Page 19 of Fake Out Hearts

“Not at all. What did you have in mind?”

I turn to Becca, who’s already climbing into the back seat. “What’s your favorite cuisine?”

“Shouldn’t you already know that?” she asks, her brows lifted.

“Why do you think I’m asking?”

She laughs and shakes her head. “Indian.”

“Really? Me too. Never would’ve guessed that about you, but Indian it is. Take us to the best place you know of, please,” I tell the driver and get into the car next to Becca.

“I’m not sure if any of the Indian restaurants will be open this early, but I’ll see what I can find,” he says and spends a few seconds tapping around on his phone after he gets in the driver’s seat. “Doesn’t look like any are. Anything else sound good?” he asks, staring at me in the rearview.

“I wasn’t sure about that for breakfast anyway. You okay with just grabbing something at the airport instead?” I ask Becca, and she nods. “Okay, then let’s just head to LAX.”

“You got it,” the driver says and throws the car in drive.

We merge into the traffic that’s already getting heavy, and I realize it’s probably a good thing we’re leaving early. I told Becca not to worry, but honestly, I don’t have a clue how much time we really have to do this thing. I’m also not entirely sure she’s going to be able to get on a plane, but like I told her, it’s not like someone in the government is just sitting and waiting to switch off her visa.

Her hand rests on the seat between us, and I wrestle with whether I should hold it. We’re about to get married, sure, but that doesn’t mean we’re an item. It strikes me that I don’t reallyknow where the line is anymore, or how we’re going to navigate what’s real versus what we’re putting on for the feds and the cameras.

It takes more than an hour to get to the airport, but we make it in one piece and on time. Becca helps me unload my suitcases, and we head inside to a nearby kiosk to get our boarding passes. My heart hammers in my chest as I clumsily punch in her information, but when the machine asks for her passport to scan it, it goes through without a hitch.

“See? You aren’t a fugitive just yet,” I say, although I’m not sure who I’m comforting. Becca laughs and tucks her passport back into her pocket.

“The word ‘yet’ is doing a lot of heavy lifting there. I still can’t believe we’re doing this,” she says and wipes her palms on her shorts.

“Getting cold feet already? You aren’t gonna leave me at the altar, are you?”

“No, not at all. Don’t be ridiculous,” she says, and the smile that cracks her face sparks a warmth that spreads through me. It’s going to be fine. This is all going to work out. It has to, for her sake. I’d never let myself live it down if I failed her on this.

“I just really hate airport security. It’s always stressed me out,” Becca adds.

“That’s universal,” I say and offer her my hand. “But don’t worry, I’ll be there with you through the whole terrible ordeal. Ready to get strip searched?”

“Oh god, don’t joke about that,” she says, the color draining from her face.

“Sorry, sorry.” I make a face. “Bad timing. Come on, it’ll be fine. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can get some food and get married. In that order.”

Becca laughs, and I see her shoulders drop a bit. Good. I don’t want her to worry about a damn thing right now. She’s gotmore than enough on her plate. Just like I told her, we check my suitcases, but I keep a duffel bag with me and we breeze through security without an incident, then emerge into the cramped quarters of LAX’s terminal three.

Unfortunately, there isn’t much to choose from when it comes to food, so we end up stopping at—where else—a sports bar type of place that serves chicken and beer. It’s ridiculous, but somehow it feels right given how Becca and I met and how all of this started.

“Think this will be enough to hold you over?” I tease as we sit down with our greasy food a few minutes later.

She laughs. “The flight is barely an hour long, so I think I’ll survive.”

“Wonder if that means they’ll even have food service in first class?”

Becca’s brows shoot up and she pauses with a chicken tender halfway to her mouth. “First class?”

“Yeah, didn’t you know? It’s on your boarding pass.”

She drops her chicken back in the basket. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“True. I didn’t have to marry you either, but here we are,” I say, and again she smiles, but it falls quickly as something else seems to dawn on her. “What’s wrong?”

“I just realized I don’t have anything to wear. How am I supposed get married without a dress?” She gestures to her clothes—just cutoff shorts and a tank top, since she deliberately stuffed Kaplan’s jersey in the hotel room trash before we left.

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