Page 17 of Fake It Til You Break It

“I don’t—” A breath huffed from my lips when the back of my legs collided with the desk. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Beckett took up a military stance, legs wide, anchoring me in place with his solid frame. “I want you to tell me why it’s so important for people to like you.”

I could have pushed him away. I could have stopped everything right there. Ishouldhave. Instead, I took a deep breath and swallowed past the lump in my throat before saying the one thing I had never admitted to anyone.

“Because it hurts when they don’t.”

Emotionally, yes, but also physically. I felt it in my whole body. It started in my throat and spread up my neck. My heart pounded too hard, too fast, a painful drum against my sternum. Then I’d feel a sharp stab between my shoulder blades before the tension moved down my back to my stomach and hips.

“Because you’re not worthy without their approval.”

It wasn’t a question, but I nodded anyway. “Yes.”

My parents had been wonderful, if maybe a little too proper. They hadn’t hurt or belittled me. They hadn’t made me feel lesser. If anything, I was lucky I hadn’t grown into an arrogant, self-serving jerk who felt the world owed him something.

Apart from some minor teasing, I hadn’t been bullied at school. Teachers had been kind to me. In fact, nothing truly traumatic had ever happened to me.

Yes, I had lost my parents only two years apart in my twenties. It had been hard, but it hadn’t been unexpected. Already in their late fifties when they had adopted me, they had battled their failing health for most of my life.

Despite their commitment, however, there had been a part of me that felt undeserving of their love. Older now, it sounded dramatic, but as a kid, I had always felt like a stray. Unwanted. Pitiful. Always needing to prove myself, my worth.

Because if my biological parents hadn’t wanted me, why would anyone else?

Once the dam broke, I couldn’t contain the flood. The words tumbled out, one over the other, in a rush of long-masked insecurities.

Beckett didn’t interrupt. He didn’t offer platitudes or assurances. But he also didn’t pull away or make me feel like a burden. Solid and unflappable, he leaned into me, lending me his strength as he absorbed every emotional blow.

Once the storm passed, rational thought returned, and along with it, a deep, burning shame. I didn’t so much stop talking as my voice faded away into nothingness, like a song on the radio.

“Sorry,” I murmured, dropping my gaze to stare at his collarbones. “That was…a lot.”

“It was,” he agreed. There was no judgment in his tone. He simply acknowledged what we both knew. “You’ve been carrying that around for a while, huh? How do you feel now?”

“Tired,” I answered honestly. “Embarrassed.” I finally dared to meet his gaze again. “But better?” A tight, slightly unhinged chuckle puffed from my lips at the absurdity of it all, and I dropped my head again, resting my brow on his shoulder. “I’m a disaster.”

“Yeah, kind of.” Beckett laughed along with me. “But you’re also real. This might be the realest I’ve ever seen you.”

Righting myself, I snorted and shook my head. “Hot mess masquerading as authenticity. That checks.”

“Jazz.” This time, there was a thread of censure in his voice. “I’m trying to make a point here.”

“By all means. Please proceed.”

And he did, completely ignoring my defensiveness disguised as snark.

“You let me see the real you, and I’m still here. I’m not running, and I’m sure as hell not disappointed.”

“Give it time.” His lips parted, clearly intending to argue, but I cut him off. “And since when do you call me Jazz?”

There it was. That cocksure grin that made my chest flutter and my stomach tighten, and he knew exactly how to weaponize it.

“Do you like it?” Pure sin dripped from his words, and he leaned closer, placing his hands on the desk behind me, caging me in.

“I just wasn’t aware that we were that close.”

“Jazz,” he said, adding emphasis to the name now. “There’s only one way we could be closer, and I don’t think you’re ready for it.”

That little voice in the back of my head, the one that told me I wasn’t worthy, screamed for me to turn away. To hide. To rebuild the walls around myself.

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