10. Nick
10
NICK
J asmine winces as I throw her slightly worn brown leather overnight bag into the trunk of my rust bucket Buick.
“You know we’re not moving there, right?” I stuffed everything I needed for the weekend into the same canvas backpack I used in high school.
Jasmine has four bags.
“It’s not all clothes,” she mutters.
I take off my coat and shove it in the trunk along with the luggage. I motion to her outerwear. “You’re going to want to take that off. This old beauty has one heat setting once she gets going and it’s tropical.”
In all fairness, that could be a lie. I bought the car off Ed years ago, but don’t have a place to park it at the bar. He lets me keep it in his driveway, and that means I don’t use it very much. Great for saving on gas, terrible for preparing for a long drive in the dead of winter with a car as old as I am.
Carefully, she folds her coat and places it on top of mine. I turn away to hide my scowl. She looks lovely. Her long cardigan is the structured kind that looks businesslike but up close is mega soft. Her white turtleneck stretches over her breasts and her pants are black and slim and show a peek of her ankles between the hem and her heeled boots.
I never knew I was an ankle guy until I realized Jasmine had a pair.
Her cheeks and nose are pink from the cold, and when she adjusts her emerald ear warmers, it reveals a pair of pearl earrings. Her red hair is collected in a bun at the top of her head, the color as shocking as it is every time I’m in her presence. Maybe it strikes me that way because it’s winter, and it gets dark so early, and everything is dull and gray. Hopefully, it’s that and not something else, something stupid like the attraction I’m supposed to be suppressing.
“Is there any chance we could stop somewhere soon?” she asks as we slip into our seats.
I twist around, the seat beneath me creaking, and assess her. “We haven’t even left yet.” The words come out more harshly than I mean, so I clamp my lips shut to ensure I don’t accidentally snap at her.
She fidgets with her fingers, not quite meeting my eyes. “I know, but…”
Ah . “Here.” I unclip a set of keys from my ring and hand them to her. “You can use Ed’s bathroom.”
“I’ll be quick.” Keeping her gaze down, she snatches the keys. Then she’s hurrying up Ed’s porch steps. “He’s not home, is he?” she asks, spinning at the top, a look of sheer panic on her face.
I shake my head as I get in an arm workout cranking the window open. “No,” I shout. He’s with Rocco at a doctor’s appointment. “But he wouldn’t stand on the other side of the door listening to your stream if he was.”
She makes a strangled, annoyed sound, then whips around and unlocks the door with jerky movements and slams it behind her.
I settle in the driver’s seat again and start the car to let it heat up. Once I’ve fiddled with the heat settings, I press my forehead against the steering wheel and close my eyes. This was a mistake, this lie. This lie on top of another lie, on top of more lies. Every time I think I’m going to come clean, all I can picture is the devastated looks on my friends’ faces when I tell them I can’t save Moonbar.
Does she have to be so goddamn pretty, though? And nervous. She’s clearly very anxious, and of course she is. Jasmine is a serious woman who takes things seriously. So, when someone asks her to pretend to be their girlfriend for a weekend, she fucking does it.
Finally, hot air pumps from my car’s vents. I’m in the perfect spot in Ed’s driveway for the midday sun to slice right through the windshield and warm the polyester upholstery. While I wait, I let the inexplicable smell of leather cleaner that I can’t get rid of, despite multiple air fresheners, wash over me.
I take out my phone and flip to the playlist I made for this ride, songs I love and songs I hope she’ll like too. A belt in the motor squeals even though the car hasn’t moved, so that’s pretty ominous for the journey ahead.
When the front door of Ed’s house opens, I pretend to adjust my mirrors while I watch her lock up before stepping carefully down the stairs. When she settles into the passenger seat, her back is so straight it has to be uncomfortable. She adjusts two of her bags, ones she insisted had to stay with her in the car, searching for nonexistent foot room.
“What’s that?” I nod at the insulated bag.
She pulls it to her lap and unzips it, frowning into its depths. “I made snacks for the trip so we wouldn’t have to spend too much money at the rest stops.”
“Jasmine.” Her name is a frustrated sigh. “I’m happy to buy you lunch.”
She shrugs. “Now you don’t have to. Also, I made a Bakewell tart for your mother for a hostess gift.” She holds up a pie-shaped good with white and pink feathering drawn perfectly across the top.
“You made that?” I say, the question more skeptical than shocked.
“Yes,” she says, pulling it to her chest with a scowl. “Also...” She puts the tart away and gathers the other large canvas bag on her lap. “Do you think she’d prefer a scented candle or a succulent?”
She pulls both from the bag and shoves them at me. The candle smells divine, like her home. Instantly, blood rushes to my dick, my knees ache, and my mouth waters like I am in her kitchen again, on my knees for her.
“The candle.” My voice is gravel. I turn away, put the car into drive, inhale the synthetic scent of my pine air freshener. “You didn’t have to bring anything.” I slow-roll out of Ed’s driveway, creep down the middle of the narrow road lined with dirty snowbanks. Gritting my teeth, I silently curse myself. Her thoughtfulness is another reminder of how little I deserve this kindness from her.
Jasmine has no clue how very much my mother will appreciate the gesture or how much it will please my father to see my mother happy.
“Of course I did,” she says, packing things away. “Although, I wasn’t sure if you had any allergies. Which is why I made…” Turning awkwardly in her seat, she sets the food bag on the floorboard behind us. Then she lugs a binder out of the canvas bag that I’m beginning to think has Mary Poppins powers. The sucker is at least six inches thick and lands with a thwack on her thighs. “We need to know the things that boyfriends and girlfriends would know about each other. Like allergies.”
“What the fuck is that?” Again, my voice is sharper than is warranted. It’s not her fault I’m a faker to the power of two.
Before I merge onto the highway, I sneak a peek at the binder. There are color-coordinated tabs. Holy shit. Why do I find this so hot?
“It’s our relationship. We can study it on the way up.”
The car is too warm, and now with her in it, too small. I thought the hardest part of this drive would be the constant gnawing guilt; and that is really hard, but honestly, I deserve it.
In reality, the hardest part is trying not to stare at the sharp edge of her jaw or the long fan of her lashes. It’s not pulling to the side of the road and telling her everything but begging her to forgive me anyway. Not because I need her to impress my dad, but because she’s so damn lovely.
Slowly, her smile fades, like she’s misinterpreting my expression. “What?” she asks, her voice tinged with wariness. She closes the binder.
“Nothing.” I keep my eyes on the semitruck in front of us. It’s easier that way. Forcing myself to focus solely on the road takes my mind off how badly I want this to be real. Because if this was real, if I was real enough for her, I might pull over on this 400-series highway and kiss her senseless.
“Nothing,” I say again. “I had no idea my fake girlfriend was such a nerd.”
A few hours later, just as the footbridge they built over the highway comes into view, we whizz past the black and white sign for the best goddamn burger joint north of Highway 401. The exit is a few hundred meters away and I’ve got to get into the right lane if we’re going to stop.
And I really want to stop.
With every kilometer we get closer to home, my skin feels tighter. Baker’s Burgers is the only good thing about this drive. I look forward to it every time I make the trip. It’s probably a placebo effect, but I like to think I land a few more zingers on Dad when I have Baker’s Burgers in my belly.
“You hungry?”
Jasmine stops midway through reading aloud from The Binder, looking confused. “For what?”
Case in point: she’s taking this so seriously she seems to have forgotten that hunger is a thing. I check my side mirror to hide my smile. “For food.”
This perks her up. “Would you like your muffin now?” she asks, pulling the Tupperware from the insulated bag behind my seat.
A Baker’s Burger has an impossible to recreate flavor. They use the processed cheese that melts and congeals in a way you know will clog your arteries, but the flavor is so damn good, it’s hard to care. They’re always liberal with their barbecue sauce and grilled onions. A Baker’s Burger burger is a heaven I only get once or twice a year.
She looks so hopeful, though.
“Sure,” I say. “Thanks.”
The sun, which had tucked behind a cloud about an hour ago, breaks through at the exact moment we pass Baker’s Burgers, giving it a heavenly quality, taunting me.
She holds the muffin daintily with her pastel-pink-tipped fingers. She’s even peeled the wrapper off for me. As I alternate between keeping an eye on the road and inspecting the muffin, she lowers her head like she’s studying The Binder, but she’s quiet, like maybe she’s waiting for me to take my first bite. So, I do.
“ Oh my goddddd ,” I mumble around a mouthful of muffin. It’s not a greasy cheeseburger, but it’s buttery and a little bit spicy. It’s good.
Her answering smile rivals the sunbeam we just passed. Dimples bracket her wide mouth. I’m so used to seeing it pinched in a frown, I can’t help but be blown away by the way it changes her, loosens her.
“You like it?” she asks, her tone full of so much hope.
“It’s amazing,” I say through another mouthful.
“So.” She unfolds a napkin and drops it on my lap. “How we met.” The words escape her quickly, like I didn’t notice she dropped the napkin from half a foot above me rather than touch my thighs. “I was thinking we’d say we met at the grocery store. Something classic but easily forgettable, like we were both reaching for the last bag of cake and pastry flour.”
“Why not the last bottle of AXE body spray?”
“Why would I buy AXE body spray?”
“Why would I buy cake and pastry flour?”
She nods, making a note in her binder. “Fair. We’ll circle back to that.”
“You didn’t make a binder for the engagement party.”
“So?” She bites the tip of her pen.
“So, why do we need one now? Why don’t we just tell the—” I stop myself. I can’t suggest that we tell the truth, because “the truth” isn’t true.
“This is different,” she says. “At the engagement party, we had a few hours to kill with people who were too drunk to remember much. Now we’re spending an entire weekend with the people who know you best.”
Questionable, but I’ll let it slide.
“You wouldn’t…” I speak slow, searching for words that won’t make me feel like I’m blatantly lying even though I am. “Would you not tell your family about matchmaking? If we were going to see them.”
Instantly, she looks away, flipping the binder closed. Tracing her finger along the plastic edge, she says, “Probably not.” That simple response is barely audible over the sound of the tires on the road, the wind whistling between the rust and duct tape holding this thing together. “It’s not something we’d talk about, and if we did, they’d likely see it as a personal failing on my part.”
With a sigh, she turns to the passenger side window, very clearly ending this conversation. Except I don’t want it to end.
“I’m sorry,” I say, almost as quietly. “We don’t need hard and fast facts though.”
Her shoulders sink. “I thought working together to create a favorable narrative about our relationship could be a good way to get to know each other.”
“Sure, but do I really need to know that your second-grade teacher was Mr. Knight and he wore space-themed ties?”
Finally, she turns back to me. “So, you were listening?” she asks, like gotcha!
I ignore that. Of course I was listening. “You know what we need? A song.” I tap out a beat on the steering wheel as a new track comes on my playlist. “You like The Cure? Should this be our song?”
She shrugs. “They’re okay.”
I jab at my phone screen to skip to the next track. A Bob Seger song. Fucking classic. I need to remember to add this to the Underground Karaoke library.
“Come on. Bob Seger. You have to love Bob Seger.”
Another shrug.
I screech out the next few lines. The wince on her face says one thing, but the way her knee bounces with the beat tells a different story.
“Yeah, this is it. This is our song, babe.”
She makes a face at the pet name and I laugh.
“Sing with me.”
Jasmine settles back in the seat, somehow managing to make a car that’s probably responsible for most of Canada’s CO2 emissions look regal. “I told you I don’t sing in public.”
“This isn’t public. This is my shitbox.”
“I’m not going to sing.” Her voice cuts cold through the music.
I turn the phone off. Poor Bob Seger.
Other than the whine of a motor belt and constant hum of the road on my winter tires, the car is quiet again.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
“It’s fine.”
Ducking, she gives her head a shake. “I don’t like doing things unless I can do them well.”
“I know,” I say. “I remember.” And then, because I can’t help myself, “You don’t do things unless you can do them perfectly, right? If I lived my life that way, I’d never do anything.”
Her stare feels hard against my face, her voice cold. “You’re judging me.”
“No,” I say quickly. Fuck. How is it that I go from frustrating her on purpose to annoying her by accident, yet I can’t ever land anywhere in between? “Yeah. Maybe a little. I take a more casual approach to life, I guess.”
She snorts.
“Now who’s judging?”
Her only response is a noncommittal hum.
“Why do you feel like you have to be perfect?” I ask.
Huffing, Jasmine puts The Binder back into her bag. She picks a muffin from the lunch bag and pulls at the wrapper but doesn’t eat it. Instead, she stares at the baked good like it has all the answers.
“I think we’ve gotten to know each other enough for now,” she says. With that, she turns again and watches the scenery pass by her window.
Fuck . I wish I had a cheeseburger right now.