Page 10 of Lessons in Faking
Her head fell into her hands, and the subsequent groan was way too loud for a library. “No way,” she mumbled into her hands, voice lowered again. “No way, no way, no way.” Her eyes snapped back to mine. “Henry didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?” My patience was beginning to wear thin. With her. With this subject. With my thudding head at the prospect of what she was saying.
“I’m so sorry—” she began, immediately cutting herself off again. “I thought, you know—” Her head shook again. “I thought if he was going to talk to Professor Shaw, he’d do it becauseyouasked him to. Or suggested it. At least that you knew about it.Bloody hell.Why—”
“Heather.” I reached for her arm and she finally refocused.
“Oh, right.” She cleared her throat. “Henry talked to Shaw about your tutoring setup.” She said the words as if she couldn’t get them out fast enough. Then, to my dismay, added, “Well, not talked, really. Emailed him.”
I blinked at her. “He emailed him.” If I sounded the words out, maybe they’d make more sense. “After I specifically told him to stay out of it. After I specifically told him to let me handle this by myself.” Heather’s expression grew more horrified with every word. “After all that. He emailed him?”
“Oh God.” Somewhere in the distance, the librarian shushed us. I barely noticed—perceived it somewhere in a distant corner of my mind, maybe—because I was still trying to wrap my head around other things. How much of an asshole my brother was, of course. But some other thoughts were going through my mind as well:
1. Where did men get the audacity?
2. How could I be sharing the same genes with that particular man?
3. What... the fuck?
I could pinpoint the exact moment confusion turned into anger. It was right after I’d excused myself from Heather.Right when the chilly air hit me and a gust of wind whipped hair into my face with full force. It was the wrong day for that, and I wasn’t just angry anymore. I was furious. And a little embarrassed.
Embarrassed by the fact my professor would now think I was sending my star-athlete brother to handle my business. Furious, because my star-athlete brother couldn’t comprehend that I was old enough to live my own life, competent enough to deal with problems myself.
And quite frankly, livid because the only time I warranted my brother’s attention seemed to be when there was a problem he didn’t think I could fix. I was 99percent sure the reason I got into HBU—one of the best schools on the East Coast—was Henry’s pointed remark (threat) that the only way he’d be attending was if his sister would. That, if they wanted the star athlete, they’d have to take the underqualified twin too. I’m sure our last name on the gym in big gold letters helped persuade them too.
Thanks, Pressley Center for Recreation.
Apparently, I was only worth Henry’s time if I was the problem. When I might not get into college, when I couldn’t find an apartment, and apparently, when Dylan McCarthy Williams was involved.
“Pressley!” My voice echoed across the soccer field before I even reached it. In the distance, behind the waist-high handrail and between the trees circling it, I could see a few heads whip in my direction, confused and annoyed at whoever dared to interfere with their sacred training, and so close to the NCAA championship at that.
I found him quickly. Number 8 casually jogged toward me, casting a pleading look in his coach’s direction. An edge of concern riddled my brother’s expression when he came to a standstill on the other side of the railing.
“Look, Lia, can this wait—?”
“No,” I seethed.
“I’m in the middle of practice—”
“I don’t care, Henry.”
He didn’t like the way I raised my voice at him. In front of the team, in front of his coach. It bruised his incredibly fragile ego; I could tell. “You know what Idocare about?” I mused, trying my best to hide just how angry I was.
Restless in front of me, he dared a few glances across his shoulder, trying his best to will his team to continue what they were doing instead of eavesdropping on a clearly uncomfortable conversation.
“I care about you not butting into my life every chance you get.”
His face fell at my tone, though not in recognition, or understanding, or guilt. Blinking down at me, brow furrowed, there wasn’t a single thought behind those beautiful green eyes. He had no clue what I was talking about. And that made it worse.
“Oh my God.”I can’t believe this.“You don’t even think you did anything wrong.”
His silence confirmed that.
“You know,” I began. “You do not have to play concerned brother every time you spot a chance to flauntyour wealth and influence in order to stroke your ego.” His expression remained clueless. “I don’t need your help with this. I can go to some stupid tutoring once a week, even if I don’t like the guy, andyes—even ifyoudon’t.”
And there it was. A spark of understanding. Before he could answer—
“Pressley!” The shout came from behind him. “Get your ass back on the field!” My gaze shifted to spot the source of those words, but I could’ve probably identified the lackluster shout, the annoyed tone, even without looking. “You’re holding up the entire game!”
