Page 39 of Lessons in Faking
> Congratulations! You’ve won a $1,000 gift card of your choice. Click here to claim now.
I was well on my way to blocking the spam number, when a second text followed.
[Unknown number], Wednesday, 8:55 PM
> And take your boyfriend out for a nice dinner with it after his game on Sunday.
I rolled my eyes and snapped that smile off my face.
ME, Wednesday, 8:56 PM
> fuck you
> I’ll be there
ME, Wednesday, 9:22 PM
> for contractual reasons, of course
MCCARTHY, Wednesday, 9:22 PM
> Of course.
Wren was only half annoyed when I’d asked her to join me. Of her own free will, she was cheering in the stands, hands thrown in the air when McCarthy scored the 1–0 against Brown.
My own holler that followed the goal was more surprising.
I watched the HBU boys tackle the striker with a group hug, but I couldn’t hear their cheers and yells over the boos of the crowd that was 80 percent Brown students. It made sense—being a good two-and-a-half-hour drive from campus made it so there were hardly any of our own students there.
It didn’t matter, though. We were winning. Home or not.
By halftime, we were still up. I let myself fall back into the seat, my heart beating too fast for comfort and exhaustion catching up with me as soon as the adrenaline of our performance stopped pumping through my veins.
“Look what I brought!” Wren’s spirits were still unusually high. Winning must’ve had that effect on her.
Her shoulder-length, split-dyed hair was messy when I turned, cheeks red from the coldandthe yelling to overpower the negative Brown energy she’d told me shesensed. In her hand was the Polaroid camera I got for her birthday last year. The black color matched half of her hair, as well as the HBU hoodie she was proudly wearing.
“I want to rememberbeating Brown’s assin their home stadium for the rest of my life,” she said, making sure her voice was loud enough to be picked up by the crowd around us.
I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t suppress the smile on my face. I loved seeing her so carefree and happy. Even if it required someone else’s misery—in this case,Brown’s—I didn’t care. I never had. I never would.
Maybe I should’ve gone to more of these games with her.
A tsunami-sized wave of guilt rolled through me at the thought. It came out of nowhere and was so unexpected I almost took a sharp breath in surprise.
Wren shook the camera in her hand once more, snapping me out of myI’m a horrible friendrealization. Impatiently she requested, “Would you?” I nodded when I took it from her, lining up the shot before Wren poked her tongue out, smiling so wide, her eyes squeezed shut.
“So you’re keeping a record of rooting for McCarthy?” I teased, slipping the camera into my bag and shoving that guilty feeling down with it. I replaced it with the only coping mechanism I knew: sarcasm.
“Don’t even start!” Snatching the photo from my hand,she grimaced. “He’s always been on the team. I’ve always cheered for the team. That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t laugh if he fell on his face.” Which must’ve reminded her: “Remember when he got that fistful from the random goalie one time? In the middle of the game?”
Obviously, I hadn’t been there, so I shook my head.
“God,” she sighed. “What I’d do to be able to relive that moment.” I couldhearthe smile on her face.
“What happened?” I wondered, suddenlyoh so interestedand, again, wondering why I didn’t go to these games more often.
Wren shrugged as she fell into the seat next to mine. “God knows. I wasn’t focused on the specifics of it.” It looked like she was watching the scene play out in front of her mind’s eye right then, and the pleased smile on her face was concerning. But she was happy, and even if it was my fake boyfriend’s misery she was happy about, so be it. I didn’t care about him.
