Lessons in Faking (Hall Beck University #1)

Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

I couldn’t quite remember how I got home. All I knew was that my body ached, my head thudded, and I felt my comfortable bed underneath me when I woke the next morning.

For five terribly short minutes, I contemplated my plans for the day. As I thought of 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, shehad. 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.

And yet, here I was. There were too many things I needed to get done to simply skip. Again. It’s 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 twenty percent of my international management grade, and Statistics II. The latter, of course, being 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 around correlation coefficients and whatever else McCarthy had in store for me. And yes (technically), figuring all that out was what he was for, but I didn’t like McCarthy’s smug expressions, his 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 in the next test, perhaps then I wouldn’t need McCarthy at all. I’d be rid of those ridiculous looks and condescending sounds before I’d get 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 East Coast fall, when it mostly blessed us with grey, 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?”

A few seconds ticked by. “Around two.”

I blinked at her, hesitating at the awkward tension. “Oh, okay.” My eyes narrowed as she went to leave. “Thanks.”

Now she faltered in her steps. Turned around to look me over once, clutching her cup (in the shape of Lin Manuel Miranda’s Hamilton’s head) tightly between her hands. “For?”

“Getting me home.”

“Sure.” Wren nodded, turned to leave again. She stopped right before disappearing into her room, as if she’d just reconsidered her stance on talking to me. “I could hardly leave you by yourself with the company you would’ve kept.” The attitude in her voice was undeniable now, and at least I was sure I wasn’t imagining it anymore. “Who knows, though, you seemed to be enjoying yourself.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I didn’t mean to snap my words; I was genuinely curious. And confused. Though my hangover seemed to be shortening my temper even further and now I had an attitude, too.

Wren snorted drily, though she was clearly not as amused as she wanted to portray. “Nothing,” she managed. Before shutting her door, she added: “Forget I said anything.”

Great.

Today wasnotthe day for arguments. I had things to do and papers to write, and I wasn’t in the mood to fight or even speak to anyone with an attitude, which Wren clearly had. I wanted a calm day. One in which I’d spend most of my time in the library, reading, writing, and studying. Where I wasn’t required to have snappy comebacks for whoever deserved them. Ideally, I wouldn’t have to talk to anyone at all. A day in which it was just me—and a load of schoolwork. As a college student, that couldn’t be so hard. Could it?

So, after taking painkillers, a hot shower, and an espresso shot (in that order), I strolled to the library, ready to conquer my demons between books and burned-out college students.

And it was going great. By four o’clock I’d finished that godawful essay and was through the reading materials of the past two weeks. If you ignored the coffee I’d spilled across the wooden table, the chair I’d rammed into the knee of a student passing behind me, and the loud snore I accidentally let out (during a particularly boring chapter to entertain myself), I was thriving. Really .

Productivity over humility. Wasn’t that what they said?

“Athalia”

My head jolted at my whispered name, messy curls inches from my face when I looked up. Heather leaned across the table toward me. A wide grin played on her heart-shaped lips, and I offered one of my brother’s best friends a smile—just as welcoming.

Heather, Henry and Reuben lived in the mirror apartment across the street from us. Once I’d moved up on the waitlist and managed a last-minute spot at Hall Beck U., it had been too late to rent off campus, so I’d ended up in the dorms. The second Henry had heard about someone moving out across the street from him, he’d reserved the apartment, and Wren and I moved in at the beginning of sophomore year.

My brother and I didn’t speak often—we weren’t even particularly close. But when we did, it was always because he’d managed to fix something in my life I wasn’t able to. A problem solver, through and through.

Hey, you , I mouthed at Heather; more carefully now, having had the librarian issue me with a first warning for that snore earlier. Two and I assumed I’d be out of here. My brother’s roommate cared half as much, though. Fishing a stack of notes out of her bag, and lining them up with the book she’d taken off the shelves, Heather cheerily chatted on.

Although I relocated to one of the long, dark wooden tables—shielded from Ms. Jones’ direct line of sight, courtesy of the high bookshelves on either side—I threw a nervous glance, wanting to make sure the librarian wasn’t lingering around a corner, just waiting to kick me out. Fortunately, all I saw were the bent necks and bad postures of students hung over their pages, lots of books (of course), and the changing colors of leaves through the massive window-front on the other side of the aisle. No grey, pinned-up hair, thin brows, and tiny glasses on a sharp nose in sight.

“I’m not going to lie,” Heather quipped, English accent muddied after the three years she’d spent at HBU. “You look godawful.” A sympathetic smile followed her words, and I couldn’t help but huff. Her eyes ran across the statistic notes neatly lined up in front of me. I’d spent the past ten minutes doing that––only delaying the inevitable. The sympathy on her face turned into pity when she looked back at me.

“At least you’ll be rid of him now.” She nodded to my notes with a knowing look. “But yeah, I guess that means having to do it yourself again. Pick your poison kind of thing, isn’t it?” Her eyes had already drifted onto the book in front of her, scanning the table of contents for whatever chapter she was looking for. It’s why she didn’t pick up on the confusion sprawled across my face.

“What?”

“What?” Her head snapped up in a startle, as if she’d completely forgotten I was here, only seconds after diverting her attention. “Sorry,” she muttered, shaking her head. Then, again, “What?”

“I’m going to assume you’re about to explain what you’re talking about?” I questioned hesitantly. Heather’s eyes flicked across my face, her brow furrowed before she waved me away with a “come on now…”look.

“You know,” she insisted, amusement still lingering in her voice. She nodded to my statistic notes again. “You’ll have to work on passing statistics yourself now.” She laughed. I was not, because I still wasn’t catching on. “You must have known that once you were rid of McCarthy, you’d have to learn all that by yourself.” She gestured to my papers once more. “Which is why you’re here.” She blinked slowly. “Studying statistics. By yourself.” Her eyes met mine again. “Right?”

A few seconds of silence ticked by.

“Please don’t tell me—” she began.

“ Rid of McCarthy? ” I said at the same time. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Her head fell into her hands; then a groan escaped her lips that was entirely too loud for a library. “No way,” she mumbled into her hands, voice lowered again. “ NowayNowayNoway .” Her eyes snapped back to mine. “Henry didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?” My patience was beginning to wear thin. With her. With this subject. With my thudding head at the prospect of what she was saying.

“I’m so sorry—” she began, immediately cutting herself off again. “I thought, you know—” Her head shook again. “I thought if he was going to talk to Professor Shaw, he’d do it because you asked him to. Or suggested it. At least that you knew about it. Bloody hell . Why—”

“Heather.” I reached for her arm, relieved her attention latched onto me again quickly. She swallowed hard.

“Oh, right.” She cleared her throat with an awkward smile on her lips, brows curved. “Henry talked to Professor Shaw about your tutoring setup.” She said the words as if she couldn’t get them out fast enough. Then, to my dismay, added, “Well, not talked, really. Emailed him.”

I blinked at her.

“He emailed him.” If I sounded the words out, maybe they’d make more sense. “After I specifically told him to stay out of it. After I specifically told him to let me handle thisby myself.” Heather’s expression grew more horrified with every word. “After all that. He emailed him?”

“Oh God.” Her head disappeared behind her hands again and somewhere in the distance, the librarian shushed her. I barely noticed, perceived it somewhere in a distant corner of my mind, maybe, because I was still trying to wrap my head around other things. How much of an asshole my brother was, for one. A few things were going through my mind.

Where did men get the audacity?

How could I be sharing the same genes with that particular man?

What… the fuck?

I could pinpoint the exact moment confusion turned into anger. It was right after I’d excused myself from Heather. Right when the chilly air hit me, and a gust of wind whipped hair into my face with full force. It was the wrong day for that, and I wasn’t just angry then: I was furious. And a little embarrassed.

Embarrassed by the fact my professor would now think I was sending my star-athlete brother to handle my business. Furious, because my star-athlete brother couldn’t comprehend that I was old enough to live my own life, competent enough to deal with problems myself.

And, quite frankly, livid, because the only time I warranted my brother’s attention seemed to be when there was a problem he didn’t think I could fix. I was 99% sure the reason I got into HBU—one of the best schools on the East Coast—was Henry’s friendly reminder about the name of their athletic center. And it was bad practice to reject someone who coincidentally, carried that same name. Thanks, Pressley Center for Recreation.

Problem solver through and through, I remembered my earlier thoughts. Fuck that.

Apparently, I was only worth Henry’s time if I was the problem. When I might not get into college, when I couldn’t find an apartment, and, apparently, when Dylan McCarthy Williams was involved.

“Pressley!” My voice echoed across the soccer field before I even reached it. In the distance, behind the waist-high handrail and between the trees circling the pitch, I could see a few heads whip in my direction, confused and annoyed at whoever dared to interfere with their sacred training, and so close to the NCAA championship at that.

I found him quickly. Number eight printed on his jersey, he casually jogged toward me, casting a pleading look in his coach’s direction to keep him from throwing me off the pitch. An edge of concern riddled his expression when he came to a standstill on the other side of the railing.

“Look, Lia, can this wait—?”

I almost snorted before a sharp, “No,” seethed past my lips.

“I’m in the middle of practice—”

“ I don’t care , Henry.”

He didn’t like the way I raised my voice at him. In front of the team, in front of his coach. It bruised his incredibly fragile ego; I could tell. Which was why I continued, with every single word deliberately slow and enunciated. “You know what I do care about?” I mused, trying my best to hide just how angry I was.

The scowl on his face grew, confusion and annoyance prominent in it. Restless in front of me, he dared a few glances across his shoulder, trying his best to will his team to continue what they were doing, instead of eavesdropping on a clearly uncomfortable conversation.

“I care about you not butting into my life every chance you get.”

His face fell at my tone, though not in recognition or understanding or guilt. Blinking down at me, brow furrowed, there wasn’t a single thought behind those beautiful green eyes. He had no clue what I was talking about. And it somehow made it worse.

“Oh my God.” I can’t believe this. “You don’t even think you did anything wrong.”

His silence confirmed that.

“You know,” I began. “You do not have to play concerned brother every time you spot a chance to flaunt your wealth and influence in order to stroke your ego.” His expression remained clueless. “I don’t need your help with this. I’m old enough to go to some stupid tutoring once a week, even if I don’t like the guy, and yes —even if you don’t.”

There it was. A spark of understanding that seemed to rush through his body. He straightened, more alert, though seconds later his head fell back, and he huffed in a way that could only be annoyance. Before he could answer—

“Pressley!” The shout came from behind him. “Get your ass back on the field!” My gaze shifted to spot the source of those words, but I could’ve probably identified the lackluster shout, the annoyed tone, even without looking. The latter I’d have the pleasure of dealing with every Wednesday from now on. If only to annoy Henry. “You’re holding up the entire game!”

Henry’s head whipped around at the same time my eyes found McCarthy’s. He stopped his approach when he caught both of our attentions. His eyes flicked back and forth, already noticing the tension feet away. His gaze settled on mine, brows rising questioningly.

I looked back at my brother. “Nothing to say?”

“I’ve got a lot to say,” he suddenly snapped, eyes back on me. “But this argument is not worth skipping practice over. It’s not even worth having . I’m dealing with shit you don’t know anything about, and I did you a favor, despite it. You can thank me when you realize that.”

Something snapped. In me. Between us. My next words were more unhinged, though hushed, because as much as I wanted to embarrass him, I did not need personal issues aired out in front of the HBU soccer team.

“You have no right to just reach into my life and change what you don’t like,” I hissed. “We talk once a month and this is when you decide to butt in?”I tried to make the accusation sound snippy—to make him feel guilty about shutting me out, about the fact we’d become part of each other’s lives merely out of some kind of genetic obligation.

“Clearly I have to. Because you would’ve continued going to those stupid lessons, with your stupid thin walls and McCarthy’s stupid face.” The mere mention of his name made a vein pop on Henry’s forehead. At least he felt the argument was worth having now.At least he was talking to me.

I almost laughed. “You’re acting like a ten-year-old, Henry—”

“I just don’t want you to spend time with him, for fucks sake!”

“And I don’t want you to control my life. Look !” I cheered, sarcastically. “Seems like we’re bothnotgetting what we want.”

At that, he ducked under the white handrail we argued across, grabbing my arm to drag me out of the team’s eye- and earshot and exchanging insults and curse words until we were. Anger radiated in his eyes. If this were a cartoon, there’d be steam coming out of his ears and his face would be as red as the devil’s.

“You can’t tell me what to do—”

“I can try!” he shot back with a glare, finally coming to a halt behind the changing rooms.

“You can’t!” Pretty sure I shouted that. “If I want to, I’ll continue going to McCarthy’s stupid lessons. If I want to, I’ll see him outside of them, too. If I want to—” It was out before I could stop myself. “If I want to, I’ll go out with him. Get a drink. Go back to his place. I’ll do whatever the hell I want, Henry. You’re not the boss of me, and I’m not twelve anymore.”

And that’s what seemed to do it. What sent him over the edge. I almost smiled at the way his head turned a deep shade of red with fury.

“That’s what you want?”

No.

“Maybe I do.”

Henry’s eyes closed in an unsuccessful attempt to calm himself. But he sensed my bluff, I could feel it. “No, you don’t.”

There it was.

So really, I had no other choice but to double down. I had to. My hands were basically tied.

“Maybe I already am.”

“You’re not.” A beat, and his eyes narrowed, as if he just remembered a vital piece of information. “So Jason was telling the truth, then?”

It was all I could do not to flinch at the name, not to yell and scream at the mere fact my brother had talked to my ex-boyfriend behind my back. About me. Saying I didn’t care about what would be a lie. But whatever it was, it seemed to support my claim, and it seemed to make Henry believe the lies I was telling him.

So, with the tiniest smirk on my lips, I shrugged.

I had the upper hand now, and that’s all it took for me to relax into the feeling of it— forget that he’d betrayed me not once, but twice now. Not just with the Shaw thing, but by talking to the guy who had fucking ruined me a year ago.

“God,” he groaned. “You’re fucking infuriating, Athalia.”

Red steam engine Henry was back. And just like that, he left.