18. Jasmine
18
JASMINE
“ S o, how much money do you make?”
I choke on the mouthful of 2017 Napa Valley cab sauv. “ Jade .”
She slurps loudly from the can of her gin cocktail, staring at Nick while, like an angel, he chuckles a little awkwardly.
“How about this?” he says, raising his own glass of wine to her can and giving it a delicate clink. “We’ll see how the first date goes and then we’ll talk finances.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, my face flaming and mortification threatening to snuff me out.
“Don’t apologize for me,” Jade says, aghast.
With a soft smile, he squeezes my hand. “It’s fine.”
“I’m vetting him,” she says.
“Exactly.” His smile is like an advertisement for toothpaste, and I feel a strange sort of swoop low in my stomach in response. “She’s being a good sister.”
Jade remains unswayed. In fact, she’s glaring over the rim of her can. The can of her favorite premixed gin cocktail that he brought for her, because when he asked if we could have a drink at home first, mentioned that he’d love to meet my sister, I told him she didn’t like wine. So, he asked what she liked and brought that for her, too.
Because he’s nice . More than nice; kind, charming. The real Nick is a successful real estate lawyer, though he dresses like he moonlights as a runway model. He leans against the kitchen counter in a casual navy suit, with a deep green cable-knit sweater and a crisp white Oxford underneath. Running his hand through wavy blond hair, he smiles, making the skin around his green eyes crinkle. Meanwhile Jade eyes him like he’s the poacher solely responsible for the endangerment of the world’s cheetah population.
“You know what?” I swallow my last mouthful of wine. “Why don’t we go. Jade has studying to do, I’m sure.” I glare.
“Nope.” She tips her head back and finishes her cocktail, then crushes it in her fist like a frat boy. “I’ll just be here. Waiting up for my sister,” she says to him. Then she belches.
“ Jade ,” I screech.
Nick chuckles again. “I’m just going to use the little boys’ room.” One dimple appears in his cheek when he smiles.
“It’s just through the living room.” I point around the corner.
Once the door closes behind him, I round on my sister, my blood boiling.
“What are you doing?”
She takes my wine glass and his. “I liked the other Nick better.” She pouts for effect.
“First of all, keep it down about the other Nick. Second…” Please. As if I need the reminder. I look over my shoulder in case Nick has snuck up on me. “This is the right choice.”
She scowls, unconvinced, but I push on.
“You talked me into the matchmaking in the first place. He’s my match.”
“But what if he’s not your only match. What if the other Nick?—”
“The other Nick is a liar.”
Jade’s face softens, even more so when she says, in the gentlest voice, “Technically, so are you, sissy.”
“Yes, thank you for the reminder,” I mutter, my chest tightening painfully. While I’d never tell her, it hurts that she won’t support me on this.
“Ready?” Nick asks, standing in the doorway of the kitchen.
I nearly jump out of my skin as I turn to face him and in this moment of panic, my brain spits out one word, No .
But I catch it, choke it back before it can escape, and say, “Yes.”
Jade narrows her eyes, like she heard that moment of internal confusion. My smile is plastic as I follow him to the door, Jade trailing behind us. Nick helps me with my coat, a gentleman, a mark for the matchmaking scoresheet.
“It was a pleasure to meet you, Jade.” A lie, but he holds his hand for her to shake.
Her face softens, just a bit. She makes a miffed sound though, offering a limp hand in return.
A gracious gentleman, another point for matchmaking.
Outside the building, he opens the car door for me and confirms that I’m buckled in before he pulls out of the spot. He made a reservation at a nice restaurant, one that typically has a long waitlist, and while we order drinks, discuss apps and entrées, he asks me about myself. He doesn’t dominate the conversation, and he lets me order for myself. Then, despite claiming we’ll share the dessert, he lets me have three-quarters of it.
As we wait for the bill, he makes an offhand comment about how it’s the best meal he’s had in a while, and suddenly all I can recall is the taste of strawberry milkshakes and cheeseburgers from a mom-and-pop place on the side of the highway.
“Are you feeling up for one more stop?” he asks after the server takes his credit card. “There’s somewhere I want to take you, but it’s kind of a surprise.”
“Um…” I blink in the dim light of this lovely fusion restaurant that has not a single cheeseburger on the menu. “S-sure,” I stutter, sounding about as sure as I feel.
“Only if you’re comfortable,” he says, as if he’s worried I’m nervous about going to a second location with him. How could I be? He truly is so perfect. The strange stomach swoop returns, one I want to identify as swooning but again, I’m not sure.
“Of course, I feel comfortable,” I say quickly, covering his hand with mine. “I’m just going to run to the ladies’ room.” Standing, I grab my purse. “Have to touch up my lipstick.”
The matchmaking scoresheet is a cornucopia of As, gold stars, ten out of tens, and one hundred percents. He’s done everything right, everything I could ever want. He’s exactly what I would expect from my perfect match, but something feels off as I look at myself in the bathroom mirror, wash my hands, and reapply my lipstick. The same lipstick I wore for Nick. My Nick. The other Nick.
“Pull yourself together,” I whisper just as another woman walks in. I wave my hand underneath the automatic tap and wash my hands again unnecessarily so this complete stranger won’t think I’m in here talking to myself.
My brain is a disorganized binder, emotions and confusion like loose paper and too many disorganized tabs. I pull my phone from my purse and send Jade a text so she knows I’m headed somewhere else, and promise I’ll text our location when I get there. This small act of routine—sharing our locations for personal safety’s sake—helps; like a page righting itself within three-rings, like confirmation that I am on the right path. Slowly, I make my way back to our table, reminding myself of why I’m here as I go.
Because I deserve to find my perfect match.
Because this is me taking things seriously. Because I am serious.
Because this isn’t fake. He isn’t fake.
“Ready?” Nick asks, standing next to our table, bill paid.
No. “Yes.”
He holds out his hand.
Are you a robot? The question haunts me. Nick said it to hurt me, but maybe it’s true. A robot is exactly what I feel like when I put my hand in this Nick’s. A mechanical windup doll who nods and smiles, devoid of thoughts. Even as a riot of feelings that I can’t control wreak havoc on me.
Nick helps me with my coat, a thrifted leather biker jacket that complements the silhouette of my close-fitting, long sleeved red sweaterdress and black over-the-knee suede boots. As he flattens my collar, his exhales are warm on the back of my neck. He’s tall; my boots give me another two or three inches, but I’d still have to stand on my toes to kiss him. I could do that, kiss my perfect match. Maybe I should. I probably would if the thought alone didn’t immediately make me feel kind of sick. If I kissed him now, he might taste a different man on my lips.
“I don’t think I told you yet,” he says quietly. “How amazing you look tonight.”
You look so fucking beautiful .
I blush; the dress is shorter than I’d usually wear, especially for a first date. “It’s Jade’s,” I say instead of thank you . “She insisted I wear it.”
Something about it being a good luck charm, which I didn’t ask too many questions about when it became clear the luck she was talking about was sexual in nature.
…so fucking beautiful.
The sound of his voice over my own ragged breathing, how those words were ripped from him, I wish I could cover my ears to the memory.
“Thank you,” I say, strangled. “So, where are we going?” My voice is high, nervous. Obvious to me, if not him.
“Well.” He elongates the word, his lips tipping up. “I promise, it’s fun.” He takes my hand again. “Okay if we walk? It’s not too far. I wouldn’t do that to your poor feet.” He nods to my high-heeled boots. A considerate gentleman.
I’d put it on the scoresheet if I didn’t feel so unstable in the heels in question all of a sudden.
He side-eyes me as we step outside. “And you might think it’s a little kooky.”
“Kooky is good,” I say.
It pleases him, if the way his eyes light up in response is any indication.
We stop at an intersection and wait for the light to change. Nick takes his wallet out and discreetly presses a bill into the hand of the unhoused man shivering against the mailbox nearby. It should melt my heart. Endear him to me further. But at this point I’m numb to it. Detached from every feeling I should have for him, all the ways he’s shown me exactly why we matched with each other so well.
He leads me down a side street and at the next intersection, we turn onto King Street. My stomach drops. King Street is a long street, there are hundreds of potential destinations. There’s a good chance where we’re going isn’t even on King Street at all.
So what if we just so happen to be walking in the direction of Moonbar.
“Where are we going?” I ask, my steps slowing, thoughts racing.
He runs his hand through his hair, looking sheepish. “So, I got hit by a bus, right?”
“Yeah. How are you doing by the way?” I can’t believe I haven’t asked him about that yet; I’ve been so caught up in my own head.
The sidewalks are filled with inebriated twenty-somethings. Navigating King Street on a Saturday night is like playing a game of dodgeball where the balls are human beings with delayed reaction time who get in the way of your dodge. A man runs from a bar, cutting right in front of us, and Nick puts his arm out to stop us from colliding. The man pukes next to a perfectly empty trash can.
“I’m fine. Totally fine,” Nick says. “Like, miraculously fine.” He squeezes my hand, leading me forward again. “But the reason it happened is because I was rushing, not paying attention, you know?”
A woman screams directly behind us, the sound so bone-chilling the hair on the back of my neck stands up. My fight instincts kick in but are quickly doused when she follows the scream with a cackle and staggers past us with her friend on her arm.
Nick and I wince and laugh in tandem. “Sorry,” he says. “I should have anticipated this.”
“It’s fine,” I lie. Whatever it is, it is not fine. I am not fine.
“Anyway, I’m in this rush to get to our date,” he says.
His hand is warm in mine, so warm I can feel him through my leather gloves. Not my gloves, actually. These are Nick’s gloves.
“I’m crossing the street, jaywalking because who doesn’t, right? And I get clipped, which sounds like no big deal, but turns out getting clipped by a bus will throw you into a car fifteen feet away.”
My stomach lurches at the image he creates. “Oh my god.”
“My doctors think the coma was how my brain protected itself, you know? And when I woke up in that hospital bed, I thought, oh fuck . I couldn’t remember what happened, but by the look of all the machines surrounding me, I knew it must be bad. And then…” He shrugs. “It wasn’t. They couldn’t explain it, but honestly, I didn’t ask any questions. It was a wakeup call. A reminder to slow down, stop taking things for granted. A real YOLO moment as the kids say.”
I wince. I don’t need Jade to tell me that the kids don’t say that.
“Yeah, that makes sense. I’m so relieved.” And I mean it. Nick is a good man and I hate to think what might have happened, or what his loss could have meant for his corner of the world.
The night is temperate for early March, but his nose and cheeks are pink from the cold. It’s easier to watch him like this, in profile, than to look him in the eye. One degree of separation that gives me the space I need to calm myself.
“That’s why I wanted to come here,” he says, stopping on the sidewalk and taking my other hand in his. “It would be easy to say this was cursed or bad luck, but I wanted to come back. Or come for the first time. And what’s more YOLO than karaoke.” He points over my shoulder.
I turn, that sense of detachment and unreality back as I take in what I already knew I’d find: Moonbar in neon.
I’m going to be sick.
“I…I…”
He’s already opening the door.
“Nick, I…”
He stops at the top of the stairs. Green, blue, and purple lights flash over my boots through crank windows set at ground level for maximum light into the basement bar. Music and voices compete from inside. He reaches for me. To not take his hand would mean having to lie outright and I can’t do that. Not again.
Are you a robot? I slip my palm against his, let him lead me down the stairs. Follow like I’m programmed to. Maybe I am programmed, a robot. Following a path written for me, even written by me.
The bar is busier than when I was here last, louder. Hot.
“Do you want a drink?” He has to yell to be heard.
“I, uh, no thanks.”
He frowns like he can’t hear me, so I just nod. He points at the stage. “Start thinking about which song we’re going to sing.” With that, he turns and is engulfed by the crowd.
“Fuck,” I say out loud since no one will be able to hear me anyway. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” I can’t do this. I can’t sing karaoke with my algorithm-approved perfect match in front of the man I let come all over me last week. At this point, my only hope is that Nick won’t be here; my only hope is the coward’s way out.
Since the universe relishes making a fool of me, I’m instantly struck by the sound of a familiar voice. Nick. The other Nick, my Nick.
“The first rule of Underground Karaoke is…” he says into the microphone as he adjusts the stand.
“Don’t talk about Underground Karaoke,” the crowd shouts back. There are too many people in here. There must be. No bouncer checked our IDs, who’s to say Moonbar isn’t over capacity yet?
“We have a packed set list tonight.” The rough edge of his voice is amplified, the sound sending fissures through my heart. He looks the same. Of course he does. It hasn’t even been much more than a week. But in that time, I’ve changed. I’m so different that there is no way I could look the same to him. But the longer I stand here, the bar howling around me, the more differences I notice.
His T-shirt is black, an image of Picasso-esque naked bodies and The Tragically Hip printed on the front; his wardrobe hasn’t changed. But his eyes are bruised by dark circles and his ever-present five o’clock shadow is thicker than usual, like he hasn’t kept up with the task of shaving with any regularity.
And I’m a terrible person. Because my first thought? I want to know what that feels like on the delicate skin between my thighs.
“Jasmine,” the real Nick, the new Nick, calls across the crowd.
I wince, even though there’s no way the other Nick could hear him over the din of the people in this bar. He makes his way back to me slowly, two short glasses with mixed drinks of clear liquor and lime wedges in his hands. Nick probably cut those wedges.
“Gin and tonics,” he says, a little breathless. “I hope that’s okay.”
I take it from him and drink it down in three gulps.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say, an outright lie, shuddering as the gin burns my esophagus.
“We don’t have to sign up,” he says, angling in close so he doesn’t have to yell. His cologne is delicious; full-bodied and expensive. Not as light as citrus, not spicy like pine. “Are you nervous?”
Nick taps the mic again, a boon I don’t deserve. I take the opportunity anyway, straightening and pretending to be enthralled with his next announcement. “Before we get started,” he says. “Have some bad news.”
The crowd quiets, the frenetic movement slows, stills, making him easier to see, but also likely making it easier for him to see me. Part of me wants to hide, but a much bigger, selfish part wants him to find my eyes in this crowd. To see the recognition turn to want, then determination. For him to make his way through this crowd. To me.
“This will be one of the last Underground Karaoke nights at Moonbar.”
“What?” I whisper, my question lost in the echoes of the crowd. My heart sinks, my chest heavy with sadness.
He nods, but his expression remains blank, the opposite of the last time I saw him when his anguish was tattooed into his skin.
“Unfortunately,” he says. His skin is far too pale. “Moonbar is closing.”
The bar erupts in boos and groans, but the sounds are far away. There’s a buzzing in my ears, like every noise is filtered through cotton balls. I’m numb as Nick leaves the mic, stepping off the stage. Someone says his name. He looks up, and that’s when he sees me. First shock, then recognition. Then, worst of all, nothing.
He disappears into the crowd.
I don’t have any right to be hurt, but I am.
“Take me home,” I say, and I walk out.