Page 79 of Miss Matched

I want to tell him he shouldn’t beat himself up, that his dad wouldn’t want him to. But I know those words mean nothing right now.

“He hit his head, and he hasn’t woken up yet.” Zac pulls away, dragging his hand through his hair, which falls to one side from constantly being raked through.

“He’s tough,” I say. I may not know his dad well, but I recognize unbreakable energy when I see it.

Zac looks at me, his lips in a hard line. I’m not sure if I said the wrong thing, but his expression is cold. Shaking his head, he tips it back against the wall and closes his eyes.

“You had someone checking in on him, you did your best—”

“It’s not enough,” Zac snaps. Then I think I hear him mumble, “It’s never enough,” but a passing cart drowns him out.

I’m not sure what to do in this situation. Coming here seemed like a good idea at the time, but what did I actually aim to accomplish? Did I think we were close enough that my presence would take some of his pain away? Just because I’ve lost people doesn’t make me capable of whatever role he needs me to play right now.

“Coffee?” I offer, thinking that’s what people do in times like this. Offer hot beverages and food and company. Pretend the ice isn’t thinning over a warming lake.

Zac’s gaze shoots me to my feet so fast I almost topple in my heels. This is definitely not an appropriate outfit for the situation, and it’s crystal clear how much I don’t belong here.

I don’t wait for Zac to answer. I just start down the hall, his scowl seared into my brain.

Was that look for me? The situation?

Tonight is a gaping wound, and I wish I could just stop the bleeding.

But by the time I return with two coffees in hand, Zac is no longer in the hallway. He’s moved into an empty waiting room off the main corridor with his phone to his ear. I watch him for a moment before rounding the corner. The dimly lit room draws out the hard lines in his face. I’m sure this morning he looked gentler, but now he’s stiff, the line of his jaw fixed and angry.

I enter the room in time for him to hang up and curse under his breath.

“Everything okay?” I ask, pretending we’re not standing atop a pile of dominoes that’s about to topple.

“Okay? Look where we are right now. Nothing is okay,” he says. His cool tone sends a shiver up my spine.

“I didn’t mean—”

“I know what you meant,” he snaps, taking the form of a man I don’t recognize. The shift is subtle but obvious. His shoulders pull back, his eyes narrow, and his entire demeanor shifts in place.

It’s as if I’m standing outside my body again. Except this time, the air stifles. My breath deepens as I try to catch it.

“Had you seen it?” There’s anger in his tone, drawing me in.

Pulling his phone out, he flips through it and closes the distance between us in three steps. My stomach sinks as I read the headline on the screen.

FALLING IN LOVE OR FALLING FOR THE MATCHMAKER?

Two pictures sit side by side beneath it. One of Zac getting cozy with Jasmine outside a restaurant, and one of him leaving my apartment first thing this morning.

I plant my hand on my forehead and take a step back. This is not good—the worst possible scenario. The article makes me sound like some sleazy homewrecker Zac is fucking behind Jasmine’s back. But that’s not how it is. He’s not really seeing her.

At least, I don’t think he is.

I left that up to him after date three with Jasmine, telling him to set up his own dates and take it from there. Zac might have told me he didn’t have a connection with her, that it hadn’t worked out, but I accepted his words on blind faith.

How long ago was this photo with her taken?

My head spins, words and reality blurring.

“Did you see it?” he asks again, sharper this time.

And that’s when it hits me that he’s mad at me.

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