Page 70 of Lessons in Faking
> and i don’t want you to be alone today
> are you ok?
> your neighbor let me in. i’m waiting in front of your door if you need me
> not that you need me for anything but
> yeah
HENRY, Thursday, 4:01 PM
> i’m getting worried.
Followed by a string of missed calls. Followed by,
HENRY, Thursday, 7:30 PM
> seriously just let me know you want space and I’ll back off
> but you’re not saying anything and i’m freaking out a little here
> athalia?
HENRY, Thursday, 11:11 PM
> i’m thankful for you, little sister
That final message felt like a punch to the gut. My eyes welled with tears, fueled by guilt, more guilt, and then some.
Feeling guilty hadn’t been on my fight-with-Henry bingo card. But how could I not?
I’d just... left him. My twin brother, who’d gone through the same kind of traumatic loss and felt as awful as I did every year but just hid it better. And he wasn’t just grieving—albeit in thatif I don’t acknowledge something it doesn’t existkind of way of his—he’d also been worried sick.
Aboutme.
The worst thing? That somehow, this was what I’d wanted from this whole McCarthy nonsense, right? His attention—seeing that he cared. The chat bubbles on myphone indicated that I’d gotten exactly that, and I still didn’t feel any better. Worse, probably.
Mindlessly, I scrolled through the dozens of unanswered texts from distant relatives, old acquaintances, and friends. My finger stopped at Wren’s contact picture, hovering and tempted to click it. I had already messed with my mood anyway, hadn’t I? Fuck it.
To my surprise—and I felt kind of douchey for expecting her to care as much as Henry had—our last normal messages smiled at me brightly. There were only two new texts underneath them.
WREN, Thursday, 10:20 AM
> if he fucks this up i’ll murder him, but can’t help thinking of u today and hope he doesn’t fuck it up (although I’d love to murder him)
> got some things to explain, talk when we’re home
She knew. The realization punched me in the gut.
We talked. No coercion needed. No harm done.
Was this what they had talked about that day? Asking him whether he’d take care of me when she couldn’t—wouldn’t?
I didn’t think I’d ever felt as loved and humiliated at the same time. Didn’t think I had ever hated and appreciated a gesture more. I didn’t even know whether to be angry or grateful, to scream or laugh or cry.
Fortunately, that decision was made for me when Dylan jogged out of the gas station with a plastic bag in hand. As quickly as I could, I slipped my phone back into the bag and leaned into my seat, trying to give a genuine-looking smile. I blinked the wetness out of my eyes, sniffed to get it out of my system.Distraction, distraction, distraction, I told myself. By now, I knew McCarthy was a good one.
The boy slipped into the seat beside me, slamming the door shut. “It’s freezing out there,” he complained with a shiver, throwing the bag into my lap and rubbing his hands together as if he couldn’t just turn the car—and therefore the heating—on.
