Page 69 of Lessons in Faking
The self-satisfaction was prominent in his smile and the amount of confidence in his one-word answer. “Yes.”
*
“I’m just going to get some gas.” Turning right to pull into the station, Dylan took the opportunity to let his gaze wander my way. An hour of statistics later, I could use the break. “Take that time to think of the correct answer.”
“Fuck you—”
But my insult was cut off by his door closing. I groaned loudly, all alone in his car. After the hell I’d just been through, it was a well-earned release. Unfortunately, halfway through the unnecessarily long, frustration-filled sound, the passenger door swung open, and I was so startled that my groan turned into a horrified squeal. A horror-movie-worthy scream.
I wished I had his mother’s oven mitts to whack across his head. My hand still on my heart, I could feel it nearly bursting. “Dylan!”
At some point during the weekend, his first name had become common enough to slip out. He had become familiar enough to laugh or cry with. He was more than just a tutor, reluctant ally, or fake boyfriend.
His grin was wide, and sweet, and irresistible. All dimples, zero shame.
Forearm resting against the top of his car, he leaned down to eye level, then pointed a finger at me. “And donotgoogle the answer.” My door shut again.
This time, I watched his every move until he disappeared into the gas station to pay. As soon as his silhouette disappeared behind the sliding glass, I made use of his little piece of friendly advice. I hadn’t even considered googling anything. Honestly, I’d forgotten I owned a phone over the last few days. His reminder was much appreciated.
Until my missed messages began flooding in.
Thedingscut themselves off—that’s how many were coming in. And although I turned the sound off as soon as I could, the vibrations were enough of an indicator of how fucked I’d be going through them all.
Maybe I’d just get a new number instead.
With my stomach churning, phone still vibrating, and messages continuing to pop up in the notifications bar, I went to do what Dylan had told me not to. Unfortunately, I didn’t get quite that far.
HENRY, Wednesday, 9:22 PM
> are u home?
> could you just open the door please?
> your lights are off.
> could you just open the door?
> i’m staying over the holidays. if you need anything lmk
> please?
> Athalia?
They all came in one after the other. I didn’t know what compelled me to click on the banner notification, but a second later I was staring at a string of gray text messages, missed call notifications, and my brother’s name on top of the chat.
HENRY, Thursday, 9:09 AM
> are you ok?
> do you need me to come over?
> i will
HENRY, Thursday, 9:45 AM
> i know i fucked up but can you just open the door?
> i heard you and wren had a falling out
