Page 34 of Faking All the Way
His last two messages make my smile widen.
ASHER: You still awake over there?
ASHER: Goodnight, bright eyes. Sleep tight.
My stomach does this little flutter that I try really hard not to notice. I haven’t stayed up that late texting someone since highschool, when Sam was away at summer camp all summer and we missed each other so much we’d text until our phones died or my parents and her counselors confiscated them. But this felt different than that.
I think back to my conversation with my best friend yesterday evening, before Asher and I started our marathon texting session. I told Asher that I admitted the truth to Sam, and that she approved of our arrangement. But I didn’t tell him everything. I didn’t mention that although Sam was scandalized and excited, thrilled by the wildness of this crazy plan and impressed that we’d actually pulled it off so far, she also expressed some serious protective reservations about the whole thing.
She wanted to know more about Asher, how we were handling the fake dating aspect, what the rules are between us. She warned me that although not all professional athletes are players, some of them definitely can be. That I should keep my head on straight, keep my heart protected. Not let myself get too invested in someone who’s only going to be in my life temporarily.
I glance at my phone again, reading those last two messages one more time, and my smile fades slightly at the reminder that this really isn’t anything but fake. In a few weeks, Asher will go back to his real life and I’ll go back to mine, and this whole strange interlude will just be a weird story I’ll probably never tell anyone but my bestie.
Brushing that thought away because I don’t want to dwell on it, I swing my legs out of bed and get up, padding to the bathroom for a shower. I stand under the hot water longer than I probably should, letting it wash away the last remnants of sleep and the nagging voice in my head that sounds suspiciously like Sam telling me to be careful.
After I get dressed in stretchy jeans and a comfortable sweater and dry my hair until it’s not dripping anymore, I head downstairs to start the coffee maker. The familiar ritual is soothing, measuring out the grounds and listening to the machine gurgle and hiss as it comes to life.
I’m just pouring in what’s probably an obscene amount of my favorite caramel creamer when there’s a knock at the back door. Something about the predictability of Asher’s arrival makes me smile as I head down the hall to let him in.
“Morning,” I say, pulling the door open.
“Morning.”
He’s already showered and dressed, wearing dark washed jeans and a black Henley that hugs his broad chest. His hair is still slightly damp, and I can smell his soap or shampoo or whatever it is that makes him smell the way he does. Woodsy and smoky with that hint of spice.
“Coffee’s ready,” I tell him, stepping aside so he can come in.
“Smells good.”
We move around the kitchen together, him following a few steps behind me. He pulls out the oatmeal and a pot while I finish doctoring my coffee, adding just a little more creamer for good measure.
“Not a black coffee fan, huh?” he observes, and there’s amusement in his voice.
“Not exactly,” I admit, flushing slightly as I stir the coffee and watch it turn from light brown to a lighter tan color. “I’ll drink it with other fixings if I have to, but I pretty much never drink it black. And nothing scratches the itch quite like this stuff.” I gesture to the creamer bottle, then wince. “That probably makes me sound high maintenance. Or like I have the taste buds of a five-year-old.”
He shrugs, measuring oatmeal into the pot and adding water. “You like things how you like them. Nothing wrong with that.”
The simple acceptance in his words makes me relax. There’s no judgment, no teasing beyond the initial observation. Just acknowledgment that I’m allowed to have preferences.
We settle at the table with our breakfast a few minutes later, and I watch him eat for a moment. There’s something on his mind, I can tell by the way his shoulders are set, the slight tension in his jaw.
“So what’ve you got planned for the day?” I ask, taking a sip of my perfectly sweetened coffee.
His face falls a little, a grimace twisting his lips. “I’ve got to head over to my dad’s place again. I noticed some stuff around the house that needs fixing yesterday, and I might as well do it while he’s laid up and can’t do it himself.”
There’s something in his voice, a heaviness that makes my chest hurt.
“That’s nice of you,” I offer.
“Yeah. I want to do as much as I can while I’m here.” He stares down at his oatmeal, stirring it slowly without eating. “Because I might never be back.”
The words hang in the air between us, flat and final. I don’t know what to say to that, how to respond to the resignation in his voice.
I hate the way he sounds when he talks about his father. How his whole demeanor shifts, like a weight settles on his shoulders and presses down until he’s carrying something too heavy to bear.
“Can I ask what happened?” The question comes out before I can stop it, my voice low. “I know you don’t get along, but why? What happened between you two?”
Asher goes still, holding his spoon in the bowl. For a long moment, he just sits there, and I immediately regret asking. Our conversation last night was so nice and light, easy and fun and free of heavy topics. Maybe I should’ve tried to keep that vibegoing instead of digging into painful territory before he’s even finished his breakfast.
