Page 17 of Don't Go Faking My Heart

Teddy backs into the glass bakery display case, and then he stiffens. "You'll what? Like I care what the town drunk's son has to say to me."

He probably thought this would make me cower, but if anything, his mention of my father only stokes my fire.

"You know he hasn't been the town drunk for almost ten years." I lean in and quietly add, "Or your wife knows, at any rate."

"She likes pub food," he says through his veneers.

I stand straight and let a smile play at the corner of my mouth. "If you say that enough times, I'm sure someone will believe you."

Teddy puts his hand on the glass case behind him as if looking for something to steady himself. He narrows his eyes. "I'll give your little girlfriend a fair shot. You have my word."

"You want to shake on it?"

Teddy holds out his hand, and I take it in mine. His skin is too smooth for honest work, but his grip is firmer than I expected. He may have tacitly agreed to a truce, but this is no friendly handshake. Is he trying to intimidate me?

Teddy fake smiles and squeezes hard. I could roll my eyes, but then he says, “I could understand you goin’ to all this trouble if she were at least hot."

My hand starts crushing his before my brain can catch up.

Teddy yelps in pain, and the sound jolts me back to my senses as horror pours over me like acid. I drop his hand and mumble something between a thank you and an apology. Then I bolt out the door, my stomach churning.

I hurt him.

I hurt him.

When I’m out of view of the shop, I hunch over. I take big, slow breaths, willing the hot anger and nausea away. The scar on my knuckles shimmers in the sun, a stark reminder that my actions have consequences, that each action gets me closer to a fate I want to avoid.

A fate that feels inevitable.

No.

I will not become like him.

I can't.

I slam my eyes closed, unwilling to let my mind go any further down that dark road. Then I pinch my temples as the fire in my chest flames out, replaced with a familiar, sickening weariness. I'm so tired of people defining me as Arlo Fielding's son.

But this weariness can't compare to the anger I feel hearing someone say anything negative about Ash.

Just remembering Teddy's comment is enough to make me wish I'd kept squeezing.

The first time I met Ash, I felt like someone opened the curtains in a dark room. It was almost painful how much light she let in. My vision was blurred and dim up until that moment. I had only seen the world in grayscale.

Ash has brought so much light to my world, but it occasionally illuminates things I'd rather not see or think about. Like the scar on my knuckles.

But thinking of her makes me feel less angry, less … bad.

I'm on my way back to the riverwalk when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out to see a text from Ash's friend, Lou.

It's a group message to the rest of the Janes, except Ash isn't on it.

LOU

RED ALERT.

I'm on another text thread with the Janes because I consult with them so often doing graphic design. I've gotten used to how they communicate, and Lou is funny and honest, but she's not alarmist.

Also, why isn't Ash on this thread?

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