes meet my roommate’s quizzical expression.
“Bryson Moss?” Taryn quirks a brow, and her smirk is annoying.
As much as I haven’t talked to Bryson over the last three years, he has been a constant discussion topic.
Maybe a nemesis of sorts. Though, whenever I bring him up—usually in an annoyed, negative context—Taryn is quick to point out what she considers my obsession with the guy.
I glare at her with soured lips, not in the mood to entertain her teasing and theories about some crush that doesn’t really exist.
“Guess whose sister owns the app for my NIL deal.”
Her jaw drops, but that smirk is still pulling up the corners of her mouth.
“No way!”
I roll my eyes. Something I apparently do too often. Damn Bryson Moss for making me aware of it!
“Yeah, and the asshole was there today for the photo shoot. And he dropped me in the fountain! My shoes are soaked. Do you think I can toss them in the dryer?”
I bend forward and snag the heel of my right sneaker, then hold it out for my roommate to inspect. Taryn takes it in her hand, balancing it in her palm like she’s weighing the saturation level.
“I don’t think they’ll make it through Bessy,” she says, tossing the shoe back to me.
Bessy is our dryer, a solid piece of machinery that hails back to the olden times, when appliances came in pale-yellow and puke-green hues.
Bessy is both. And she rocks side to side when she’s hard at work, no matter what you toss into her.
“Well, they’re never going to dry outside. It’s not hot enough. And if I leave them in here, they’re going to stink up the place.”
“Going to?” Taryn says, waving her hand in front of her nose.
I drop the heavy shoe back to the floor, where it lands with a thud.
“Great, now I need to buy new sneakers.” I sigh.
I have other shoes, but not everyday sneakers I can wear around campus.
And since I spend most of my life walking from point A to point B, then C, D, E, and F, quality shoes are imperative.
I tried a bike on campus my freshman year, but it’s more of a hassle finding places to lock it up.
And a car is definitely not in the budget.
“Maybe you should ask Bryson for a new pair, since he’s the one who got them wet and all. Which . . . why was Bryson Moss at your photo shoot? And apparently flirting up a storm with you?”
Her smirk is back. Maybe it never left.
I shake my head and get up from my bed so I can change into my practice clothes. Taryn basically lives in hers—the same gray, extra-baggy sweatpants and oversize team T-shirt. She has four sets of the same thing. She’s already wearing her tennis shoes, so I gather she’s ready to go.
“He didn’t show up for me, so get that fantasy out of your head. He’s helping his sister with the launch. We’re both, sort of, I don’t know . . . the faces of the app?”
I’m starting to see why my mom was confused. This isn’t easy to explain.
“Okay, so like . . . are you sample profiles or something? I mean, I can see how having a Bryson Moss profile up for dibs will drive a lot of campus females to the app. Though, I’m pretty sure the entire cheer team has already dated him. Some of them twice. And the volleyball team. And—”
“Our profiles aren’t open. They’re just there, like samples. Like you said. And we’ll be in the social media for Score.”
“Wait, wait, wait . . . Score?”
Taryn’s reaction mirrors mine. I grimace when our eyes meet.
“It sounds bad, huh?” I hold her gaze while I pull a fresh pair of socks out of my top drawer. She seems to ruminate on the brand for a moment before her nose scrunches up and her eyes squint.
“It does sound a little like a sex app. You know, for hookups?” she says.
I groan as I stuff my feet into my clean socks, then slip them into my slides. Too bad these things aren’t padded enough to wear around campus. Or rain ready for the regular drizzles that greet me most mornings.
“Great! Now everyone is going to think I’m just another Bryson Moss conquest. One more name on his long list. Gah!” I flop onto my bed and peer upside down at the space underneath. Spotting my practice shoes, I stretch an arm into the dusty depths to snag one of the laces.
“Why would people think you’re hooking up with Bryson? Unless you’re fake dating. Wait . . . are you? No!”
I squeeze my eyes shut and let out a sigh before pushing myself upright to look at my friend. She’s all wide eyes as I brush the dust bunnies from my arms, and she covers her mouth in a terrible attempt to suppress her amused laugh.
“We are not fake dating, Taryn. It’s a modeling gig,” I argue.
Clearly, I’m going to have to treat her like my parents and downplay this whole thing.
That’s the only way I’ll be able to survive this eight-month contract.
If I have to endure constant matchmaking attempts for real, I’m never going to make it.
“Right, modeling. But also, you’re totally fake dating, aren’t you? Like in the movies. And you’re going to have to spend time together, and then he’s going to say something nice, and you’ll be like, ‘Hmm, maybe Bryson Moss isn’t such an asshole after all.’”
She giggles through her words, and I do my best to let things roll off my back while I weave my hair into a braid that I twist up and pin against my scalp. Maybe she’s still high from that blunt I smelled wafting from the kitchen window as I walked up our apartment stairs.
“You’ve really thought this whole thing out, haven’t you?” I glance at her and scoff before snagging my keys from the top of my dresser and urging her to follow me out the door.
“What can I say? I love love.”
I grit my teeth but avoid turning around.
“Well, then, maybe you should be the one fake dating the campus playboy,” I retort, holding our front door open for her before locking up and starting our walk to the tennis center.
Taryn doesn’t even date. She hooks up with her brother’s best friend every few months, then never talks about it. And God forbid I bring it up.
We get to the corner, and I assume the subject is finally dead, but Taryn holds on to things like a teething puppy.
“So, you are fake dating, then?” she finally lets out.
I glance at her briefly and give in to the frustrated laugh.
“Sure, Taryn. I’m fake dating Bryson Moss. Now can we drop it?”
Her mouth snaps shut, but her grin only gets bigger as she nods. I pick up my step when the walk sign lights up, and I don’t look my friend in the eyes the rest of the way to the courts.