Page 123 of Don't Go Faking My Heart

"They voted in favor of the proposal," I say. "The Janes have done it again."

"Ha ha! I knew they'd love it. You five are the best dream team since that one team in the 90's that had that one basketball player who was in Space Jam.'"

I chuckle in spite of myself. Greg has the same awareness of sports that most people have of advanced coding theory.

Little to none.

"You have to be one of the only men alive who knows Michael Jordan from Space Jam instead of from actual basketball."

Greg's booming laugh hits me through the speaker. "I am who I am."

I ask him about work, and he tells me a quick update on a project, but he turns it around on me, peppering me with questions about next steps for Sugar Maple. I answer as well as I can, but my heart isn't in it, and Greg seems to sense it.

"Are you sure you're okay?" he asks.

"Sure I am."

"You know, I got a message from Frank …"

I sit up. "Oh no. I'm sorry! I had no idea he'd reach out to you guys. I didn't mean to bring you into anything."

"You have no need to apologize, AJ."

"What did he say?" I ask, worry burning my chest.

"He said that I've turned you against him."

"That's absurd! You've only ever supported me in whatever relationship I wanted with him."

"I've tried. Believe me.” He puffs his cheeks and shakes his head. “Can you … can you tell me why you blocked him?"

My parents—Mom and Greg, I mean—have never said a bad word against Frank. I don't want to sound like the kind of kid who sits around and bad mouths her own father, but …

"Because he's not my dad. He's never treated me like I matter. He only cares about me if someone will find out and think he's an involved, loving father. But he's not any of these things. He's a jerk. He doesn't treat me like a dad should."

"No, he doesn't," he says with a frown.

My eyes burn with tears. "Greg, I know you have your own kids, but?—"

"My own kids? You're my kid."

"I saw your post with your boys."

"What post?"

"The post from when they were younger. It was a picture from probably twenty years ago."

Greg sets the phone against something—I'm guessing his computer monitor—and then his fingers fly across the keyboard. His eyes widen, and when he takes off his glasses and squeezes his closed eyes, I see tears pour out. "Oh, baby girl. You must have been so hurt. Did you notice the time stamp on it?"

I hate seeing Greg sad, so I lie. "It doesn't matter! I get it. They're your biological kids, and I was nine when you and Mom got married, and I was already so weird."

"Please look at the time stamp," he pleads.

"It's okay! I don't blame you if you were tired and not thinking or if you were on Red Bull number three?—"

"AJ, it was a Time Hop! A memory that the algorithm asked me if I wanted to share! The picture and caption were from right after the boys' mom died and before I met your mom!"

The tears I've tried to hold back come out in a hurricane of emotion. I shake and sob as years of feeling less loved and less important come to the surface.

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