Page 36 of Faux Real
“Clearly, he’s not busy enough to callTracy,” I mumble, gazing out the window, trees whipping past my eyes. “But I guess he’s got to keep his new wife happy, right?”
“Kenny—” Eddie begins to say but he’s cut off by Oliver.
“Your father works in D.C.?” he asks, peering up from his iPhone. “What does he do?”
I was hoping to avoid the topic of my father, the national hero. “He’s a military defense advisor for the White House,” I explain.
“He’s what?” Oliver says, his jaw dropping. “The White House? As in, he works for the President of the United States of America?”
“Mhmm.” I hum, avoiding his startled gaze. “He was a four-star general in the army before he got this position.”
“Thearmy?” Oliver asks, a hint of fear in his eyes. Oh my God, is he scared? So precious.
“Yup,” I state, attempting to keep a straight face. “He’s an expert in tactical warfare.”
“Oi, come here,” Oliver whispers, waving me over, his eyes chalked full of disbelief.
I lean in, suppressing a laugh. “What?”
“Were you ever planning on telling me that your father possesses the skills to murder me in my sleep and make it look like an accident?”
Oh, he’s flipping.
“He’s not like, aCIA agent, he’s just a military man. He’s harmless. He—” I pause, pretending to think. “Okay, he’s not harmless, he’s actually pretty scary but you’re fine, really. He’sallthe way in D.C. and we’re here, in Connecticut, so you’re fine. Totally fine.”
“I am not going to live past my eighteenth birthday, am I?” Oliver asks, shaking his head, his gaze distant. “I knew you would be the death of me Kennedy Carmichael.”
“So dramatic,” I note, rolling my eyes. “He’s not going to kill you.” I pause. “At least not without torturing you first.”
“Not funny,” he says, deadpan.
“Oh relax,” I say, waving him off. “He’s not going to do anything to you. He doesn’t even know you exist.” I poke Eddie’s shoulder through the headrest. “And you’re not going to tell him, right?”
“My lips are sealed Miss Kenny,” Eddie laughs. “What happens in the Lincoln, stays in the Lincoln.”
“Thank you,” I smile, turning my attention back to my antsy fake boyfriend. “Okay. Your turn.”
“My turn for what?” he asks. “What doyourparents do?”
“I’d rather not,” Oliver sighs. “Plus, we only covered half your parents. How about your mum? She work for thePresidentas well?”
“Um...no—” My face falls, a pang of pain gnawing at my stomach. “She’s in California...I think. I’m not really sure.”
“You’re notsure?” he asks, his tone gentle, careful, like he’s worried I’ll start crying.
“Yeah, my uh—my parents got divorced five years ago when I was twelve. My mom, she um...left. She couldn’t—” I suck in a deep steadying breath. “She couldn’t handle being a mom anymore, I guess. At least that’s what my dad said. I’m not really sure, I haven’t talked to her since, you know.”
I close my eyes, mentally adding this topic into the no-no box. She’s gone, there’s no point in dwelling. If she doesn’t want to talk to me, why would I want to talk to her? She’s nobody anymore. Just a memory. A bad memory. At least that’s what I tell myself even though when I think about her, all I remember is love. But love hurts. It hurts.
“Hey, I’m sorry,” Oliver says quietly. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Oh, it’s okay,” I say, digging my nails into my palms. A memory. Can’t get mad at a memory. “Really, it’s fine.”
Oliver studies me intently, his eyes flicker across my face for several seconds before he reveals, “My father’s a hedge fund manager for several Fortune 500 companies and my mum doesn’t work.”
“Oh—” I nod, taken aback that he actually told me. I was expecting him to brush it off, change the subject, tell me that I’m being nosy. “That’s cool. What um...what companies?”
“I dunno,” Oliver says with a listless shrug. “We don’t really talk much.”
