20. Nick
20
NICK
T he glass and wood facade of the Art Gallery of Ontario reflects the city back at me through the street-facing windows of the Core Cupid office. It’s gray and dull, judgmental on this cold winter day. Or maybe I’m just projecting. The leather couch in the matchmaker’s office squeaks and creaks whenever I shift. I try not to.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” the matchmaker, Chloe, says from the open doorway. She takes a seat in an armchair across from me. Beside it, an adjustable lap desk is equipped with a notebook and pen. Strangely analog for the person responsible for creating a near perfect matchmaking algorithm. She clicks her pen. “Are you ready?”
Despite my best efforts, I shift on the noisy couch.
Chloe reminds me of Jasmine, though they don’t look anything alike. They’re both gorgeous. Chloe is blond and tan. Angular where Jasmine is curvy. They both sit with their shoulders square, backs straight, necks long. Chloe looks like she’d enjoy that fresh binder smell.
“Yeah, I guess.” If I thought pulling at my collar would help, I’d do it. “What should I be ready for, technically?”
She shifts in her chair, uncrossing her legs and leaning forward like we’re sharing a secret. “It’s pain free, I promise. I like to meet with all our clients first. Afterward, you can fill out your online interview at your convenience. It’s a bit repetitive,” she says, her tone apologetic. “But that’s by design. Don’t overthink it.”
I’m so good at not overthinking, it is basically my job. Except today I think I might get fired.
Chloe asks easy questions first: what does a day in your life look like? And can you summarize your dating history? Tell me your ideal date? Then, tell me your ideal partner?
It’s hard not to describe Jasmine.
What are you looking for in a relationship? Marriage, long-term commitment? Kids? Honestly, I’m just looking for Jasmine. I’m looking to prove to her that we’re a match.
“You know,” I say, scratching at my jaw. “Now that I think about it, maybe this isn’t for me.”
Chloe frowns, looking up from the notebook where she’s taken copious notes. “If you’re worried about finding a match, Mr. Scott, I can assure you?—”
“Please call me Nick.”
“Nick,” she says, her eyes softening. “I can assure you, you’ll have great success. Women outnumber men as clients, two to one, and I can already tell that you’ll make someone very happy.” She tries to be earnest, but she sounds like she’s reading from a script.
“Listen, I’m not going to ask for the deposit back or whatever. I just…” I sigh. “Honestly, I’m falling for one of your clients, but she won’t choose me because I’m not her perfect match.”
The office is silent for a long, awkward moment. Finally, Chloe clears her throat. “You were going to pay for matchmaking services in the hopes that you’d match with the woman you’re in love with to prove to her that you belong together?”
I laugh. “It sounds even worse when you say it out loud.”
Blushing, she ducks her head. “Honestly, it sounds romantic to me,” she says, which makes me blush back.
I run my sweaty palms down my thighs and stand. “I’m sorry to waste your time.”
“You didn’t,” she says quickly. “You’re not.” She stops me with her hand up. “Can I ask, would you have signed up for matchmaking if it wasn’t for this woman?”
I wince, running my hand through my hair. “Ummmm. Nah. Probably not.”
“It’s totally okay.” She smiles. “Why not, though?”
I sit back down on the squeaky couch as the answer hits me hard enough to knock me back. “Because I never bothered to take it seriously before.”
I say it like a question, but it’s not. It’s far too true a statement. I wish I could lie to myself and say it’s because of the cost, but that’s secondary at best. My face flushes with embarrassment, like this one confession tells her everything else she needs to know about me.
That I’ve always felt like the black sheep of the family and I thought that was their fault, or my dad’s at least. But that’s not true. It’s a role I’ve cultivated. I’m fucking proud of it. At some point I started to lean into it. Anything to piss off my dad. Anything to prove to him—to myself—that I didn’t need to follow his plans for my life.
But on the heels of the confession comes acceptance, because yeah, I make a joke out of a lot of things, but I wouldn’t change it, not any of it. Not even if I thought it would have somehow saved the bar for me.
I like my life. I like my job. That I get to wear my T-shirts to work and that I live above the bar.
Maybe, if I had to, if I could, the only thing I’d change is Jasmine’s first impression of me. I’d take that seriously, and her.
“Listen,” Chloe says, folding her hands in her lap. “We don’t usually do this. At its heart, matchmaking requires time. Even with a perfect algorithm. For the sake of anonymity, I don’t need or want to know any more information about this client, but I’ll sign you up for two weeks at half price. If the match happens, it happens. But if it doesn’t…”
She looks around like a secret boss is hiding behind her chair or she doesn’t want whatever she’s about to say next to get picked up by whatever bug has been planted by Core Cupid’s closest competitors.
“If you don’t end up matching, I don’t think you should let that stop you. If you love her, she needs to know.”
I thank her, taking my time filling out the forms she needs to start the paperwork, her words echoing around this drafty office even if I’m the only one who can hear them. This is so generous of her. Clearly, she’s the right person to help others find love if she believes in it this strongly.
The only problem is, I don’t think Jasmine is as ardent a believer. Even if Jasmine knows for sure how I feel, it might not be enough.
There’s a strange man waiting outside the bar when I get back. This isn’t uncommon. Some of our regulars have nowhere else to be. Sometimes unhoused folks will sit against the door for warmth in winter; our policy is to offer them water and a meal, then ask if they’ll move out of the doorway.
What’s strange about this man is that he’s my father.
I stop in front of him. “Are you okay?” Maybe he’s on a new cholesterol medication that causes him to enter fugue states and travel hours into the city. That reason seems far more likely than any other I can think of.
“Can you pour your old man a drink?”
“Old man?” I say, mimicking his offended tone when I used the label, but I open the door and let him in.
Dad takes his time, studying the graffiti wall, testing the stability of the stage, inspecting the audio system. By the time he takes a seat at the end of the bar, opposite where I stand prepping limes, I have a flight of three beers ready for him. All from local craft breweries and complementary in malt and hop flavors, bitterness, conditioning, body, and—Rocco’s favorite tasting factor—mouthfeel.
Dad takes the first glass. “ Slàinte mhath ,” he says in Scots Gaelic, echoes of his Glaswegian accent in his words despite not having lived there since he was eight years old.
The silence between us while I work and he sips is amicable. It isn’t until he’s finished his first beer that he straightens on his stool and clears his throat.
I put down my knife. Here we fucking go.
“I’ve been hard on you,” he says.
I freeze. Finally, blink, breathe. Fight the urge to laugh and sling a petty retort, but the shock and sarcasm are quickly squashed by a rush of emotion. So, I keep my response simple, if not a little strangled. “Yeah.”
“Of all my kids, you have always reminded me most of myself, and I wished I’d had more guidance when I was a kid.”
“I’m not a kid anymore,” I say, my voice still rough.
He nods. “Sometimes it’s hard not to look at you—at all of you—and see the babies you were,” he says. “I’m sorry, Nicholas.”
I swallow to buy myself time, but in the end, I don’t need it.
“I want to offer you the loan again.”
I jerk my head up, all the air from my lungs leaving me. “Why?”
Dad’s smile is familiar. “If you were willing to pretend you were dating a complete stranger who thought you were someone else, just to make me happy, you deserve it.”
That statement doesn’t make up for a lot of shit, but it’s a start. I walk around the bar and Dad wraps his arms around my shoulders, patting my back with strong hands.
“Wait,” I say into his shoulder. I push us apart. “How’d you know that? That Jasmine was a stranger and thought I was someone else?”
“Didn’t she tell you?”
My stomach drops like a stone. “Tell me what?”
“Jasmine called us.” He hugs me again. “She told your mom everything.”
“How? When?”
He chuckles against my chest. “Your mother gave Jasmine her cell phone number.”
“Oh. Of course she did.”
My brain is blank. I don’t know how this feels, how I feel about any of it.
He slaps my back, grinning. “So, what do you say? Ready to buy this bar?”
Dad sounds hopeful, because of course he does. He probably thinks it all means something, like Jasmine loves me, like all his dreams could finally come true: his second-oldest son will finally be a business owner and maybe even married.
He doesn’t know what I know. Jasmine left me. Twice. What Jasmine feels for me is guilt for lying, for coming here with Nick, for “losing” the bar for me, but not love. This is just what Jasmine does, helps others instead of caring for herself.
“I appreciate the offer, Dad,” I say, then take a deep breath. What I’m about to say next could completely undo our tenuous détente. “I think figuring out what’s next is something I want to do for myself.”