Page 62 of Faking All the Way
By the time I finish both the driveway and walkway, my shoulders ache and sweat dampens my skin despite the cold. My breath comes out in clouds. And I’m still thrumming with desire, still keyed up and restless.
There are no other surfaces left to clear, so I put the shovel away and head into the main cabin, slipping in through the open back door. I need food. I have some quick meal stuff in the guest house but not much, and no real kitchen to work with.
Some part of me hopes I’ll run into Kat, that she’ll be in the kitchen or the living room. But there’s no sign of her as I make myself a sandwich and eat it standing at the counter. The house is quiet. She’s probably upstairs in her room or something, giving us both space after what happened in the car.
As much as I wish I did, I have no real reason to linger, so I head back to the guest house.
With half a day to kill and too much energy still buzzing through me, I keep myself busy. I put the painting Kat’s grandmother gave me on the dresser in my bedroom,positioning it where I’ll see it every day as long as I’m here, then stand back and gaze at it for a minute. The linework is delicate but purposeful, capturing the fox in the winter forest with perfect clarity. It’s really good work—and for better or for worse, it will make me think of Kat every time I look at it.
After that, I try to do normal things. Check up on some sports news, scroll through articles about trades and injuries and contract negotiations. I work out for a while in the small space, doing a bodyweight routine of push-ups and sit-ups until my muscles burn. Then I send off a quick email to my agent, even though I know I shouldn’t bug him. But I can’t stop myself from wanting an update on the contract situation, which is always sitting in the back of my mind these days.
Once I shower off the sweat, I grab a quick dinner from my limited supply of food in the guest house’s galley kitchen—a protein bar, some crackers, and an apple. Then I end up in the bedroom with a book I’ve been reading, trying to lose myself in someone else’s story instead of thinking about my own mess of a life.
I actually do manage to get sucked into the story for a while, and when I look up, I realize it’s evening. The light outside has faded to that blue-gray twilight that comes before full darkness, and more snow is falling lightly, dusting everything with fresh white.
Out of habit, I glance across the way and see Kat in her bedroom. This has become normal for us over the time I’ve been staying here, seeing each other getting ready for bed through our windows, sometimes texting at night when we can’t sleep or just want to talk.
I hesitate, the book still open in my lap. Then I reach for my phone.
ME: How was your day?
I watch as she looks down at her phone, then over at me. I give her a little wave, lifting my hand. There’s something about watching her move in her own space that gets to me. The easy, comfortable way she exists when she thinks no one is paying attention.
KAT: Which part? The part where you told my ex I used to fake it with him? Or the part where I almost had my fake girlfriend status usurped by a cat?
I laugh out loud at that, the sound filling the quiet room. Some of the tension in me dissipates at her response. This is easy between us, this banter. This back and forth over text has become familiar, comfortable. Something I look forward to.
ME: You really don’t have anything to worry about. For a multitude of reasons, Murphy isn’t my type.
KAT: Poor Murphy. He seems so into you.
KAT: Sam once had a bird that completely fell in love with her dog. It was so sad. The bird would want to sit on the dog’s head, making these sweet little noises into its ear, and the dog just looked like it wanted to eat the bird the whole time.
I grin, chuckling to myself at the image. We get into a lengthy conversation about star-crossed animal lovers, trading jokes back and forth. She tells me about other weird animal pairings she’s seen or heard about, and I tell her about a teammate who had a cat that was obsessed with his girlfriend’s ferret. The messages flow easily, naturally, as we both move around our rooms getting ready for bed.
It’s the same thing we’ve done other nights. This easy rhythm we’ve fallen into without planning it. These quiet conversations at the end of the day that I look forward to more than I probably should.
At some point, she comes out of her bathroom in her sleep clothes, and I glance over at her and go still. Her tank topand soft shorts show off just enough of her pale skin to make my mouth go a little dry. She does something with her hair, brushing it over her shoulder so it falls down her back in dark waves, and it reminds me of last night. How she looked in that white nightgown, her hair spread across the pillow.
Before I can stop myself, I’m picking up my phone and tapping out another message.
ME: Bright eyes, can I ask you something?
KAT: Yeah, sure.
I hesitate, my thumbs hovering over the screen. This is probably a bad idea. Definitely a bad idea. But I need to know.
ME: Were you really faking it last night?
Her head shoots up, looking over at me across the distance. Even from here, I can see the way her eyes widen. I think I can see her blush, color flooding her face. Little text bubbles appear and disappear several times at the bottom of my screen. She’s clearly considering and rejecting several answers, typing and deleting and typing again.
I wait, unable to look away from my phone, my heart thudding heavily against my ribs.
When her response finally comes through, it’s only one word.
KAT: No.
A rush of heat and something like triumph shoots through me. I knew it. I fucking knew she wasn’t faking. I look up at her. She’s staring down at her phone, biting her lip in that way she does when she’s nervous or embarrassed, and I immediately tap out a response.
