7. Jasmine
7
JASMINE
“ D arling.” Jade pats my head. “You seem distraught.”
“I am not—” I huff, my biceps burning, my hands aching. “Distraught.”
Finally, the food she let stick, calcify, and fossilize onto the stockpot detaches from the stainless steel.
“Honey, you’ve really got to remember to let these soak,” I say gently but not for the first time. Holy fuck, do I hate doing dishes.
I fill the pot with an abundance of dish soap and warm water; a late soak is better than never soaking at all.
Jade hums a ponderous sound that means something along the lines of yes, yes, shut up so I can talk about what I want now . “You don’t usually get this distraught about dirty dishes.”
I throw the sponge into the sink where it lands with a wet splat. “I told you I am not distraught.”
Jade laughs, loud and artificial. “You’re such a joker, Jazz.”
I flush. Stupid Nick ruining that stupid nickname. Gah! Even the word nick name is ruined.
“What happened at the engagement party?” she asks for the thousandth time since Saturday.
“Nothing.” The word is anything but believable, yet I stand by it.
“Sounds like something a distraught person would say,” she singsongs, following me from the kitchen to the living room. Jade has always been my shadow. Mom called her my little duckling because of the way she’d waddle around behind me as a toddler.
For the first time maybe ever, I wish she would just go away.
“It was fine. I swear.” I ignore the pang in my chest and begin the never-ending task of cleaning up my little sister’s mess. First, her LEGOs—her newest hyperfixation—go in their bin. Then I collect her dishes from the coffee table and check the couch cushions for garbage, phones, keys, bank cards, money, jewelry, trinkets, and treasures. She went through a rock collecting phase that I only found out about after I pulled a handful of unwashed rocks from the couch that she insisted were opals.
They were not.
“Mitchell asked me to dance. He was pretty drunk so that was kind of weird. But fine.”
“And this Nick boy was respectful, was he?” she asks in her old granny voice. She pulls the collection of throws she made a nest with earlier from my hands and wads them up one by one.
Even though I’ll have to refold them later, I let her do her part. It’s not her fault I’m a control freak. I really should stop doing this kind of stuff for her. She’s an adult, even if she still seems like that little duckling at times.
“Nick was respectful.” Nick was fine. Jasmine was not .
His eyes had gone wide and his lips had parted in bafflement when I told him I was leaving, but he was a perfect gentleman. He walked me to the porte cochere and called me a car. Later, he texted me to tell me he’d gotten home okay, asking if I had, too.
I sent him a thumbs up for the trouble.
All of those reasons I thought we weren’t compatible seem so flimsy now. Because he’s a bartender? Because he scheduled our date at his work? I never even gave him a chance to explain. I’m a snob. I’m exactly like the people at work that I complain about.
To make matters worse, I threw myself at him, then promptly left.
The poor man probably has whiplash; meanwhile, I can’t stop thinking about him, the way he kisses.
“So, matchmaking was a success?” Jade asks.
I blink myself out of the dissociative episode I’ve fallen into, a state where my mind is filled with nothing but horny thoughts about Nick. Again. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess it was.”
Maybe the algorithm was right? Maybe I needed to stop being such a fucking control freak and let someone else take the lead for once. Clearly, we’re far more compatible than I thought possible. But at this point, he probably wants nothing to do with me.
“Are you going to be okay if I leave?” she asks, true concern wrinkling her brow.
Frowning, I assess her. “Where are you going?”
“To the movies.”
Unbidden, worry seeps over me. Like it always does where my sister is concerned. “With whom?”
“My friends,” she says, like duh. “Is that okay with you?”
“Yes, sorry…” I wave her away and swallow back my trepidation. “Just make sure you?—”
“Text. Yes, I will. I know ,” she says in a firm tone, reminding me that she is an adult woman working toward her degree.
I fuss over her as she leaves. Does she have a warm enough coat? Maybe she should take a different hat. Does she want her own snacks? The movie theater overcharges for popcorn.
She lets me, even though it annoys her. It makes me feel better knowing that I can dote on her now. After Dad checked out when she was little and Mom gave up parenting her once she turned eleven, it’s become imperative for me to make up for them. It’s illogical, yes, but impossible to suppress.
I close the door behind her and sag against it in relief. A heartbeat later, my nerves are frayed again by the sound of my phone chiming from the kitchen. I rush for it so fast my downstairs neighbors will probably complain.
Nick Scott: still good to drop by tonight?
He texted last night. I’d spent the whole day fielding questions and comments from co-workers about Nick and how we’d met and what he does and where he grew up. The plan worked; everyone was so focused on Nick they all but forgot that Mitchell and I broke up just a month ago. But I can’t even celebrate our success. I feel too terrible about lying. To them, to him. To myself, too.
Me: Yes. See you soon.
He said he wanted to talk about something important . The word important had arrived separately. That alone emphasized its significance, making it seem more than just important. Scary important. My fake boyfriend is breaking up with me important. At least I’m not getting dumped over text message this time.
With all that in mind, I asked him to come here. It’s easier to perform my righteous indignation in my own home.
I’m pacing by 7:07 p.m. He said he’d be here between 7:00 and 7:30, so he isn’t late. But if I were the one who’d said I’d be somewhere within a half-hour time span, I’d be waiting outside their house five minutes before the clock even started.
But as Jade often tells me, that sounds like a you problem .
So, I pace for my own anxious energy rather than out of impatience or resentment.
I should journal about this. I believe this is called growth.
There’s a knock on the door. I freeze, my heart picking up its pace. It’s probably Enzo, the downstairs neighbor who hates when we make noise but has no problem verbally abusing his girlfriend for all of us to hear. He’s probably here to threaten a noise complaint because I step too loudly.
“Listen,” I say before the door is even fully open. “I have a guest coming and?—”
“Hey, Jazz.”
My mouth slams shut.
Nick leans against the doorframe, his hair messy like he’s had his hands in it, a canvas tote bag slung over his shoulder. And the man is wearing round, wire-rimmed glasses.
“How did you get in?” I ask. “Since when do you wear glasses?”
“A beefy white guy with a really thick neck.” He juts out his jaw, imitating Enzo’s familiar underbite. “And since I had trouble seeing the blackboard in seventh grade.” He straightens, his large frame crowding the doorway. “Can I come in?”
“Sorry. Right.” Mind still reeling, I step aside and survey him as he toes off his boots and hangs his coat up on one of the hooks. “Enzo shouldn’t have let you in. We’re supposed to open the door for our own guests only.”
One side of his mouth ticks up. “I’m pretty sure you’re the only person who follows those rules.”
Well, that’s unsafe.
“Here.” Nick hands the tote bag to me. It’s printed with a floral graphic and the words Be a slut do whatever you want , so I absolutely do not take it.
“Am I the slut?”
“Huh? Oh.” The grin that’s always tugging his lips grows wider. “I got it at a market last Pride. The bag is mine. The wine is for you.”
“Oh. Thank you.” He doesn’t strike me as a hostess gift–bringing type of person, but I appreciate the gesture.
“It’s your fave,” he says.
Frowning, I assess him, working to decode his meaning.
He laughs at my confusion. “Cab sauv. French. Ordered a couple cases straight from the winery.”
“That’s…surprisingly thoughtful,” I say, managing to make my gratitude sound particularly ungrateful.
He sighs, and I take the bottle to the kitchen to avoid any further foot in mouth situations.
“Do you want to open it now?” I don’t usually drink wine on a work night.
Nick follows me down the hall. I try not to look over my shoulder. He’s not calculating my net worth based on the thrifted and IKEA furniture or the water damage on the ceiling the landlord ignores. Normal people don’t do that. Nice people don’t do that. Just the guys I’ve dated in the past.
Perhaps that’s even more of a reason to trust this process. Clearly, an algorithm can pick a better man than I ever could.
“Only if you feel like it,” he says, sliding into the seat of our teeny two-person dining table in the kitchen corner. “But don’t open it on my account. It’s probably too fancy for my palate.”
That might be a dig at me but I’m choosing to ignore it. “I usually like to have warm water with lemon slices in the evening.” Why I say that is beyond me. It feels strangely vulnerable and intimate, telling him what I like to drink as I wind down.
“Sure.”
He plucks a lemon from our overflowing fruit bowl and joins me at the counter as I fill the kettle with water. He cuts large wedges and I drop them into mugs. We wait for the water to boil in a silence that stretches louder as each second ticks away. The longer we wait, the more crowded my head gets, filling with one potential comment after another. All things he could say about my behavior, which has ranged from weird to rude for no reason.
“I’d still really like to come to Muskoka with you,” I blurt as the switch on the kettle pops.
He props himself up against the counter and crosses his arms. “Still?”
I blow on the hot water and drop my attention to the stained Formica countertop. “I think I’ve been unfair to you. I’m sorry. I want to make it up to you.”
“Jasmine,” he says, his tone so serious I can’t help but turn to him. His dark eyes are sincere. “It’s very nice of you to say that, but you have nothing to make up for.”
“No. I do. You helped me when you didn’t even know me, and I know how I come across.”
“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He picks up a mug and gulps the hot liquid. He winces, like he ate an entire lemon wedge. “I don’t know what I was expecting. Lemon water really is just lemon water .”
I take my own sip. It tastes fine to me. “I was being a snob, Nick.”
He chokes, laughs, coughs up lemon water. I pat his back, but he waves me away.
He replaces his mug with my hands, turning to face me fully. “I promise I have never thought that about you.”
“It’s fine. I was. I am.”
“You’re not.”
“Whatever, I don’t want to argue with you about it. I feel like I was being snobby. And also sending a lot of mixed signals after…” My face heats. The thought of that kiss still makes me disproportionately aroused. “What are they like? Your family?” I ask, because if discussing his family can’t calm my overactive libido, nothing will.
He leans against the kitchen counter with the same ease as when we met, comfortable, assured. I imagine Nick is comfortable just about anywhere.
“As you know, my dad is… We have trouble communicating.” He puts his words in air quotes. “Mom did the whole stay-at-home thing.” From there, he ticks his siblings off his fingers. “My brother Alex is my father’s golden child. He works for my dad’s company, and he’ll try to sell you office furniture within five minutes of meeting you. Miranda is my eldest sister, she’s like a second mother to me. We used to be really close but…” He gives a defeated shrug. “Claire is cool. Way too competitive, but she likes to argue with my dad so she’s a good ally. I’m two years younger than her. And then there’s Charlie. He’s the baby.”
I smile. “Say no more.”
“You have one, too?”
“My little sister. Raised her myself,” I say proudly.
“Charlie works for my dad, too,” he says with the kind of fatigue that makes me think there have been a lot of conversations about the family business in his past.
“And you don’t.”
He takes another sip of his lemon water, this time fighting back a wince. “I do not.”
I want to ask why he and Miranda aren’t close anymore and how much Charlie gets away with and why it’s so important that his siblings—maybe just the boys?—work for the family business. But those questions seem too probing, especially when I haven’t shared very much about myself.
“My dad thinks I’m a disappointment,” I say, then clamp my mouth shut. That was stupid.
“Okay,” he says slowly, cupping his mug with both hands.
“Sorry, I don’t mean to imply you’re a disappointment, too.” Shut up, you loser. “He left when I was in my first year of university and he cut off contact with us soon after.” He preferred his other family to ours, but that’s too much to share. “But not before he told Jade that I was pathetic for dropping out of school.”
He whistles his shock.
“Ironic, since I only dropped out because our mom couldn’t deal after he left.” My tone is flippant, but if I let myself feel even an ounce of the pain he inflicted on us, then my voice will break. “And Jade needed stability. I got a job, and she moved in with me and…”
And that was that.
“You did a good thing,” he says.
I shrug. I did what had to be done, but his words ignite an ember of pride deep inside me, an affirmation I didn’t know I needed until I heard it.
“Is there anything else you need me to know about your family before we leave?” I ask.
“There is.” He stops there, finishing the dregs of his lemon water and hooking his finger into the handle of my empty mug. “Well, technically it’s not about my family.”
He turns toward the sink, where the stockpot still sits filled with soapy water.
“I can do that,” I say in a rush.
“It’s fine.” He waves me away. “Washing dishes is sort of my specialty.”
He means it as a joke. I’m pretty sure most of the things that come out of his mouth are meant to be jokes. But my next move is more a compulsion than a choice. I don’t let other people do dishes for me. I do the dishes for me and for them. Even if I really fucking hate dishes.
Besides, shouldn’t he get a break from dishes if washing dishes is part of his job description?
“No.” I put my hands over his, where he’s lifting the soapy stockpot filled with cold, stagnant sink water and the crusty detritus left over. “I got it.” I pull the pot toward me.
He resists me. “I said, it’s fine.” His voice is strung just the slightest bit tighter.
I pull harder. Because excuse me, this is my stockpot, and my dishes, and maybe I let him save me at the party, but I don’t need saving in this. I don’t let other people take care of me; I take care of them.
“Nick,” I say through gritted teeth.
The water sloshes in the pot.
“Jasmine,” he replies with a stubbornness I haven’t seen from him before. His jaw is clenched hard like mine, and he’s wearing that stupid fucking smirk. The same smirk I’ve wanted to wipe off his face numerous times since we met. Now, though, I don’t want to get rid of it with a slap. Now, I have the distinct urge to kiss it off his face, to smother it against my throat.
The way the curl of his lips tints the sound of my name alone is enough to make me dizzy. If he asks, I’ll tell him it was that unsteady, faint feeling that makes me do what I do next. Because I don’t just let go of the stockpot. I shove it back at him, with the kind of impulsivity I haven’t felt since before my prefrontal cortex was developed.
Nick stumbles back, his hip slamming into the counter and the water in the stockpot rising in a bubbly, orange-tinged wave. I shut my eyes before I have to witness the rest of the carnage.
Nick screams, not like a horror film’s final girl, but certainly an octave higher than I thought he was capable of. His torso is soaked with a combination of water, soap, and…other stuff that looks like it was once spaghetti sauce. Or maybe chili?
“My Chumbawamba T-shirt,” he says, his eyes bulging and his neck straining.
“Your what?” I whisper, bringing a hand to my chest.
He points at his graphic tee. “It’s ‘ Tubthumping ,’” he says with barely contained outrage. Though with easygoing Nick, I suppose it’s more like a tame amount of outrage.
“I don’t know what that means,” I cry.
He holds the fabric away from his body. The gray T-shirt is worn so thin that with the water, it’s starting to have a wet T-shirt effect. The image on the front of the shirt, a flexed bicep with a boxing glove encircled by the words TUBTHUMPING and CHUMBAWAMBA , is absolutely soaked. There’s a dark stain in the most embarrassing spot possible on the front of his jeans.
“It’s vintage.”
“I can fix this,” I say with a confidence I actually feel for once. If there’s one thing I know, it’s fabric. This time when I grasp the pot, he gives it up without a fight. I drop it into the sink with a clatter. Dirty water soaks into my socks as I yank on the hem of his shirt and lift.
“What are you doing?” He grasps my wrists and pushes them down, bringing his shirt with them, and we’re stuck in another strange tug-of-war.
“I’m washing your shirt.” I cringe. Now that the water is no longer stagnant, it’s a bit stinky. “And you should probably let me wash the pants, too.”
“You can’t,” he says with a sharp intake of breath, his cheeks pink, his eyes a little wild.
“Why”—I try to lift his shirt again, but he keeps his arms pinned to his sides—“not?”
“Because you’ll see my…my…” He drops his focus to where I’m still gripping the wet fabric. “Belly,” he says, defeated. Finally, his shoulders droop. He gives in and lets me pull it over his head.
“I’ll just…” I hold the crumpled fabric in the air and turn away, hiding my smile. There are a lot of features in this crummy, old apartment I hate, but the in-unit washer and dryer in the small “mudroom” off the kitchen that leads to the fire escape isn’t one of them. “Give me your pants,” I say over my shoulder.
“They’re fine,” he says, but there’s no fight in his tone this time. The room goes quiet, the only sound the shuffle of denim, and then the denim lands in a heap on the floor next to my feet.
I spray the shirt and the jeans with a stain remover I made using dish detergent, hydrogen peroxide, and baking soda. It’s gentler on fabric, especially the flimsy stuff fast fashion uses, than the store-bought stuff.
“Normally, I’d let this soak a while.” The explanation is unnecessary, but he’s behind me, in my kitchen, with barely any clothes on, and I’m putting off turning around.
Eventually, I don’t have a choice. He stands in the middle of the kitchen, his hands gathered in front of him, covering up any suggestion of the body parts beneath the thin black fabric of his boxer briefs.
“You don’t happen to have a T-shirt I can borrow? Maybe some sweats?”
Every version of Nick I’ve met so far has been self-assured; even at the engagement party, surrounded by people he didn’t know, performing a role, his energy and poise invited everyone to take him or leave him without much concern for their choice. But Nick is so clearly out of his element now, and I don’t want that for him. He’s lean but not muscular. His body hair is dark, thicker on his chest than his stomach…or rather his belly. His nipples are pebbled and pinker than I expected.
I read in a fashion magazine that the lip color most flattering to a person’s skin tone should be a color match to their nipples. In practice, the lipstick I found didn’t wow me.
His, though, would make his mouth look kissable; more kissable than it already is.
I’d love to wear his nipples on my mouth.
“What are you staring at?” he asks. He glances at his chest because despite his question, it’s very obvious where I’m looking.
I’m not sure what possesses me, maybe the tendency to please men I can’t shake. The need rooted, according to Jade and her first-year psych textbook, in deep-seated abandonment issues.
The floor creaks beneath my feet as I approach him. I hold out my hand, my palm flat, and he stills. When he doesn’t back away, I place it gently on the soft curve of his belly. He hisses, trembling beneath my hand.
“Cold,” he says, though he still doesn’t move away.
The washing machine hums and clicks its way through the quick wash cycle, a soundtrack to the moment.
His skin is warm, soft. This close, I can see a collection of freckles at his hip, a dark tuft of armpit hair.
“I like your belly.”
He frowns, puts his hand over mine, but doesn’t remove it.
Dipping my chin, I clear my throat. “I know I was…weird…after the engagement party.”
He shakes his head, clasps my shoulder with his other hand, locking us in an awkward sort of waltz. “You were fine. You were perfect. I should have?—”
“I haven’t stopped thinking about it.” The words are pulled from me, except I don’t know who did the pulling.
He falters, his response fizzling out like a sparkler on the Victoria Day long weekend. “I… You? Honestly, me neither.”
“No one has ever kissed me like that before.”
I close the space between us and press my mouth to his. In comparison, this kiss is flat, almost clinical. An experiment to see whether the last time was as incredible as I remember. Or maybe it’s a restraint, because if we kiss this way, it won’t get out of control, like the last one had the potential for.
“Kissed you like how?” he whispers against my flesh, his warm breath sending a bolt of need down my spine.
“Like kissing was the point.” I brush my lips against the corner of his mouth, shivering at the sensation of lip balm softness against rough stubble. “No one’s ever kissed me like I should enjoy it.”
He clutches my hand tighter against his stomach, our fingers intertwined. The position is a little awkward, but I couldn’t imagine letting go right now. His grip on my shoulder tightens too.
“Jesus.” His voice is harsh, almost angry; whether it’s at me or the people who’ve kissed me before, I can’t tell. “How the fuck were they kissing you then?”
His eyes are closed. A deep line mars the skin between his brows. He licks his lower lip, and his chest expands in bigger and bigger breaths. Without his hands as a guard between us, he’s hard against my hip, straining against the fabric of his underwear. If I looked down right now, would the tip be wet? Leaking through cotton-Lycra blend?
“Like it’s a box to be checked? A means to an end.”
He opens his eyes, his dark irises swimming with outrage, and walks me back until my lower back hits the kitchen counter. “Absolutely the fuck not.”
Nick kisses me. This time it’s nothing like the experimental contact I tried before. He cups my jaw, and with his thumb, he tugs gently at my chin to open my mouth. He kisses me bodily, his arms and hands holding, his legs bracketing mine, his hips a gentle force against mine.
“You know this,” he says between breaths, “is what you deserve, right?”
I try to nod but am stopped by a hand at my jaw, his teeth as he mouths at the side of my throat.
“I know.” I gasp.
“You ask for this from now on.” He kisses me like a command. “You demand only the kisses you want, okay?”
“I will.” I feel chastened for not demanding better in the past, even though I didn’t know I could or even what it was I should ask for.
Nick lowers his hands. The click of the washing machine, the signal that the cycle is done, the load ready to be flipped, cracks like a gunshot through the house. He’s barely moved away and though he’s the one without any clothes, a chill creeps over me like he’s left me alone and exposed in the middle of a blizzard. I loop my arms around his neck and pull him close. I nuzzle my face into the space between his neck and shoulder. He lets me. He doesn’t resist. But rather than touch me in return, he grips the counter on either side of my hips.
“Do it now,” he says, softer. “Demand what you want.”
My instinct is to defer to him, to take my best guess at what he wants me to say. In the past, that would have been what I wanted: to please him. But with Nick, it’s clear that molding and shaping myself to make him happy wouldn’t make him happy at all. The only way to make him happy is to put my happiness first. Which is actually kind of confusing.
“Jasmine,” he whispers, like he can feel me thinking too hard about it. “Please.”
“I want…” I say, unsure of what to ask for.
He kisses me again, soft, like a reward, and I’m overwhelmed by the sudden, concrete knowledge of what I want.
I open my eyes. “I want you to kiss my pussy the way you kiss my mouth.”