Page 1 of Faking All the Way
Chapter One
Kat
The plane hits another pocket of turbulence, and my stomach lurches like I’m on the world’s worst roller coaster.
You can do this,I remind myself, white-knuckling the armrests.It’s just a tube of metal hurtling through the sky at thirty thousand feet. Totally normal.
I breathe on a slow count—in through the nose, out through the mouth, remembering the instructions from the meditation app I downloaded and used exactly twice. It takes forever, but eventually my death grip on the armrests loosens. That is, until we hit another patch of bumpy air, and then I’m back to praying to whatever aviation gods might be listening.
The elderly woman beside me hasn’t even glanced up from her knitting. Her silver needles click in a steady rhythm, creating what looks like an intricate pattern in festive red and green. Probably a Christmas sweater for some lucky grandkid.
I should be that calm. Iwantto be that calm. Instead, I’m having a full-body panic attack over what the pilot blandly called “a little chop.”
The seatback screen flickers with ESPN highlights, which I’d normally scroll past without a second thought. But desperate times call for desperate distractions, and right now I’ll take anything that doesn’t involve looking out the window at the ground far, far below.
The ESPN story switches to footage of a hockey game, showing players gliding across the ice with a fluid grace that makes my clumsy ass deeply jealous. I fumble for the complimentary headphones and plug into the audio, letting the announcer’s smooth baritone fill my ears.
“—the future remains uncertain for Asher Vaughn after the Philadelphia Strikers chose not to renew his contract,” the ESPN anchor says in a practiced tone. “The Strikers have been performing well this season?—”
I recognize the name of my current city’s hockey team, letting the words flow over me without really processing them. The camera cuts to game footage of Asher Vaughn, and even on the airplane’s small screen, it’s obvious this man is the kind of attractive that should come with a warning label. He has a sharp jawline, full lips, dark hair that curls just enough at the ends to make you want to run your fingers through it, and a strong bone structure that makes him look a bit rugged.
When he moves across the ice, it’s like watching a predator in his natural habitat, all effortless grace and spring-loaded power. The kind of man who probably has to beat women off with a hockey stick.
The segment shifts to talking heads dissecting Asher Vaughn’s injury stats and uncertain future since his contract wasn’t renewed by the Strikers. I find myself getting invested in this stranger’s career drama, my anxiety temporarily forgotten as I get sucked into the narrative. Apparently his shoulder has healed after the injury he suffered during a game, but hisperformance hasn’t quite bounced back to its former level. Now he’s a free agent currently looking for a new team.
A twinge of sympathy tugs at my chest. I guess everyone is fighting invisible battles, even ridiculously attractive professional athletes who look like they have the world by the tail.
The sports report cuts to commercial just as the pilot’s voice crackles through the cabin speakers. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re beginning our descent into Maplewood Airport. Please return your seat backs to their upright position?—”
Thank god.
Twenty more minutes and I’ll be back on blessed, stable ground, ready to face a different kind of turbulence: explaining my life choices to a family who still thinks my art career is an elaborate phase I’ll eventually outgrow.
No matter how many projects I illustrate or how many clients sing my praises, I’ll always be the Sanders daughter who chose “finger painting” over something sensible like accounting. Most of my bills get paid, and I only eat ramen by choice now, but somehow that never seems to count.
The landing is fairly smooth, but that doesn’t stop me from leaving fingernail marks in the armrests. As soon as we’re given the okay by the flight attendants, I hop up and join the line of people filing off the plane.
The Maplewood Regional Airport is doing its absolute best with holiday decorations, even though there are only six gates and the building itself hasn’t been updated since at least the eighties. Still, someone’s gone all out with the Christmas spirit. Modest wreaths hang from the handful of windows, silver tinsel catches what natural light filters through, and “Silent Night” plays softly from speakers that have definitely seen better decades.
The small food counter near baggage claim makes my stomach growl with embarrassing volume. When did I last eat? Those stale airplane pretzels definitely don’t count as a meal, and I was too nervous to be hungry before the flight.
My suitcase, an ancient purple thing with a strip of duct tape covering up a crack in the side, makes its grand appearance on the carousel. I should probably replace it, but I’m not exactly swimming in cash these days. Besides, there’s something comforting about its familiarity, and it’s easy to spot in a sea of boring black luggage.
“Kat? Oh my god, is that really you?”
The voice stops me cold as I wrestle my bag off the luggage carousel, my eyes going wide with recognition.No. No, no, no. Not him. Not here. Not now.
Daniel.
My chest tightens with that special cocktail of mortification that only comes from encountering someone who’s seen you ugly-cry while breaking up with you. Coming home for Christmas is supposed to be warm and comforting, not a masterclass in public humiliation.
Of course my ex-boyfriend is here. Because apparently my karma isthatbad.
“Daniel!” I paste on what I hope passes for a casual smile instead of the grimace it probably is as I turn to face my ex. “What a surprise! What brings you to the airport?”
He looks exactly the same—annoyingly so. His brown hair styled with surgical precision, those hazel eyes that always seemed to be cataloguing everyone’s flaws, wearing that navy peacoat he bought because some men’s magazine told him it would make him look sophisticated. His cologne hits me like a memory I’d rather forget, dragging me back to his overly decorated apartment two years ago where he calmly explainedthat while he still cared about me, I’d never be “marriage material.”
“Picking up my fiancée.” He says it casually, but I don’t miss its significance of his unspoken words.Look how quickly I replaced you with someone better.
