Page 59 of Lessons in Faking
“What?” If only for a second, his flustered state was obvious.
In my hazy mind, I found him around every corner again. I was distracted—really, truly distracted for the first time around Thanksgiving. It felt better to think about McCarthy than about my dead parents. So I leaned into it. “I really, really want you,” I repeated, sounding more casual now. I enjoyed the way he gulped, eyes sliding back to the road, then flicking across my frame again a second later.
“Fuck,” he exhaled, shaking his head before it fell back against the headrest. “You can’t say shit like that when I’m about to pull into my family’s driveway, Athalia.”
As if on cue, he did. It was hard to believe we’d been on the road for over six hours when he signaled left, then rolled up to a gate with a family crest at its center. It opened automatically before we’d even come to a halt, allowing McCarthy to drive up the gentle incline.
He stopped in front of four garage doors embedded in a small hill on which the mansion stood, accessible via a prom-worthy staircase. Something I envied and the reason I’d always preferred our summer house in the Hamptons to the New York penthouse we’d grown up in.
The other car standing in front of the closed garage door was a white BMW, specks of dirt sprinkled acrossits sides and bumper. I wondered which one of his sisters it belonged to. Were they all here? What about his father? McCarthy hadn’t really mentioned him. He hadn’t mentioned much about this weekend at all, actually. And I should’ve probably used the last five minutes of this drive to find out what I was getting into, instead of telling McCarthy how much I wanted to have sex with him.Jesus.
The second he turned off the engine and unbuckled his seat belt, a young girl shot down the stone staircase and toward the Jeep.Delilah.Any plan to brief me on his family—black-listed topics, names I shouldn’t mention, things I should expect—flew out the window. As soon as the man beside me noticed his little sister, his door swung open, and the girl was in his arms within five seconds.
I slid into my coat when the late November air hit me, then closed the door hesitantly. The sound awarded me their attention, and their smiles were so hauntingly similar that there was no doubt about their shared genes.
“Hey,” I said, waving at the girl a little awkwardly, nerves suddenly flooding my system. I’d never banked so much on the opinion of a twelve-year-old. God, I hoped she liked me, though. I hoped they all would.
“Hello.” She smiled brightly, approaching me with big, confident strides. Her skin was a little darker than her brother’s, her hair curlier and bouncing with each step she took toward me. Without hesitation, she extended her hand for me to shake and offered a smile so bright that every ounce of doubt and worry about this long weekend vanished. “I’m Delilah. So glad to finally meet you.”
What McCarthy lacked in politeness and manners, this girl seemed to bring to the table. She gave me a little nod as I shook her hand, and before anyone else had the chance to speak, another unfamiliar voice boomed over the driveway.
“Dylan McCarthy Williams!” An older blond woman, Natalie McCarthy, appeared at the top of the stairs, pointing an accusatory finger at her son. She held a pair of oven mitts in one hand and shook her head at the two empty paper bags he was carrying. “You better not have stopped for fast food when I’ve saved you each a plate of lasagna.”
He jogged up the stairs and threw his arms around the woman at least seven inches shorter than him. “How could you accuse me of something so cruel, Ma?” He laughed into the embrace, sneakily handing the bags off to another girl, who’d appeared behind them. Her dark hair was sleek, and some freckles covered the tan skin across her nose. Comfortable-looking bunny slippers decorated her feet, and a fluffy robe hung over her tank top and shorts.
“For me?” she asked, a hint of excitement in her voice at the prospect.
McCarthy nodded, still in his mother’s arms and seemingly not planning to move. “Just for you, Dakota. ’Cause you’re my favorite.” Behind him, Delilah gasped in outrage, while Dakota’s smile widened, hastily opening one of theemptybags. The smell of our food probably still lingered inside.
Dakota threw the bag at his head. While his sister began complaining, with various insults spilling from her lipsand accusatory finger-pointing, his mother’s attention slid to me. I tried to smile as casually as I could. She shook her head in amused disbelief, offering a warmhearted eye roll at her son’s behavior, only to whip him across the back of his head with the oven mitts a second later. My smile turned genuine. He deserved it. Probably.
“So you beg me to let you bring a girl to Thanksgiving, then skip the introductions?” she asked. I ignored the wordbeggedpointedly. I didn’t even let myself think of it.
“Not a girl, Mom,” Dakota snickered, wild amusement in her tone. “The girl.”
Natalie shook her head again. “I cannot believe I raised you.” Her tone playful in its accusation.
McCarthy’s attention slipped away from his sister—not without throwing a silencing glare her way—but amusement and joy still glimmered in his eyes when they landed on me.
“Nothing’s being skipped,” he said quickly. “And no one was begging. If I remember correctly,youjumped at the opportunity—”
“Because you’ve been talking about her for—!”
“Dakota!” His voice was harsher when he shushed his sister. She leaned against the doorframe, watching the situation with obvious amusement. His outburst only made her shrug, and she gave me a wink before she headed back inside.
Clearing his throat, McCarthy overcame the few steps between us. “Sorry about them,” he muttered into my hair, the sound traveling into the pit of my stomach where itawoke... something. His hand found the small of my back, then gently nudged me inside the house.
“I heard that, young man!” his mom noted from behind us in a singsong voice, and I couldn’t help the muted snort that escaped me. My head shook, craning upward to find him already looking at me.
The tip of his nose was deep red from the cold, cheeks a little lighter. He was smiling—at me, with me, all of the above? I didn’t know. He just smiled, content and carefree and happy, before he properly introduced me to his mother.
*
“You should’ve gotten rid of that Jeep a long time ago, Dylan.” Mr.Williams was the spitting image of his son; just that his hair was gray, and his skin was a bit wrinkled and darker. They resembled each other right down to the unamused, lazy tone in their voices.
“Thanks for the input.” McCarthy’s attention shifted from the lasagna on his plate, though he didn’t turn to look at his father, who was sitting on the couch behind him with a newspaper in hand that he wasn’t looking up from either. The similarities in their manners were almost comical. McCarthy gave me a wide, faked smile. “I’ll consider it.”
His father sighed, head shaking. “You won’t,” he stated matter-of-factly, as if they’d had this conversation a thousand times before. “At least park it in the garage, so we don’t have to look at the god-awful thing whenever we leave the house.”
