Page 43 of Lessons in Faking
The water stopped for a second, the first bowl clinking when she maneuvered it into the dishwasher. “Heather talks,” she repeated, as if it was obvious.
And Henry talked to Heather. So for Heather to be talking to Wren, it meant—
“Don’t be so smug about it,” she muttered. Iwaslooking smug, because it meant despite my doubts, the plan was working. Another bowl made its way into the dishwasher, louder than the last.
“The point of this is for them to think we’re—” For some reason, it felt wrong to say the word.
“—Fucking?” she offered. “Screwing? Fooling around? There aresomany words for what you two are supposed to be doing.” The third bowl made it into the dishwasher, clinking, rattling, cutting her off. “You’ve only ever been a prude about these things with Jas—” She seemed to change her mind, grimacing. “He who shall not be named.”
I snorted at the unexpected choice of words. Then I fully understood the meaning behind them and immediately fell quiet. Wren, of course, knew exactly what was happening in my mind, so I pushed it to the furthest corner of it. “No. I don’t like McCarthy. We haven’tfucked.”My nose crinkled with the word, but Wren’s observation rang through my mind, and I quickly went on. “Why do you care so much?”
The last bowl was dropped into the dishwasher and when she looked up at me, there was a whirlwind of emotions on her face. I flinched at the sight.
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I care about you, Athalia. Have you ever thought of that?” She shook her head. “I don’t want to see you hurt. Again. I don’t want to pick up those pieces. Again. I just don’t want to see you like that.”
“You’re overreacting,” I spat, and I didn’t even feel sorry. “For any of that to happen, I’d have to care about him in the first place.”Which wasn’t what was happening.
“You do, don’t you?”
“No.”
Wren wasn’t the type to get all up in your face when she was angry. Instead, her hand curled around the edge of the kitchen counter so hard her knuckles turned white. Her nostrils flared.
“I know you. I know when you care, I know when you don’t. I know when you lie, and I know when you tell the truth. I know—”
I cut her off. “You don’t know everything, Wren.”Because you didn’t tell her everything, echoed in my mind. “And it seems you hardly know me at all, if you think that’s what’s happening.” I didn’t know if I was angry with her or myself. Either way, my voice became louder, more fierce with every word.
I honestly wasn’t sure why I hadn’t told her about thekiss. At least the first one would’ve been safe territory, part of a plan that seemed to be working perfectly. A little too well, if my best friend was starting to doubt how fake this arrangement between McCarthy and me was.
But if I wasn’t talking about it, I could pretend it hadn’t happened. I could probably pretend it hadn’t beenthatgood of a kiss too.
Wren sighed. Something sad, almost pitying played across her face. “You have awful taste in men, Athalia Payton Pressley.” I blinked at her. “I’m your friend. You talk to me about every peck at every party, but you obviously chose not to disclose this one, for some—well, the obvious reason. That’s all I’m saying: I thought I was your friend.” She headed for her room.
If there was one thing worse than a fight, it was running away from it. I’d always been the type to face conflict head-on. Jason, my ex, had been the opposite. I think that might’ve been the hardest part of our relationship.Beforethe cheating happened.
Someone walking away made me panic, think that if we didn’t solve it now, I’d feel this shitty for the rest of my life. I always worried we might not get the opportunity to fix it later.
So the next words I spoke were unhinged, uncalculated, raw, panicked. Anything to continue this... fight? Right here, right now.
“I thought we were friends,” I sneered. “But clearly, you’re more interested in acting like a jealous girlfriend.”
Wren stopped only for a second, before I heard her door thud closed and the lock click into place.
Chapter 21
The end of November was sneaking up on me. With everything going on, I almost didn’t notice.
But it became increasingly harder to force myself out of bed every morning. Not just because the anniversary of my parents’ deaths was fast approaching, but because Wren wasn’t there to take my mind off it this time around. She’d barely said a word to me since our argument. When I entered a room, she left it.
Still,shewas the one overreacting. She’d been the one to blow a harmless kiss way out of proportion because she—what? Hated McCarthy? I couldn’t find it in me to initiate a conversation when she was acting so petty.
When I woke up with a fever, though, I would’ve liked to ask her for a cold cloth.
Reading 103° F on the thermometer, I sighed my first happy sigh in a while. An excuse not to worry about finals, statistics, my fight with Wren... felt good. I threw myselfback under the covers and slept on and off for a solid seven hours.
My body ached, I was freezing and sweating, all at the same time, and I could hardly muster enough energy to think about getting up, let alone actually doing it. But I should get some water, at least. Perhaps something to get the fever down? Painkillers, that wet, cold cloth I’d been thinking about?
I pointedly ignored the voice telling me Wren would probably know what to do. And that just a few days ago, she would’ve gotten me anything I needed. I heaved myself out of bed, wobbled when I stood, swayed when I steered for the closed door, and felt exhausted by the time I reached it. I threw my hair into a high bun, wiped my forehead as if I was about to run a marathon, and opened the door.
