Page 46 of Lessons in Faking
“Yes, McCarthy. I’m basically blind. I have four eyes.I suddenly look so much smarter,” I sighed in defeat. “Let’s get it over with.” Mockingly, my arms opened wide, bracing for impact.
But instead of hurling insults, mockery, and jokes my way, he positioned his hands on my shoulders to turn me sideways, giving him just enough room to squeeze past.
“You look adorable,” he said, already on his way into the kitchen. “Much less threatening. I could get used to it.” Meanwhile, I was trailing after him, as if it was his apartment, not mine.
“What are you doing here?” I finally asked as he stopped by the island. “Again.”
Triumphantly, he held a brown paper bag up in the air, smile on his lips like he’d just won a trophy. “Thought you might need some fuel,” he said. “What with all the catching up you must be doing.” His eyes flicked through the apartment, finding my laptop on the ground from when I’d happily jumped at the first opportunity for distraction. Which was him. “And all the statistics we’re about to do.”
I grimaced.
“Not to worry.” He laughed when he noticed how off-putting the idea was. “I didn’t come empty-handed. Does Indian takeout for an hour of statistics sound like a fair trade? You did miss tutoring on Wednesday.”
My eyes darted to the paper bag. “Indian?”
That’s when I smelled it—the fried goodness of bhaturabread. McCarthy didn’t know it was my favorite; it hadn’t even been on my fact sheet. Judging by the victorious smile on his lips, it wasn’t just a lucky guess either.
“Is Wren okay?” Panicked, I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d seen her. Technically, yes, she was avoiding me. But hypothetically, what did McCarthy have to do to get this information out of her?
His laugh was loud and unapologetic. For a second, it made me forget what I was so worried about. “Wren is fine.”
“But you got this from her? Wren Inkwood toldyouabout my go-to order? Did you blackmail her? Torture her? What—?”
“She came home when you were sleeping off that fever the other day. I happened to still be around. We talked. No coercion needed and no harm done.”
Wren wouldn’t step within a ten-foot radius of this guy. If she found him sitting in her living room, she’d walk right back out the door. “You’re lying.”
“Am not,” he muttered. “Scout’s honor.”
“You’re not a scout,” I reminded him. “So that means nothing to either of us.”
His head fell back when he laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest before it sent a wave of giddiness through mine. “Fake boyfriend’s honor,” he amended.
He lifted his hand like he was swearing an oath and gave a smile I’d never seen before. Sincere, honest, almost boyish. Just for me. I decided to drop it. For now. Instead, I focused on ignoring the tumult in the pit of my stomach and the urge to find his words kind of cute.
“So how was the game?”A good distraction.Though the fact I’d brought up soccer of my own free will concerned me. I guessed anything was better than noticing how nice his hair looked today, how well his clothes fit him.
In response, McCarthy grunted. That smile vanished from his face, and he moved toward the couch. He sat in front of it rather than on it. I followed suit.
“Could’ve been better,” he said.
While the highs of soccer were high, the lows were all the lower. Dad used to be in a bad mood for days. Losing anything had been frowned upon when I was growing up, and even the topic made me uncomfortable now.
“Oh,” I offered, a little awkwardly. How did one deal with this again?
“Stop,” he laughed, waving me off dismissively. “It’s fine; happens to the best of us. You don’t have to pretend to feel sorry for me.” As an afterthought, he added, “Or that you care at all.”
His shoulder bumped mine, and I felt relieved by how casual it was. Though the smile on his lips didn’t quite reach his eyes, that changed when he said, “Just be there next time?”
“Why?” I asked, then added, “Apart from the contractual obligation and all that.”
McCarthy shrugged, redirecting his attention to fish our orders out of the takeout bag. The rustling of it was loud enough for me to almost miss his muttered words aboutlucky charmsandwinning. But I didn’t.
*
“Don’t lie, you missed this,” McCarthy teased. “A-B tests, statistical significances...”
I groaned, my head falling back against the couch. Sitting cross-legged, my bare knee almost touched his outspread leg. Eager to start eating, we hadn’t moved, and I hadn’t even put on pants.
