Page 57 of Lessons in Faking
“Why do you hate me?”
“I don’t.”
“What did you and Wren talk about?”
Another great thing about the game? After getting in the rhythm, answers just started tumbling out of you.
McCarthy’s lips parted, ready to spill. He caught on at the last moment. Grinned. His eyes flicked in my direction, only for a second, head shaking in disbelief.
“That’s a low blow, Pressley. Even for you.” He wagged his finger at me in amusement, then brought it up to his mouth and pretended to lock it and throw away the key.
I grinned. “Worth a try.” I blew a strand of my curtain bangs out of my face, leaning back in the passenger seat. “What did poor Ella do to you?” I asked, resetting the timer on my phone.
“Even at our young age, she was a very demanding woman.”
“I’m a demanding woman.”
McCarthy snickered. “I know.” His eyes slid toward the timer. “Ready?”
I nodded, pressed start, and he fired his first question at me. “Favorite movie?”
“Moana.”
“First celebrity crush?”
“Young Leo.”
“Favorite snack?”
“Sour Patch Kids.”
“Why do you need to get back at your brother?”
“Since our parents died—” By the time I’d cut myself off, it was already too late.
It was like we’d been ignoring the elephant in the room, and it finally stepped on us.
I looked at McCarthy like a deer in headlights. I didn’t even notice the phone timer buzzing in my lap until he blindly reached for it and turned it off.
I scoffed, a humorless ghost of a laugh. This drive had been a good distraction from the mess my real life was in. The life that didn’t include McCarthy, who took me on road trips, made sure I ate, and was about to introduce me to his whole family over Thanksgiving.
The reminder of dead parents, fucked-up sibling dynamics, and crumbling friendships made my mood plummet and my stomach twist with an uncertain dread.
“Is that something you want to talk about?” he asked. “Your parents?”
Until now, I didn’t think it was. Not with him, anyway. My eyes shifted, scanning the signs we passed, the trees alongside the road, as I mulled over his question—his offer.
I wasn’t sure whether I was ready to show him the part of me that wasn’t all snappy comebacks and sarcastic jokes. The one that was still broken—would probably always be, a little bit.
“I know it’s always helped me,” he added thoughtfully, his voice even and calm. “Talking about things, I mean.”
And he was right. At least according to my therapist,he was. Stephanie had always insisted that burying my feelings would only make things worse.
Clearly, Henry hadn’t listened to her.
“We’ve still got a long drive ahead of us,” McCarthy said, glancing at me. “And I’d love to listen. If that’s something you want.”
I let out a breath. McCarthy was a good listener; I knew that much. And hehadoffered.
