Page 8 of Lessons in Faking
“Of course not.” Still that same undertone in his voice.
“I had it under control.”
“Of course you did.”
I expected a mocking grin, could practically see it before I even looked at him. But when I did, his eyes were on the night sky above, not even glancing in my direction, and not a smirk in sight. There were too many lights surrounding us to see anything significant up there, and the few stars you would usually see were covered by clouds. Still, his attention didn’t waver.
“I’m being serious,” I pressed once more. The silence probably wasn’t longer than a few seconds, but to me, intoxicated and annoyed, it felt like minutes passed by before I went on. “For all you know, you could’ve been cockblocking me.” When the accusation finally made him look at me, I gasped. “Oh my God.” The words were slurred more than usual, spoken as I pointed an accusatory finger at him. “Thatiswhat you were trying to do, isn’t it?”
He shook his head, and I think for the first time, I saw what could’ve been classified as a genuine smile on his lips. “Got me.” His hands raised playfully before he gave me a look. “I think I’d definitely end up aiding and abetting something if I saw any girl in Montgomery’s vicinity without heroically rescuing her.” His nose crinkled at his own joke.
“We used to date.” I didn’t know why I felt the need to clarify that. In the five seconds of silence that followed, I felt stupid for doing so.
“I know.”
I jerked back to look at him, surprised above all else. McCarthy keeping up with my dating history was... unexpected.
The only light came in waves and flickers from inside,and yet it was fairly easy to make out his jawline, the tip of his nose and chin. I imagined his cheeks tinted a light pink from the chilly air around us. Every now and then, he would blow one of those floppy brown hairs out of his face after the wind had knocked them into it.
And as my head began to clear just slightly, I wondered how I had ended up here: drunk and alone with Dylan McCarthy Williams—who hadn’t said anything in a few minutes—his eyes still set skyward, looking somewhat... content.
I cut those thoughts short, attention lazily drawn to the opening door as someone stepped through. Scanning the backyard, they hesitated, then walked toward us, somewhat determined.
“Athalia?” My name rang out in the dark, and I only recognized her—and her voice—when she stood right in front of me. I stumbled when I jumped up. I blamed the alcohol for both.
“What are you doing?” Wren didn’t bother lowering her voice. “Here. With him,” she specified, eyes flicking toward him.
I snickered. “I was just asking myself the same thing.”
McCarthy decided to perk up from behind me at that. “Hello to you too, Inkwood,” he said in that sarcastic tone of his I was getting to know quite well. He took a sip of his beer and stood—all while Wren glared at him.
Instead of answering, she looked back at me, and I only vaguely registered McCarthy heading back in the direction of the house.
“What did I say about taking it easy?” she muttered, though her features relaxed now that he was gone.
“Sorry, Mom!” I let my head fall onto her shoulder with a laugh, and it’s like that one gesture brought back the events she’d missed. Dragging my best friend back inside, I filled her in on my encounter with the blue-eyed devil.
I was so busy with that, I didn’t notice he was talking to my brother at the other end of the room.
Chapter 5
I couldn’t quite remember how I got home. But when I woke up in my comfortable bed the next morning, my body ached and my head thudded.
For five terribly short minutes, I contemplated my plans for the day. With the study session written in my calendar in bold, capital letters (underlined twice with a red pen), I tried not to hear an “I told you so” in Wren’s voice. Obviously, she had said this. And I barely remembered my own excuse when she’d explained, in great detail, how I was going to regret going out just ten hours ago.
There were too many things I needed to get done to simply skip. Again. Which is what I’d done last week. And the week before that. It’s how I had ended up here, with reading due Monday, an essay worth 20percent of my international management grade, and Statistics II homework. The latter obviously the worst of them all.
I could type a few thousand words. I could read a few pages. I couldn’t, however, wrap my head aroundcorrelation coefficients and whatever else McCarthy had in store for me. Technically, figuring all that out washisjob, but I didn’t like his smug expressions and amused hums when I didn’t know what he was talking about.
If I showed Shaw I could do this by myself, got an acceptable grade on the next test, perhaps I wouldn’t need McCarthy at all. I’d be rid of those ridiculous looks and condescending sounds before I’d gotten used to them, and that was motivation enough to finally swing myself out of bed.
Just that instead of swinging, I slowly, deliberately, carefully slid from underneath my covers—ignoring my spinning surroundings—and groaned as I clutched my throbbing head. I thought I might throw up, but I managed to drag myself to the kitchen instead.
The sun peeked through the windows—a rarity in HBU fall, which mostly blessed us with gray, rainy days. It was a perfect day for a stroll to the library, studying at one of the tables by its large windows. Unfortunately, it was an awful day for a hangover. Too bright.
“Fuck.” I flinched, hands falling from my face, previously shielding my eyes from the brightness. “Sorry.” I tried to give Wren my best hungover smile after almost bulldozing into her by the coffee machine. Though all I got back was a single nod before she turned to grab the steaming cup under the machine. My brow furrowed.
“When did we get home last night?”
