Page 9 of Fake It Til You Break It

I wondered if Jasper had expected the reaction because he didn’t hesitate or falter.

“I appreciate the opportunity to share in such an important night.”

“Right.” Edwin tilted his wine glass to his lips and drained the contents. “My mom invited you.”

His attitude grated, and I tensed, which didn’t go unnoticed. Before I could say anything, Jasper met my gaze and shook his head, but not in reprimand. If I had to put a name to his expression, I would say he looked…sad.

Since I neither understood nor shared his sympathy, I started leading him toward the exit. When we passed behind Edwin, however, Jasper paused and briefly touched the kid on the shoulder.

“Enjoy your evening, Edwin. You deserve it.”

Outside, the night had cooled considerably since our arrival, and the chilled breeze soothed the heat of irritation in my cheeks. I admired that Jasper always tried to see the best in people, but at the same time, it pissed me off that he wasted energy on people who didn’t deserve it.

“What was that about?” I asked once I felt calmer.

“He’s hurting.”

Jasper didn’t say anything more on the subject, and I got the impression that he wouldn’t, even if I asked. So, instead of pressing him, I bit my tongue and reflected on the interaction through his eyes. Through a different lens.

I prided myself on noticing the details, the nuances, that others often missed. Yet, a couple of hours in the presence of Jasper Ryan, and I realized that despite all my keen observations, I had willfully ignored an important piece of the puzzle.

Empathy.

I had seen Edwin’s behavior as rude and disrespectful. Jasper, however, had searched deeper and found something more. Something hidden. Something painful. I still didn’t know if I agreed with his assessment, but it forced me to confront an ugly truth about myself.

Maybe I didn’t see as much as I thought I did.

three

~ Jasper ~

Cloudsgatheredinthenight sky, blotting out the stars, and a light spring rain pattered against the roof and windows. At that late hour, the suburban neighborhood was quiet, peaceful, a respite from the busyness of the city.

Perched in my favorite reading chair by the arched picture window, I watched the rain for another minute before glancing down at the book in my lap again. I read the page for the third time, the words distorted through blurry eyes.

To Mr. R. Thanks for believing in me.

Kendall Bauer had found her voice, and I couldn’t have been prouder. It seemed hard to believe that the teenager who spoke in whispers and never made eye contact was now a published author, but I’d always known she had it in her.

Bright, creative, and wildly imaginative, she had only lacked confidence. I’d been blessed to watch her bloom during her time at SafeHouse, and I felt humbled by her dedication.

This was why I had fought so hard to build the center. Not for the gratitude or the public recognition. I did it to help shy, uncertain kids, so they could look back one day and say that when it mattered most, someone had believed in them.

My gaze drifted back to the rain-streaked window, and I sighed.

The book had arrived at the shelter a week ago, along with an invitation to an intimate meet-and-greet at a local bookstore. Nothing formal or fancy. Just a quiet celebration of her success.

I’d turned the card over in my hands a dozen times since then. There had been no pressure in her note, no expectation. Just an offer.

I wanted to be there to support her. Of course I did, but the thought of walking into that bookstore alone—of navigating unfamiliar faces, small talk, maybe even the awkwardness of being recognized—made my pulse race and my stomach twist.

Unfortunately, my contract with Beckett didn’t cover small public gatherings. This fell more into the category of a friendly favor, and I didn’t know which caused me more anxiety. Showing up alone…or asking for his help.

Placing the book down on the end table, I reached for my phone and unlocked the screen. After bringing up my contacts, I sat there, staring at Beckett’s number while chewing my bottom lip.

I felt ridiculous, both for needing a security blanket, and for being nervous about sending a text. Would he say no? Would he agree but resent me for it?

I liked to remind the kids at the center that they wouldn’t know the answer unless they asked. Figuring I should probably take my own advice, I exhaled sharply and started typing.

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