Page 16 of Lessons in Faking
“Oh no,” McCarthy sighed dramatically. “However will I cope? After all, that was the only reason I agreed in the first place.” He pinned me with a look that said the opposite. “Now, are there any nonobvious rules to this master plan of yours?” He leaned back. “Or do you just like to think of a world where I can’t keep my hands off of you, Pressley?”
In the end, our Fake-Dating Contract consisted ofexactly seven ground rules. Beneath them, both of our signatures beamed brightly.
#1 Fake-Date Thursdays.
#2 Delivery Period: November1st–January1st.
#3 NO SEX.
#4 Exclusiveness is guaranteed. (Single activities to be postponed until after the duration of this agreement.)
#5 Athalia Payton Pressley is obligated to support her fake boyfriend Dylan McCarthy Williams at his soccer games.
#6 Both parties involved can’t, under any circumstance, break character.
#7DON’Tfall in love with Dylan McCarthy Williams (or Athalia Payton Pressley).
Rule #7 was McCarthy’s addition, and after I had added my own name (and then he added parentheses around it), I was okay with it. He’d made sure to underline theDon’tand wrote it in bold, capital letters—like I needed the reminder.
“Pleasure doing business with you.” I held out my hand for him to shake.
“The pleasure’s all mine, trust me.”
Chapter 8
I tried to self-care my way into thinking this was a good idea. When Wren came home that night, my wet hair was in a towel and my face covered in a blue mask. I sprawled across the brown couch in the living room, watchingGilmore Girlswith a glass of wine in hand. Wren’s rattling key gave me a five-second heads-up before she stood in the door. My eyes narrowed, assessing posture, stance, expression.
Her weird tantrum this morning had been the start of what turned out to be an awful day. But in the grand scheme of things, Wren didn’t fuck up nearly as badly as Henry had.
Leftover tension hung in the air immediately. She took me in cautiously, only shifting her gaze to take off her shoes and jacket. Leaving them by the door, Wren cleared her throat, and I braced myself for whatever continuation of our argument we were about to have. It seemed inevitable.
“You look absolutely ridiculous,” she said instead, dissecting every minuscule reaction of mine to calculate hernext words carefully. I assumed she caught the amused twitch of my lips before I could make them stay put.
That earlier tension visibly fell off her. She carelessly let the paper bag slip out of her hand, and a loud, theatrical sigh left her lips.
“Ugh!” she humphed, heading for the couch I was sitting on. “I amsosorry, I don’t know what came over me this morning. I probably just slept horrible, you know? Parties are not my thing, and staying up late isn’t either. And while you were playingsomevariation of beer pong, Henry would not stop chewing my ear off.”
My body reacted to the mention of my brother’s name. There was nothing I could do about it. “Since when does he drink, by the way—?” It took Wren a second to catch it, then she faltered in her wordy apology. I hadn’t heard her talk this much in one sitting since we went to seeHamiltonlast year. It was my first time. Her fourth. Or was it fifth? “What was that?” she asked.
“Nothing.” I wasn’t a terrible liar, but Wren knew me like the palm of her hand. Seeing as she knew how to read them, that said a lot.
She looked at me curiously, leaning in as she blew strands of black and blond hair out of her face. Then she said “Henry,” as if to test the waters. Slowly. Cautiously. And of course, I flinched again. “Aha!” she exclaimed, finger in my face, before she jumped back victoriously. She only realized what being right meant when she quickly settled. “Sorry.”
I accepted her apology by letting my head fall onto hershoulder. If she cared about the blue goo currently seeping from my face onto her hoodie, she didn’t act like it. Instead, her hand cupped my shoulder in a makeshift hug before resting her own head on top of mine. We remained quiet for a while. Our attention was on the screen, and I think we were both grateful for the silence it filled.
“Before you tell me everything—”
The groan I let out was meant to show how little I wanted to talk about it, but the way she squirmed out from underneath me to get up did intensify the sound. Wren knew I’d tell her, whether I wanted to or not. She was right.
“Before you tell me everything,” she repeated, sterner, a hint of humor in her voice, “I got takeout from Prem’s.”
Prem owned the Indian place down the street, which, coincidentally, had the best takeout in the entire state. And even more importantly: the best bhatura in the United States of America. A weakness of mine. A comfort not many things could bring me. Now that Wren mentioned it, I could smell it from here. My eyes probably lit up and my mouth watered as I shot upright, full attention on the brown bag Wren was currently retrieving from where she’d dropped it earlier.
“Apology accepted,” I said as soon as the container saying “#12 no onions” appeared on the coffee table, followed by the bhatura wrapped in foil. My heart jumped at the sight.
“I’d hope so,” she muttered with a laugh, leaving her food on the table to get cutlery from the kitchen. “Also:Got some of that left?” She pointed at her own face, finger circling it.
I snorted. “You called my face mask ridiculous five minutes ago.”
