Page 54 of Lessons in Faking
I expected him to still be looking at the papers in his hands; instead, I caught him staring at me.
“What?”
McCarthy shook his head in amusement. “Just waiting for you to get back to us.” Placing my quiz on the desk, he took the opportunity to half-heartedly sort through the mess my sprawled body had caused earlier. “What is it you’re thinking about?” Based on the tone in his voice, there was no reason for him to ask. He knew.
“You. And how long it’s taking you to go through a few answers that are most likely correct.” They probably weren’t, but my eyes narrowed anyway. “Makes me think you’re distracted, McCarthy.”
His tongue pressed the inside of his cheek to keep himself from breaking into a full-on, dimpled grin. “I might be a little preoccupied,” he admitted, his gaze sweeping across my body so quickly that I almost missed it.
I asked him the same question he’d asked me. “What is it you’re thinking about?”
And he gave me the same answer I’d given him. “You.”
I half expected him to add anAnd how wrong these answers are, orAnd how you still don’t know what you’re doing here.But he didn’t.
Me.Just me.
Now I was the one smiling. If I had dimples, they’d be on full display.
McCarthy cleared his throat. “This is pretty good,” he said, the practice exam in his hand again. “Still a few kinks to work out, but overall, I expected much, much worse from you.”
“I believe agood girlis in order.”
“Get out of here,” he begged with a laugh, head shaking in a way that only made me smile more. “Please.”
Chapter 25
Three days until Thanksgiving.
Students and professors were getting ready to leave campus for the long weekend. Lectures had become a burden for every party involved.
And I’d come to terms with the fact that I wouldn’t be spending the holiday with Wren this time around. I knew if I asked, she’d take me. No matter the circumstances, she’d be there for me if I needed her. I think.
But Wren was petty, and I was stubborn. So she didn’t offer, and I didn’t ask.
Maybe a bit of space would be good for us, even. A few days when we wouldn’t awkwardly run into each other in the kitchen or tiptoe through the apartment until we reached our rooms to avoid one another.
Space.Friendships didn’t need space, though, did they?
The prospect of a lonely Thanksgiving was scary, though.
Two days until Thanksgiving.
Technically, the anniversary of my parents’ deaths had already passed. The twenty-second was like any other day in November, filled with classes, homework, and finals prep. Seven years ago, though, Thanksgiving had fallen on the twenty-second, so I always associated the holiday with their death. The influx of articles about them at this time of year didn’t help. Neither did the Twitter hashtag commemorating Dad or the condolence letter Mom’s company sent every year.
This time felt worse.
Maybe—probably—because November was usually the month when Henry still felt most like my twin. We’d never speak about them, but he seemed to hover closer in November. He’d reach out, asking if I’d been okay. We were both still hurting, just coping with the pain differently, so it was easy to forget. November made us remember.
It didn’t seem to do that for him this year.
But the fact he’d been more invested in my life since McCarthy was worth it. Right?
One day until Thanksgiving.
I assumed most students had left campus by now. Wren’s open door, lights off as if to emphasize her absence, suggested that she had, at least. I tried not to let that botherme. She could’ve offered and hadn’t. Then again, I could’ve asked, and I didn’t do that either.
I hadn’t touched my phone since yesterday when the latest article sprung at me out of nowhere. Who’d be prepared to see a picture of their dead parents smiling? Standing on the steps of a private jet with Dad looking at Mom while she waved at the camera.
