Page 6 of Lessons in Faking
A few cheers erupted from the crowd inside, not because they necessarily knew who we were (or cared), but simply because, to them, more people equaled more fun. More singing, more dancing, more possible hookups.
“Athalia!” Two arms pulled me into a bear hug, and I only knew who it was when a big hand ruffled my hair in that way I hated.
Henry.
“Didn’t know you’d be here.” My voice was muffled against his chest, and I was already too tipsy from pregaming to care about the fact he’d just ruined an hour of hairstyling in five seconds. Probably too taken aback by the fact that I was in Henry’s arms. That he washuggingme.
Before I could fully understand what was happening—whyit was—Henry let go, then surprised me a second (or third?) time when he embraced Wren just as enthusiastically. It gave me time to consider my twin. His brown hair was styled just enough to seem casual when I knew it took him almost as long as it took me to get ready. He wore a black polo tucked into tailored pants, somehow pulling off that golf-course vibe casually.
While Wren patted his back—waiting with an upturned nose until he was ready to let her out of his hug—I considered another fact. Henry was drunk, and Henry did not usually drink.
Help me, my best friend mouthed.
“All right!” I announced, wrestling Wren out of Henry’s grip. I barely managed a “See you around!” shouted in Henry’s general direction before my best friend dragged me through the crowded living room of the frat house. The last thing I saw was Henry giving a friendly salute.
Wren dusted off her black top in a way that was just so her, it made my heart swell with affection. At thewide, distracted grin on my face, she did a double take. “Athalia—” she warned, taking a tentative step back. “I know that look. Don’t—”
But my arms were slung around her before she could finish the sentence. Her five-foot-two frame came up to my shoulder, on which she slumped her head in resignation. “This is my least favorite thing about you,” she muttered into my hair.
“My great hugs?”
She barked a laugh before correcting my assumption. “That you get so touchy-feely when you’re drunk.” She tsked. “Apparently, you and Henry have that in common.”
“Speaking of drunk...” I wiggled my brows, and Wren sighed.
“Right. The drinks are over there.” She laughed, gently turning me toward the kitchen counter. “I’m gonna find the bathroom, then meet you there.” She turned back toward me only when the crowd had almost swallowed her whole, then pierced me with a look I knew all too well. “Take. It. Easy!” she shouted over the music, her voice taking on that motherly tone as she enunciated every word. What she meant by that wasDon’t be blackout drunk by the time I get back.
Naturally, I honored her words with a shot.
If there was one thing about Wren Inkwood that was almost as certain as death and taxes, it was the fact that she’d be looking for a bathroom within the first ten minutes of arriving at any party.
She didn’t drink alcohol—never had—but while I’d been pregaming to our “getting ready” playlist at home,she couldn’tnotdrink something.It’s the principle of it, Athalia, she’d always say. So she opted for water.
Gallons and gallons of water. I suspected that’s why her skin was porcelain-like. Inevitably, it also sent her looking for the nearest bathroom by the time we got to our destination. Like clockwork. She went to pee; I waited wherever she’d park me that night.
Tonight, it was the makeshift bar on the granite counter of the kitchen.
I shook as the alcohol burned down my throat, wiping the residue off my lips. Turning back toward the counter, I knew before I even touched anything that the drink I was about to mix myself would end up way too strong.
“This has never ended well before.” It took me a second to realize the words were directed at me, but I twirled toward them, startled by the proximity of the body now in front of me.
My eyes wandered up the white dress shirt—the top two buttons open—before my eyes found his piercing blue ones in panic-riddled recognition. A playful smirk hung at the corners of his mouth.
When most people think of the devil, they imagine horns and hooves, red skin, and even redder eyes. WhenIthought of the devil, however, he was all blond hair, blue eyes, and cute curls. Coincidentally, as “Highway to Hell” played in the background and drunk college students blurted it louder than it was playing, he stood right in front of me.
“Let me take care of that.” He grabbed the red cup right out of my hand, fingers brushing mine in a gesture Iknew was deliberate. I found out a little too late that, with Jason Montgomery, everything wasalwaysdeliberate. A little wistfully, he added, “Your mixers were always way too strong.”
I had that same thought around a minute ago.
The realization freaked me out enough to keep my mouth shut and accept my full cup when he turned back around. Maybe the alcohol already in my system had something to do with that? Maybe the unwanted insecurities still riddling my thoughts around him did too.
Taking a sip, I had to admit that my ex-boyfriend was as good at mixing his drinks as he was at cheating on me.
“You used to talk more.”
Great observation, I wanted to say. The possibility that I still talked just as much to the people I actually wanted to talk to hadn’t even crossed his mind. I knew him well enough to know that it wouldn’t either.
Stunned by his audacity—and my audacity to still let myself be stunned by him—I simply nodded, lips pressed together in a thin line. Jason leaned against the bar behind us while I desperately searched for a familiar face in the crowd. Unsuccessfully.
