Page 86 of Lessons in Faking
I wondered how much of that his sober self would have admitted. But he seemed content with his words, a lazy grin on his lips at the memory. “Well...” I shrugged, trying to ignore the guilt gnawing at every fiber of my being. “Wren might’ve rubbed off on me. You should’ve seen how excited she was when she told me about that time you got punched in the face.”
His face lit up at the memory, strangely enough. “Oh!” He swooned, head falling to one side as he squeezed my hand. “You should’ve seen how I defended your honor!”
The haze of the memory or the number of drugs meanthe didn’t pick up on the confusion lacing my features until I asked, “What?”
He startled. “What?”
“Myhonor?”
“Yes, yes,” he rushed out. “That’s what I just said—” He cut himself off, brows drawing together in confusion again. “I’m speaking, right? My lips are moving? Words are coming out of them?”
I snorted. “Yes, McCarthy. Words are coming out of you. They just don’t make any sense. What does my honor have to do with you getting knocked out?”
“I didnotget knocked out,” he asserted, offended by the accusation. “Took it like a champ to get Baker”—I assumed that was the puncher—“a red card after he couldn’t stop running his mouth.”
The memory alone seemed to rile him up enough as he went on. “‘Pressley, where’s your hot sister?’ ‘Pressley, mind giving her my number?’ ‘Pressley, your sisterthis, your sisterthat.’ And Jesus Christ, Ineededhim to shut up. Your brother did too. He was about ready to knock Baker out, by the looks of it. But it was only halftime, and we couldn’t afford Henry off the field. So I stepped up. Pissed Baker off enough to take a swing at me.”
He was full-on grinning now, lost in the memory. Entirely ignoring (or too high to notice) the stunned expression on my face. Speechless.Again.I cleared my throat, tried to swallow the swelling adoration I felt for him. I couldn’t deal with what his words did to me right now. “How are you?” I asked.
He patted the side of his bed, prompting me to sit with a sigh. “Like a two-hundred-pound, six-foot-four Harvard guy tackled me.” His head fell back into the oversized pillow, but his eyes stayed on me. “Go on,” he urged. “Ask me what happened.”
I couldn’t suppress the smile when I did. “What happened?”
“A two-hundred-pound, six-foot-four Harvard guy tackled me.” He seemed pleased. “Which landed me on such a heavy load of drugs, I’m still not sure you’re actually here.”
“And what if I am?”
“Then I’d be very happy about that.”
“If I weren’t?”
“I’d need to talk to my therapist about why I’m hallucinating the girl I’m supposed to hate into my hospital room.”
Supposed to.
My stomach turned, twisted, then released, all in the span of a few seconds. I felt giddy and nervous, and I hadn’t felt like that since I’d bought my first really expensive bag. An actual giggle escaped my lips before I managed to catch it.
“Probably because you’ve had the best sex of your life with her,” I suggested thoughtfully, proud of the laugh that hurled out of him, only to feel guilty when he flinched in pain. “Sorry,” I managed to say. “Seeing how funny I am, this is going to be hard.” He laughed again, flinched again. “See?” I said sheepishly, and Dylan waved me off with the hand that wasn’t still holding mine.
“I heard she had a terrible time,” he said, a brow raised. “Awful, if I remember correctly.”
“She might’ve been... exaggerating.”
“Is that why she’s here?”
“Perhaps.” I shrugged. “Or perhaps she feels bad for thinking you were ghosting her when you were actually in the hospital.” The confession kind of just slipped out. “And trust me,” I hurried on, “she feelssobad, she promises to actually help you the next time you’re cooking. She’ll even do it all by herself if you want her to.”
Dylan managed to suppress a laugh, skipping the part where he hissed in pain. “You’re so romantic,” he said sarcastically. “It’s what I love most about you.”
I probably should’ve been more apprehensive about a loaded statement like that.What I love most about youtended to entail there was any love at all. It usually went,I love you, but what I love most about you is (blank).
And maybe if he’d spelled it out, made it a big deal, maybe then it would’ve freaked me out. Though, honestly, in hindsight, I think we both said, “I love you,” to each other in our own ways that day in the hospital. Maybe that’s why I hadn’t felt nervous. Just happy. Content. Grateful.
I held his hand a little tighter in mine. “Can you say that again when you’re not high as a kite?”
Dylan grinned when he nodded enthusiastically. “Sure I can,” he boasted. “I’ll say it until you don’t want to hear it anymore.”
“And that’s a promise?” I asked, as amused as I was curious.
