Page 62 of Lessons in Faking
“You don’t know what you do to me, do you?” he said, beginning to place kiss after kiss on my bare skin, working his way up my neck. “I’m trying to be a good person here, and you’re making it so fucking difficult.” His lips connected with mine again—hungry, ready. And I wished the sensation would’ve lasted longer than a few seconds. “But not tonight. I’m not sleeping with you when you’re grieving. Vulnerable.” And with that, he lifted himself up, effortlessly rolling off his king-sized bed. “Good night, Princess.”
I felt my perfectly distracted state slipping further away with each step he took. By the time he reached the door,reality nearly had me in its clutches again. I wanted to scream for him to come back. Instead, I sat there in silence, watching him consider me carefully for another second before turning to leave.
My breath hitched, not quite sure whether his objectively sweet rejection stung more than the fact I was supposed to be grieving in the first place. Or maybe that it was only his considerateness that had reminded me.
“Dylan?” My whisper was so quiet, I wasn’t sure if he’d heard me.
My eyes stung, my throat closed up, and I couldn’t keep that sharp intake of breath to myself either. No air made it past my lips regardless. That’s how shallow my breathing had become.
Dying, I thought.I’m dying.
Another sharp intake of breath, still shallow and superficial, failing to deliver enough air to my lungs. And somehow, he was right there. Back at my side.
“Athalia,” I thought he said. The thrumming of my heartbeat and the sound of my strangled breathing were louder than his voice.
“I’m—” I began, though I could hardly say the word without another sob, another short breath cutting me off. “I’m having—”a panic attack.I’m having a panic attack, I wanted to say.I’m having a panic attack, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. You shouldn’t be here for this. I’ll be fine.I couldn’t even open my mouth. Just sob after sob after sob, blurry vision, and lack of air.
“I know. Panic attack—I know.” His words reeled meback to the present moment. I wasn’t sure when his hands had found their way to my shoulders, but compassion was etched into his features. “Your brother used to get them all the time,” he murmured, gently moving his fingers against me. I think he kept talking so I’d have something to focus on. “Before tryouts. Before our first games. It’s probably why he can’t stand me—hey, focus on my voice, Athalia. You can hear me. You can see me. Right?”
I nodded, the gesture followed by another sob that was cut off by yet another strangled attempt for air. I couldn’t really focus on what he’d said—that Henry apparently struggled with the same thing and that McCarthy must’ve been there to help him through panic attacks as well. That Henry hated him because McCarthy had seen him vulnerable. It wasn’t about a stolen jersey number or girlfriend or spot as team captain.
“I—”
But he shook his head. “No need to explain,” McCarthy said quickly. “Deep breath,” he instructed. “Just one.” He did it first, exhaling loudly and slowly in a way I wish I could. But I tried my best—a wavering, shaky attempt he seemed to appreciate nonetheless. “Another one.” He nodded, did it again. “Focus on me... although I know you hate doing that.”
The familiarity of his teasing made something in me loosen. I tried to take another breath—less shaky. And another one—less strangled. Until the floodgates opened and air filled my lungs.
“Better?” he asked, and when I nodded faintly, hewrapped himself around me like my favorite blanket. Like he’d never let go.
My chest still rose and fell unevenly, my breathing was still rapid, and my cheeks were still wet. But my face was buried in his neck, my arms slung around his torso, and somehow, I felt okay. Not good, but better.
“I’m sorry,” I finally managed, lifting my head and loosening my grip to look at him. He pulled me back, held me tighter. He did not allow even a sliver of distance between us.
“Don’t say that.” The way he pleaded took me by surprise. “Please don’t say that.”
With my rambledI’m sorry you had to see thatmonologue out of the question, I wasn’t quite sure what to say. He gently wiped a fresh tear from my cheek, as if it would make a difference.
“I forgot,” I said, as if the realization had just occurred again. “I forgot they died.I forgot—and when you left, I remembered, and it—God.” I lowered my head as I shook it. “How could I forget my parents like that? Now, of all times?”When Thanksgiving was just around the corner.
McCarthy considered me for a second before his hand found mine to squeeze. “You’re allowed to not be miserable, Athalia. Even today. That doesn’t mean you’ve forgotten about them. That doesn’t mean you ever will.”
My breath shuddered in my chest.
“But please allow yourself to feel joy. You deserve that. And they wouldn’t fault you for it.”
Chapter 28
McCarthy honored his words from the night before. After I’d calmed down and he’d asked—a million times—if I was okay, he’d wished me a good night and left me to a sleep so peaceful, it was past eleven when I woke the next day. I was tempted to stay in bed, forget that yesterday’s breakdown happened in front of him, and try to sleep through this cursed day.
But only for a second.
Maybe I didn’t want to be rude after how kind and welcoming McCarthy’s family had been yesterday. Maybe I didn’t want to come across as a spoiled brat taking it all for granted. Waking up this late probably made me seem like one regardless. Either way, my decision had absolutely nothing to do with Dylan McCarthy Williams.
No. Nothing at all.
Instead of donning the usual baggy-T-shirt-and-sweatpants combination I considered my Thanksgiving attire, I actually put in effort. A white collar peeked outfrom beneath my beige sweater. My brown plaid skirt seemed much shorter than I remembered, now that I’d be wearing it in front of McCarthy’s family.
I should’ve gotten them something—anything—to show my gratitude. And why do I care so much about what they think of me?
