13. Jasmine
13
JASMINE
D ownstairs, the Scotts talk and laugh, and wine glasses and cutlery clink. But the sounds are muted, filtered, and not just by Nick’s closed bedroom door. The moment Chloe answered the phone, it’s as though someone popped a fishbowl on top of my head.
The gas fireplace was on when I was down there, the low lighting making the room cozy and warm. Up here? I’m freezing. So frozen I can’t even get up to find my sweater, a blanket.
A can of gasoline.
“Jasmine?” Chloe asks, her tone laced with concern.
“Sorry,” I say. “I need you to repeat that.”
Chloe pauses. I get it. This will be her third time through. “Is everything okay?” she asks.
“Yes. Sorry.” People say that Canadians are always apologizing but I’ve never noticed until now. “The connection here is really bad.”
“Okay. Well, um, like I said, Nick was so sorry to miss your date. And I apologize for not checking in with you after the fact. If I had, we would have known that you’d been ghosted. Well, not ghosted, I guess. Since he actually had a good excuse.” She laughs, a pretty sound. “But either way, now you know, he didn’t actually ghost you.”
“Right,” I say, my throat so dry I can barely get the word out. “Because he…Nick, my date…or match. Nick didn’t show up to our date because…”
“I know. It sounds unbelievable. Like the plot of a nineties rom-com.”
A roar of laughter comes from downstairs, and I listen for the cries of one of the babies sleeping on this level. Either their cries aren’t sharp enough to break through my fishbowl or their parents have their sound machines on max.
“But I visited him in the hospital,” she says. “And I can confirm that yes, that man was hit by a bus on his way to your date.”
My brain has somehow become a clunky old machine. I wonder, momentarily, if Chloe is actually speaking French. I pulled As in school but that was over a decade ago.
“Nick was hit by a bus,” I repeat. “Then in a coma.”
“But only for a few days,” she interjects.
Numb, I nod. “Right. But now he’s better.”
“Apparently, he’s a medical miracle.”
“Uh-huh. And now he wants to go on the date that we didn’t get to have.”
“Exactly.”
If my Nick isn’t my Nick, then who the fuck is he?
Chloe must read my silence as disinterest. “Listen, I know it sounds strange. I was skeptical too, at first. But I’ve checked it all out myself. It’s real. And I really do stand by the algorithm. I think you’ll be a great match, and just think, if things go well, this will be such a fun story to tell your grandkids.”
By some miracle, I’m able to fake a laugh. “I…I…”
“You need some time?” Chloe asks.
“Yes. Please.”
“Of course, and listen, if you think it would help?—”
The hardwood floor creaks from somewhere nearby. Footsteps in the hall move closer. I’ve been here a while. Nick is checking on me or Mindy is and I really don’t want to see either of them right now.
“—could I share your email address with him?”
The steps stop outside Nick’s closed bedroom door.
“Um.”
A knock sounds, causing the solid wood to rattle against its frame.
“Sure. Yeah. Whatever you think is best,” I say quickly. Without waiting for a response, I hang up, and an instant later, the door opens, and Nick pokes his head in.
The numbness is gone, I’m no longer cold, confused. I’m going to fucking kill this man. Tossing my phone on the bed, I haul myself up and storm across the room before he has time to open his mouth.
“You,” I growl. Grabbing him by his lying T-shirt, I pull him into his lying room and slam his lying door behind him.
He stumbles as I push him away, his face a mask of bewilderment.
Rage courses through my veins, humming and heating me from the inside out. My hands shake with anger. I make fists, keep my arms straight at my side. I’ve never felt this angry before, like I could tear into him with my nails and teeth.
“What the fuck, Jasmine?” he whisper-hisses.
When we arrived, I laid my shoes out so I could survey my options. Now this stable of shoes is an effective armory. I pick up a runner and chuck it at him. He catches it, then uses it to block the high heel. He jumps over the bed to the other side of the room.
“Jasmine.” He cuts himself off, and his next words are much quieter. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Fury snakes its way up my spine. “What’s wrong with me?”
“Keep your voice down.”
I’ve never heard him speak in such a concerned tone. It’s almost as if he actually cares about something enough to have an emotional reaction as opposed to his usual amused apathy.
Pulse pounding at my throat, I take a deep breath and focus on getting a handle on this rage. Not because he told me to. But because this isn’t like me. I’ve never been this angry before, never thrown things at my partner.
Except, he’s not even my partner. Not in the real way. Not in the way I can’t believe I entertained for even a moment and not in the way we faked for his parents downstairs.
“Be honest.” I gasp. “Were you ever going to tell me?”
He blinks, frozen, the color draining from his face. “Oh.” He slumps onto the edge of the mattress, hunched back to me. “So, you know?” His voice is muffled.
I round the bed to make him face me. Coward. “Yes. Please tell me. What do I know, Nick? If that even is your name?” I suck in a harsh breath and let it out. If I’m not careful, I’ll reach screeching levels again soon.
“You heard my entire family call me by my name or some variation of it, of course my name is Nick.”
Irritation pricks at me. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” He frowns up at me.
“Don’t be all… cute .”
“I’m not trying to be cute,” he argues, gesturing to himself, like it just comes naturally.
“Listen, chucklebutt.” I wield my index finger at his face like a knife.
“Chucklebutt?” He laughs, but stifles the sound by rubbing his hand over his mouth when he realizes his mistake. He eyes the window above the desk like he’s wondering how many bones he’ll break if he jumps out of it. “I’m sorry,” he says, so quiet I can barely hear it over the blood pounding in my ears.
“Okay. And?”
“Could you sit down?” he asks, dark eyes pleading.
“No.” I cross my arms over my chest.
He stalks across the room and pulls out his desk chair. Dropping into it, he holds out a hand, silently offering the bed to me. “I just want to make sure you can’t throw anymore shoes at my head.”
I am not going to apologize for that, but I sit.
He holds out his hands, a pacifying gesture, like he’s animal control and I’m the coyote that’s just wandered out of Sunnybrook Park. Now that I’m sitting, the anger, the adrenaline, leaves my body in a whoosh. I’m cold again. A little dizzy.
After a few silent moments, he stands and shuffles into the adjoining bathroom. He turns on the tap and a few moments later comes back with a glass of water.
At first, feeling spiteful, I don’t take it, but my mouth is dry, and maybe the shock of the cold water will calm the way my body is vibrating.
Instead of doing the polite Canadian thing and thanking him, I say, “I want an explanation.”
He nods, sits in the chair again. “When you introduced yourself at the bar, I honestly just thought you were…kinda weird?” He grimaces, his gaze full of apology. “But you’re…” He throws his hand in my direction, not looking at me. “Beautiful. And you were asking me to hang out with you, and that shit with your ex?”
Tears spring to my eyes, sharp and sudden. Dammit. I divulged those details to a person I thought I “knew.” A man who was at least vetted by a business concerned with my personal safety.
I thought I was a fool before. When Mitchell dumped me, when he got engaged a month later. I had to walk around in a world where anyone who knew me knew that I was so inconsequential to Mitchell that he didn’t even bother to end things in person. The world knew that I was so meaningless to him that I didn’t even deserve his fidelity.
As I gape at Nick, my heart cracks wide open. This is exponentially worse.
“I didn’t really understand what was going on, but you said you needed help.” He flushes, pressing his lips together so tightly they lose all their color. “I didn’t realize what happened until you agreed to help me. At the engagement party? Zara mentioned something about the matchmaker, and you’d said something about it right before. And I realized, oh fuck , I think she was supposed to meet a guy named Nick. I think she thinks that’s me.”
“But you thought you’d keep up the lie for what? So you could get in my pants?”
“I put a stop to that,” he says.
“We got caught by my sister.”
“I stopped right before.” He shakes his head. “I came over that night to tell you the truth, but I also really need to save my bar. I can’t let some developer turn it into condos. Ed is like a father to me and he’s not doing well. Rocco is my best friend, Bernie, too. She’s got a kid. And if I can get the capital,” he says, “then I can keep the place going for Ed. For his legacy.”
“Fuck you, Nick,” I whisper. “You lied for you. Don’t try to turn this into some campaign about gentrification or labor. You needed me to pretend to your family.” I point to the floor where they sit below us. “Your family who fucking loves you. The way your mother looks at you?”
A sob threatens to escape me, so I snap my mouth shut and choke it back. Mindy thinks each of her children is a blessing that she is undeserving of; my mother looked at Jade and me like we were nuisances.
“You made me lie to them so you could get money from your rich daddy.”
“You made me lie, too,” he shoots back, anger clipping his words. “None of this would have happened if you hadn’t wanted to lie to your rich boyfriend and his rich parents so that you could save face.”
My stomach twists painfully at the accusation in his tone. “That’s different.”
“How the fuck is it different?”
Slamming my hands on the mattress on either side of me, I glare. “Because they are assholes.”
“Then why’d you date him, Jasmine?”
I look away. I don’t owe him explanations.
“You think I’m some loser bartender who doesn’t take life seriously.”
“I never said that.” But he’s not inaccurate.
“You didn’t have to.” He leans back in the desk chair like the boys in my high school used to do, balancing there for a moment before coming back down. “I might be a loser and I might not take things seriously, but I see things. Like how you care so fucking much about what other people think of you that you’ll break your back to bend over for them.”
“Fuck you.” I won’t cry. I will not.
My words roll off him like butterflies in the wind—he’s unaffected.
“And yeah, I lied. I’m sorry. I should have told you the moment I realized that this was a misunderstanding. I’ll take you home. Right now. It doesn’t mean much now, but I planned to tell you, after this. I knew you’d be mad.” He jerks his chin, a nod to the state of me. “Like you are now. And I didn’t tell you because yeah. I am a selfish asshole.”
“Piece of shit,” I add.
“That, too.” He smiles, except none of this is funny. “I didn’t tell you because I needed your help. And because…” He stops. His chest rising on deep breaths, he licks his lips, his tongue leaving a sheen of moisture in its wake. His cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are bright.
If I didn’t know any better, I might think that Nick is also trying not to cry.
“I didn’t tell you because I liked you.” His voice cracks and he clears his throat. “Like you. And I’m selfish.” He shrugs. “I knew if I did, I’d never see you again. I’m sorry.”
I scoff. “Do you actually think this bullshit about feelings will get you out of this?”
“I’m not trying to get out of anything. I’m just telling you the truth.”
“How am I supposed to believe that this is the truth?” I ask flatly.
“You can’t, I guess, but it is.”
“You humiliated me.” My voice breaks as tears finally fall.
He sighs, nods. “I don’t know if it helps,” he says. “But I’m really ashamed of myself.”
It does not.
I clear my throat. “Can you give me some space?” I ask. “Go downstairs and tell them whatever you want. Say my sister is having a romantic crisis or something.”
I’m trapped here; the only place I can truly find peace is the bathroom.
He stands. “I don’t have to lie to them. I’ll tell them everything and then I’ll take you home.”
I shake my head. “You’ve been drinking.”
“I had one glass of champagne.”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s late. Maybe I’ll just, uh, have a shower?”
I’m numb. Or maybe apathetic is a better word. My anger burned up all my emotion, there’s nothing left.
“Are you sure?” he asks, and when I nod, he wanders to the door and grasps the knob, before turning back around. “Do you like baths. It’s a soaker tub.”
I don’t answer him.
Murmurs from downstairs break in as he opens the door. The tone is more subdued, as if they’re winding down for the night. Though part of me is fearful they heard us and are trying to listen in. He closes the door with a quiet click, blocking out everything else, leaving me alone.
Which sucks, because I wish I wasn’t.
No matter how much hot water I add to the bath, it’s not hot enough. While I’m still submerged, Nick returns to the room and goes through what I assume is his bedtime routine, the gentle creak of his bed, his padded steps across the carpet. The door closes again but he comes back a few minutes later. Music plays from his phone, but only one song before he turns it off. It’s a song I don’t recognize. The bed creaks again, the TV mounted on the wall comes on.
The water gurgles when I pull the plug, drips like rain as I stand and step onto the mat. His bathroom is stocked with bath sheets, the kind big enough to sleep under. They’re fluffy and warm and decadent and I spend longer than necessary drying myself, brushing my hair. I go through each step of my skincare routine with purpose and intention, all to prolong the inevitable: opening that door and facing Nick.
The worst part of all this is the disappointment that hit me like a wave when it sank in that Nick—this Nick—is not my match.
My pajamas were a gift from Mitchell’s parents; royal green silk with white piping. I wear them like armor, because not only do they feel amazing, but I look amazing in them.
Nick doesn’t look up when I open the door. He lounges on the bed, remote control in one hand, the other tucked under the waistband of his underwear peeking out beneath his sweats, his legs crossed at the ankles, feet bare. Not a care in the world.
“I’m not sleeping on the floor,” he says, like he’s expecting the demand.
“I never asked.”
His eyes follow me as I cross the room, putting things away, setting out my clothes for tomorrow.
When I sit on the bed, it’s at the very edge, my back to him. “Have you talked to your dad yet?”
He’s silent for a long moment, but finally, he responds with a simple “No.”
I nod. It’s not that I’m going to shrug off what he’s done. I don’t think I could. But he hurt my already bruised pride and the last thing I want is to leave here owing him anything.
I slide under the covers, pull my eye mask over my forehead, and rub lotion into my hands. Normally, I’d moisturize my feet as well, but Jade’s Gen Z sensibilities must be getting to me, because that strikes me as an obscene thing to do in front of him. He flips the channels as the sports highlight reel he was watching ends and lands on a sitcom rerun. The laugh track is obnoxious in the silence between us.
“Do you like this show?” he asks, still homed in on the TV.
“Sure.” I shrug. Silk slips against my chest, my stomach. Sitting next to him like this, the sensation is illicit, and it sends goose bumps along my spine.
“So, tomorrow?” he says. “I’ll take you home.”
I turn to him, pulling in a strengthening breath. “No.”
After a moment, he shakes his head. “Why not?” His voice is soft, how I imagine he’d speak to his girlfriend as they lay in bed together.
“Because you still need to talk to your dad,” I say, lifting my chin. “And I’m not an asshole.”
He reaches across the bed but stops short before he can touch my hand. “I really am sorry, Jasmine.”
“Save it.” I stare at the TV screen, unseeing, chest still aching and pride still bruised.
“Fine. I’m going to sleep.” He flips back the covers. “Do you want to keep the TV on?”
“No.” I roll away, clinging to the edge of the mattress. With a few clicks of the remote and the bedside lamp, we’re plunged into darkness.
“Goodnight,” he says.
Rather than answering him, I pull my mask over my eyes and pretend I have the power of miraculous, immediate sleep. Nick strikes me as the type of person who can sleep anywhere, and that makes me irrationally angry.
He shifts, the sheets stretch, the mattress dips; how am I supposed to sleep with these constant reminders of his existence beside me? Every movement is larger than the last, closer, like he could push me right off the bed or pull me into him.
“Would you quit it?” I yank at the blanket.
“You quit it.” He yanks back. “I can feel you over there, festering.”
Ew . “I am not festering.” Festering sounds like an infection. I am not an infection, he’s an infection.
“Then relax your body, please. It’s like sleeping next to a statue.”
Mentally, I do a full body scan. He’s right. I’m clenching. I practice a round of the deep breathing exercises I learned about when Jade downloaded meditation apps on my phone.
“Please don’t say festering anymore. It sounds like something a witch’s cauldron does,” I say through barely ungritted teeth.
“That’s boil and bubble,” he says, like duh , because he just has to have the last word.
Don’t clench. Don’t clench. Don’t clench.
I roll onto my back, and he rolls to face me.
Don’t look at him. Do not.
My pinky finger is so close to his body, it buzzes from its proximity. If I slid my hand a couple of inches across the sheet, I’d be touching Nick. His leg, his hip maybe.
Jade’s deep breathing exercises have never helped. I’m better with lists, like Reasons I Do Not Want to Touch Nick:
I want to strangle him, which is technically touching. Shit.
He lied. He’s a lying liar who lied. Though he’s right that none of this would have happened if I hadn’t asked him to lie for me first.
My heart sinks. Never before has list-making betrayed me in this way.
His gaze is boring into the side of my face. This close, sharing a bed, I’m overwhelmed by his scent. Sharp, sweet, fresh, and citrus. Like if oranges grew from pine trees.
“What?”
Nick shifts onto his back. My heart races.
“Nothing,” he says. “Goodnight.”
My pinky finger, my hand, my whole arm, tingles. I make list after list in my head. Why I hate Nick, why I don’t want to touch him, why I’ll never forgive him. But my body doesn’t get the memo and I lie awake for a long, long time.