Lessons in Faking (Hall Beck University #1)

Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

I heard my best friend before I saw her.

The rattling of her crowded keychain when she opened the door to our shared loft on the edge of campus. The thudding of her rushed steps, only briefly interrupted as she kicked off her shoes by the door. And finally, “You can’t be serious.” Her tone clipped and annoyed, she rounded the corner into the open kitchen.

“Unfortunately.” My gaze trailed from my laptop toward her as she came into view. “I’m dead serious.”

Wren frowned, and slowly but surely let go of the grocery-filled tote bag over her shoulder. It slid to the ground as she, undoubtedly, thought of the string of text messages she’d received as soon as I had left McCarthy’s office.

“No,” she insisted.

“Yes.”

“McCarthy?”

I nodded again.

Finally, she let go of the deep breath she must’ve been holding for a while, blowing strands of short, split-dyed hair out of her face in the process. The black and white of either side of her hair parted in the middle and barely reached her shoulders; the color was a DIY project, from way before we’d known each other. Now, unpacking the bag she’d maneuvered onto the kitchen island, it was moving in sync with the motion. With a sigh, I jumped off the stool to help her.

“You should’ve seen his face,” I continued mid-motion.

“I’d rather not.”

“It was just so —” I struggled to find words that would describe what had been an equal mix of arrogance, confidence, and smugness on his face. I gave up with a frustrated groan. “As if his ego isn’t big enough as it is.” I opened the fridge a little too forcefully. “Now I’m stroking it every time I accidentally learn something from him—which is supposed to be the point of the whole thing, right?” I closed the fridge with a thud. “Learning something, I mean. And thanks to him, it’s the only thing I don’t want to do now.”

Wren gave me her best attempt at a sympathetic smile, which meant her nose twitched and she grimaced more than smiled. But I got the message, took my first deep breath since I’d broken into a fit of rambling a few minutes ago, and slumped back onto the stool.

“I doubt he’d be able to teach you anything to begin with,” Wren muttered, head cocked. Another twitch of her nose, then a sigh—a sound filled with both pity and determination. She turned toward me again. “I’m sure I could pick up Statistics in a heartbeat,” she said. “I’ll be your tutor. Fuck McCarthy.”

A low, almost defeated laugh rattled through me.

“I’m serious,” she added, sounding convinced.

For a second, I let myself imagine it. Wren in that office chair opposite me. Wren asking me questions I didn’t know the answers to. And asking me again and again, until I eventually did. No McCarthy in sight. It was beautiful, almost utopian.

“I know.” I dragged the last word out, sounding almost whiny. “Which is why the offer is so terribly inviting.” A pout formed on my lips, turning into a half-hearted smile at the prompting look on Wren’s face. Okay, so? it was asking. She crossed her arms, revealing the stick and poke tattoo of a knife along the side of her hand—the result of our procrastination, during summer exams last year.

I shook my head in amusement. “I cannot possibly in good conscience steal that much of your time. Again.”

Wren Inkwood was the kind of friend who accompanied you to every party, every get-together, despite the fact she didn’t like to drink and she did not like people. She was the kind to beat up your boyfriend when she’d found him cheating on you—before she even told you he had. The kind to take you home for Thanksgiving, despite only knowing you for ten weeks.

And because she was clearly the ‘above-and-beyond’ kind of friend, and I was the ‘average-at-best’ kind, I wanted totake lessandgive more. I wanted to be there for her, instead of the other way around. Which is why I was persistent in my stance.

“You can’t be serious, Athalia.”

“I am.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not.”

The knock on our front door felt like my saving grace—a way to get out of an argument before it had really even started.

I jumped off the bar stool with a faked apologetic look on my face, then basically broke into a sprint to the door. Though, once I was greeted by the less-than-pleased expression on my twin’s face, I immediately missed the childish back and forth with Wren as she disappeared into her room.

I’d like to see him more often, yes. But never when he was in a bad mood.

“Henry.” My brows rose as he slipped into my apartment without another word. “Why don’t you come in?” I muttered, waving him in with an unnecessary swat. He’d taken a right turn and reached the open kitchen by then, rummaging through cupboards and shelves unbothered. I could hear it from here. With a roll of my eyes, I slammed the door and followed.“You know I love your annual visits, but a bit of a heads-up would be… great.”

Henry was still in his jersey, crimson shorts on full display, a little eight stitched onto them, and a black hoodie thrown over the matching shirt. He was probably sweaty and gross and still, he looked as put together as ever. Light brown hair parted in the middle the way it always was.

“They’re not annual ,” he acknowledged after a solid fifteen seconds, finally resting once he got his hands on a half-brown banana from the otherwise empty fruit basket. Taking it forced him to first place the stack of papers in his hand onto the island, drawing my attention to them.

I stiffened. “Where did you get those?”

The question was unnecessary.

Henry’s green eyes followed my gaze pretend-casually. “Oh, these?” He shrugged, using the banana as an extension of his finger to half-heartedly point at my statistics notes.

He took a bite, then with a full mouth went on to say, “Funny story, actually.” The expression on his face told me it wasn’t—or at the very least he didn’t think so. “McCarthy gave them to me after practice.” Disdain sprawled across his face at the mention of him. “Told me my little sister must have left them at his office; if I could be so kind to get them back to her, and if I was already stopping by anyway—”

“Not that you were going to,” I reminded him quickly. “Stop by, that is.” Not if it hadn’t been for my notes in his hand, and the fact they’d previously been in McCarthy’s.

Henry ignored the dig pointedly. I wasn’t surprised. “He wants me to let you know that, apparently—” My brother was nothing if not dramatic, and he paused like he needed the moment to collect himself.

My eyes closed, head falling back as I stemmed my hands on top of the counter behind me. I braced myself for impact—for whatever message McCarthy had left my brother.

“Apparently,” Henry repeated, waiting until I looked back at him. “He really enjoyed himself today—is looking forward to next time , even.” And as if it couldn’t get any worse: “ But remind her how thin the walls are , he said. I won’t go as easy on her again .” I wouldn’t be surprised if the last words were an exact quote. That they were half the reason Henry was here to begin with.

We stared at each other in disbelief––of very different kinds.

Mine was: I cannot believe McCarthy would feed my brother this bullshit.

His was: I cannot believe my sister is hooking up with my arch-nemesis (like I said, dramatic).

And when I didn’t say anything in my defense—because I was still too stunned to say anything at all—the accusation shot out of him. “You’re sleeping with McCarthy!”

His unfiltered words snapped me out of it. “Good God,” I gasped, grimacing. “I’mnotsleeping with him.”

“Then explainthese!” He waved my notes in the air, desperately. “Please.” And he sounded the part, too.

“Tutoring!” I sputtered. “He’s my tutor.” I took a deep breath. “Statistics.”

Like the word was all the explanation he needed. I could see the realization seep into every single one of his features. The relief of the explanation was immediate. The way his shoulders sagged, the deep breath he took. Henry closed his eyes in what seemed to be a silent prayer to a God he didn’t believe in.

“Tutoring,” he affirmed to himself in a half-whisper, then took another bite of the banana, as if the fit he’d just thrown never happened. Swallowing, he nodded in another self-assuring gesture. “He’s your tutor.”

“Yes.”

His voice was calm, his gaze gliding through the room almost distractedly, when he said, “So get another one.”

I snorted, and wondered whether he really believed that thought hadn’t yet crossed my mind. “I can’t simply get another one,” I huffed, sitting back on the bar stool.

“Why not?”

“Because,” I groaned. Henry’s brows rose, waiting for the end of that sentence. “Because Shaw said this is my only shot at passing his class.” I pinned him with a look when he still seemed unbothered—like it was a mere inconvenience I hadn’t put enough effort into fixing. “McCarthy as my tutor. Once a week.”

Henry shook his head as if he’d been there, during mine and the professor’s conversation, and as if that wasn’t what he had said at all.“I’ll be your tutor instead.”

And hello, offer number two.

“Are you Shaw’s TA?”

“No,” he said. Before I could retort anything, he went on. “But I’m better at statistics than McCarthy.”

“You think you’re better than him at everything,” I pointed out with a sigh, giving up on this conversation as my head fell into my arms on the island.

“Because I am.”

“Sure.”

“Athalia—”

“ What? ” I didn’t mean to shout the word at him. His demeanor had been entirely too calm for that, and yet my head jerked in his direction forcefully.

A short silence hung between us before Henry gave me an apologetic smile, rounding the kitchen island. Propping himself against it by my side, his hand ruffled my hair in that way he knew I hated, but I knew he loved. Even if it felt like one every time, it wasn’t a malicious gesture. Actually, it was probably the way Henry said You know I love you, right? the way siblings usually did. Only he never said the words—I couldn’t remember the last time he had.

“I’ll talk to Shaw,” he suggested, voice low. As if he knew even the smallest thing could set me off now. Like I was a bomb only waiting for a reason to explode. Maybe I was?

“That’s probably the worst idea you’ve ever had, Henry,” I said calmly, mostly to compensate for my outburst seconds ago. “Shaw hates your guts almost as much as mine.”

“So what?” he asked. “He should know better than to put you and McCarthy in the same room. I’ll talk to him.”

I didn’t mention that Shaw probably had other things to worry about than a stupid rivalry between his top students.

“There’s no point.” Shaw wasn’t going to budge, McCarthy wasn’t going to quit. That was all that mattered.

Henry rose back to his impressive six foot one, and circled the kitchen island again to throw the banana peel into the trash under the sink. “I’ll talk to him,” was all he said.

“No you won’t,” I retorted, suddenly fierce in my stance.

“ Athalia ,” he groaned.

“Henry.”

Exasperated, his hands flew up, pinning me with a grim look that almost made me slip a smile. Henry was so easy to aggravate, I almost saw the appeal in McCarthy’s actions.At least that way he was paying attention to me. “I just don’t want that asshat—”

“Asshat?” My smile did slip out now. “ Very original.”

Henry waved me away half-heartedly. “Whatever,” he huffed. “I just don’t want that guy anywhere near my little sister, that’s all.”

“I’m twelve minutes younger than you.” I shook my head slightly. “Which is why I don’t need you to baby me. In fact, I don’t need anyone to baby me. I’ll handle the situation with McCarthy like any adult would—by myself.”

He pointedly ignored the last statement. “And yet, you’re born a day after me. Twelve minutes or not, Athalia, you’re my baby sister. Period.”

“Henry—”

“Either way—” He shrugged like he hadn’t interrupted me, heading for the door. He made his way out of the apartment backward, eyes on me. “Don’t worry. I’ll handle it, little sister .”

“Don’t you dare—” I was by his side again before I could even finish my sentence. “ I will handle it.”

Unfazed, Henry opened the door, only hovering in the doorway long enough to give me an unbothered smile as a parting gift.

Little shit.

I took a deep breath, leveling my voice. “Dylan McCarthy will not get anywhere close to your little sister —” I mocked. “At least not closer than the desk separating us at all times. Now, let me just deal with this by myself. Okay?”

“Sure,” Henry said as he left, but he didn’t mean it.