Page 12 of Lessons in Faking
We argued, we fought. Then our parents died, and all of a sudden, our fifteen-year-old lives were thrown into a whirlwind of lawyers, press, and therapists. To me, it felt like Henry was all that was really left of them.
After the accident, it was hard to plan for the future. Mom and Dad had planned theirs perfectly, and it didn’t matter at all when air turbulence had catapulted them into the Atlantic. What the fuck was the point when life was so,sofickle? When somebody could be a constant in yourlife at one moment and wiped out of it the next through no fault of their own?
The realization had made me want to cling to my brother like a lifeline. I never wanted to let him out of my sight, never mind accept what had become apparent quite quickly: He did not feel the same way.
At fifteen, Henry bought his first planner and became the crisis-averting top student and athlete he is today—with a mind for nothing but his meticulously planned, picture-perfect future.
Even though that meant we weren’t fighting anymore, it kind of felt like I’d lost my brother that day as well. When we’d been hurling petty insults at each other, pulling hair and scratching skin, at least we’d still been talking.
It was all I could think about now. We were fighting, yes, but at least we weretalking. At least he’d been looking at me, speaking to me, probably thinking about me. In a way that I should probably unpack with my therapist, I felt... cared for. Loved. I hadn’t felt that from Henry in so long, just the very hint of it made me itch for more.
That care had never extended past grades and career prospects—had never reached into my personal life. Until now.
I tried to suppress the memories of better times, with parents who were alive and loving, when my greatest worry had been if Henry had snatched the last chocolate bar out of the fridge or how he’d messed up my hair on picture day. All of it was coming back to me now.
The way they’d tear us away from each other, take usinto our respective rooms—Dad with Henry, Mom with me. I didn’t know what my brother had been told all those years, but Mom’s words lingered in my head even now.
“Listen here,”she’d say, softly. If I cried, she’d wipe my tears.“Henry has a hard time coping with his feelings the right way. But your brother loves you very much, Athalia. He admires your strength, your kindness, your humor. A little piece of him wants to be just like you.”She’d say,“And you love him too, don’t you? His bravery, his confidence?”Depending on how bad the particular fight had been, I would argue with her on that point. But in the end, she’d always won.“See?”she’d say.“You’ll always have each other. Your brother will take care of you, and you’ll take care of him long after either of you need it. And you’ll find itsoannoying.”She’d continue in a whisper.“He’s a little annoying, isn’t he?”she’d joke. And I’d laugh every time.“But you’ll be with him much longer than you’ll be with us, Lia.”
A few things about Henry that Mom didn’t mention... He wasn’t just brave and confident, although he was. He was also stubborn, arrogant, and could never, ever be wrong. And all that got worse when he felt like he wasn’t in control. Of a situation, of his life—apparentlymylife too.
Sitting on a wooden bench perched up behind the main building of HBU, I noted that Henry Parker Pressley was an asshole. Then despite my brother’s selfishness and ignorance, I scolded myself for wanting his attention like a child regardless.
If I’d been more like him—driven, determined, destined to play pro sports or academically ahead of the restof our classmates—maybe we’d be closer now. Maybe I wouldn’t need a fight to feel close to him at all.
Unfortunately, I was none of those things, and a part of me was still that fifteen-year-old girl clinging to her twin brother.
“Please don’t tell me you come here often.”
Startling, my spine straightened, and I squinted against the setting sun. McCarthy was still in his crimson shorts, a hoodie thrown over the jersey, and his hair still damp from the shower he must’ve taken after practice.
Could this get any worse?
“You’re really the last person I want to see right now,” I admitted, eyes shifting from his towering frame to the townhouses—mostly occupied by fraternities and sororities—across the field separating the main campus and frat row.
“Is that so?” As if to prove a point, he planted himself on the bench beside me.
“Today is not the day, McCarthy,” I warned.
Some understanding etched into his expression, like he was remembering too.
As if a looping track of my fight with Henry playing over and over wasn’t enough, fate wanted me to stare the reason for it straight in its big brown eyes. I closed mine.
The reason for it.
A wave of awareness flashed through me like lightning.
McCarthy was the reason for it.
Not that I’d needed independence or that I’d yelledat Henry. Not that I’d interrupted practice and caused a scene.
It was McCarthy. The mention of him, the thought of me spending time withthe enemy.
I just don’t want that guy anywhere near my little sister.Wasn’t that what he’d said?
I sorted through the information behind closed eyes, neurons firing, before I opened them wide.
If McCarthy hadn’t already taken a seat, I would’ve offered it now.
