Page 2 of Don't Go Faking My Heart

"And all that sweet, sweet cash," she adds with a snort. "I'll let someone play on tour, but in the studio, no one's touching my instruments."

"You know that's right," I say. My watch vibrates with a message. I look down.

And my stomach drops.

"What is it?" Lou asks.

I drop my wrist and tuck my hand behind my back. “Nothing.” Lou will flip if she knows who it is. All our friends will flip. I'm flipping.

"Ash,” Lou repeats. “You okay?”

I wrinkle my nose. “It’s him.”

Lou growls like a guy in a romance novel. Except, you know, without the flirty connotations. "Ashley Jane Moore, you said you blocked his number!"

"He messaged me on LinkedIn and asked if I'd blocked him," I tell her, red-faced with embarrassment. "It felt rude."

"He's a narcissistic weasel who gaslit you for a year!" Lou says. "You want to talk about rude?"

"I know," I say.

"So?" Lou asks. “Why don’t you block him?"

I hold my wrist. I don't know why I won't keep his number blocked for longer than a couple of months. My ex was every bit as manipulative as Lou is saying. I felt terrible about myself with him. But he knew how to turn the charm on, and when he did, I also felt amazing about myself, like the luckiest girl in the world. I couldn't be dysfunctional if someone like him loved me. If he liked me, maybe I was okay. Maybe I was normal.

We broke up a couple of years ago, but I still get texts from him on occasion. And every time, it throws me back into the two contradicting feelings that were the hallmark of our relationship: feeling like I must be special and yet not feeling special—or even accepted—at all.

Lou sighs. "Are you going to respond to him?"

“I don’t want to.”

“Can I help?”

“Yes, please.”

My hand moves like there's an external resistance to it, like it’s passing through water as I get my phone from my back pocket. I hold it extra tight for a split second. Lou tugs it gently from my grip, holds it up to my face to bypass the password, and then blocks him on both my socials and my phone. Every movement of her fingers is like a small tear in my gut.

But when it's done, it’s like those tears were clearing away an infection. I move more freely.

"Thanks," I say.

"I got your back." Lou hands me my phone with a smile. "How are you and Rusty feeling about the presentation?"

Just thinking about Rusty is a palate cleanser. "Good," I say confidently, because our presentation is awesome. "We have the graphics and the numbers, and I'll figure out the words."

"The words?" Lou asks.

"Yeah, you know, the words. To say. When I'm up there."

Lou gives me a half smile. “I can’t wait. You give the best presentations.”

Our friend group—the Janes, so named because we all share the name—gave a lot of presentations together in college, and I was always a bit of a wild card, but it worked in our favor. My friends are master logicians and debaters, calm and confident. But I'm great off the cuff. I'm everyone's favorite person on a panel or in a Q&A because I'm spontaneous and funny and, frankly, clever. I feed off the audience and can adjust to their energy. I love being in front of a crowd.

Presentations are just persuasive crowd control.

Kind of.

But this stupid text from my ex is messing with my head. “Do I need a script? Should I make cue cards?” I ask Lou.

---