Lessons in Faking (Hall Beck University #1)

Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

I tried to self-care my way into thinking this was a good idea. When Wren came home that night, my wet hair was in a towel and my skin covered in a blue face mask. I sprawled across the brown couch in the living room, watching Gilmore Girls with a glass of wine in hand. Wren’s rattling key gave me a five second heads-up before she stood in the door. My eyes narrowed, assessing posture, stance, expression.

Her weird tantrum this morning had been the start of what turned out to be an awful day. Though after everything that had happened, I’d almost forgotten about it. In the grand scheme of things, Wren didn’t fuck up nearly as badly as Henry had.

Leftover tension hung in the air even before our eyes connected. She took me in cautiously, only shifting her gaze to take off her shoes and jacket. Leaving them by the door, Wren cleared her throat and I braced myself for whatever continuation of our argument we were about to have. It seemed inevitable.

“You look absolutely ridiculous,” she deadpanned instead. Her words hung in the air, and she dissected every minuscule reaction of mine to calculate her next words carefully. I assumed she caught the amused twitch of my lip before I could make sure they’d stayed put.

The tension visibly fell off her as she carelessly let the paper bag slip out of her hand. The next second, a loud, theatrical sigh left her lips.

“Ugh!” she humphed, heading for the couch I was sitting on. “I am so sorry, I don’t know what came over me this morning,” she admitted as soon she took a seat next to me. “I probably just slept horrible, you know? Parties are not my thing, and staying up late isn’t either. And while you were playing some variation of beer pong, Henry would not stop chewing my ear off.”

My body reacted to the mention of my brother’s name. There was nothing I could do about it. “Since when does he drink, by the way—?” It took Wren a second to catch it, then she faltered in her wordy apology. I hadn’t heard her talk this much in one sitting since we went to see Hamilton last year. It was my first time. Her fourth. Or was it fifth? “What was that?” she asked quickly, one brow rising.

“Nothing.” I wasn’t a terrible liar, but Wren knew me like the palm of her hand. Seeing as she knew how to read them, that said a lot.

She looked at me curiously, leaning in as she blew strands of black and blond hair out of her face. Then, she said “ Henry ,” as if to test the waters. Slowly. Cautiously. And, of course, I flinched again. “ Aha! ” she exclaimed, finger in my face, before she jumped back victoriously. She only realized what being right meant when she quickly settled afterward. “Sorry.”

I sighed loudly, accepting her apology by letting my head fall onto her shoulder. If she cared about the blue goo currently seeping from my face onto her hoodie, she didn’t act like it. Instead, her hand cupped my shoulder in a makeshift hug before resting her own head on top of mine. We remained quiet for a while. Our attention was on the screen, and I think we were both grateful for the silence it filled.

“Before you tell me everything—” The groan I let out was meant to show how little I wanted to talk about it. But the way she squirmed out from underneath me to get up did intensify the sound. Her head whipped in my direction, brow raised as if she knew I’d tell her, whether I wanted to or not. She was right.

“Before you tell me everything,” she repeated, sterner, a hint of humor in her voice—“I got takeout from Prem’s.”

Prem owned the Indian place down the street, which, coincidentally, had the best takeout in the entire state. And even more importantly: the best Bhatura in the United States of America. A weakness of mine. A comfort not many things could bring me. Now that Wren had mentioned it, I could smell it from here.

My eyes probably lit up and my mouth watered as I shot upright, full attention on the brown bag Wren was currently retrieving from where she’d dropped it earlier.

“Apology accepted.” I smiled as soon as the container saying ‘#12 no onions’ appeared on the coffee table, followed by the Bhatura bread wrapped in foil moments later. My heart jumped at the sight.

“I’d hope so,” she muttered with a laugh, leaving her food on the table to get cutlery from the kitchen. “Also: got some of that left?” She pointed at her own face, finger circling it.

I snorted. “You called my face mask ridiculous five minutes ago.”

Wren simply shrugged, returning to the living room with her hands full. “Bathroom?” she wondered, and I nodded halfheartedly, attention back on the TV.

When she came back, her short, colored hair was tied up as best as she could manage, traces of blue catching on the edges of it here and there. The face mask covered her already clear skin messily, but entirely.

Wren was aware of my weird brother issues, so when I told her about our fight, and then my inevitable I-wish-I-were-more-than-an-inconvenience-in-his-life epiphany, she wasn’t surprised. She ate and listened, every now and then throwing in an outraged “ Motherfucker, ” or “ What?” Usually, when she’d just taken a bite.

At the end of my monologue, Wren considered me for a mere second. “So?” she asked. Our food was done and Netflix asked whether we were still watching.

“So what?”

“What’s the plan?”

Ah . The plan. Of course Wren knew I’d want to get back at him. Shame she won’t like it. At all.

It seemed McCarthy had made quite a few enemies in his three years at HBU. Coincidentally, on the top of that list were the two people closest to me. Henry at number one, of course, closely followed by Wren Inkwood—for some reason not quite clear to me.

Before today, I’d never really questioned why either of them disliked him so much, never cared enough to ask.

Hell, I wasn’t even sure what my problem with him was. Take Henry, and my previous solidarity with him, out of the equation, and I was left with pretty much nothing. Except the way his lips curled knowingly when I gave a wrong answer.

“Funny story,” I muttered, faking a single laugh as my eyes roamed the living room, like I’d never seen Wren’s bookshelf against the wall behind the couch filled exclusively with historical texts and fantasies. Never sat on the smooth brown leather of our couch, facing the TV on the opposite wall. Like the open loft layout and the green-white checkered carpet under the coffee table were new. And like Wren’s polaroids decorating the short hallway to the front door had only been hung this morning. I scrambled for the remote between us, telling the screen that, yes, we are still watching; please fill the lingering silence now !

“Is it?” she asked. “Funny?”

“Well,” I began, eyes flicking to Wren long enough to see her eagerly awaiting my response. “Let me preface this by saying my methods may be flawed, but they are always effective.” I was stalling. Clearly. “So while the means of achieving my revenge might not be ideal, the outcome will be worth—”

“Just spit it out, Athalia.”

Fuck it.

“I ’m going to pretend to date McCarthy for the next two months.” The speed in which the words flew out of me could win a Guinness world record. “Exclusively,” I added reluctantly.

It took her a good thirty seconds to comprehend the jumbled mess I’d just thrown at her. When she got it, her brow stretched high, and she leaned back, in some kind of shock. For a moment, I think she froze.

I didn’t know whether it was five seconds or minutes or hours. I think I was holding my breath until she simply said, “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“It’s gonna piss Henry off.” She mulled it over once more, expression twisting into a grimace. “It’s definitely going to piss him off. Bonus points for getting the attention you so clearly crave. A quick fix for something that, at some point, you will have to talk to Stephanie about.” She narrowed her eyes at me, just to drive that last point home. The fact Wren knew my therapist’s name was evidence enough that she’d gotten to know me way too well in our three years of college together.

“I mean, it’s a solid plan. Except for the one unpredictable, right? If McCarthy is one thing, it’s probably unpredictable. See how I said probably? That’s because he’s so unpredictable, I don’t even know––” It felt like Henry had rubbed off on her. Wren didn’t usually ramble, but she was definitely doing so now. Rambling on and on and on and—

“Okay,” I cut her off quickly, my hands lifted in surrender. “I get it,” I huffed. “It’s an idiotic plan, but if it works the way I want it to work, it’ll be the best thing I can do. If McCarthy doesn’t act like a jerk—which is unlikely—and if spending time with him isn’t insufferable —also unlikely— I might not even regret this.” I was also rambling now. “But it is a good plan,” I insisted.

Wren sighed, head falling back in resignation. “It’s an okay plan,” she said, but smiled.

Going to bed that night, I checked my emails, in the hope that any of next week’s lectures had been cancelled. Instead of the sweet relief of one of those messages, it was this one, waiting in my inbox:

[email protected] 6:33 PM

Pressley,

Find attached a copy of our written contractual agreement.

Unkind regards,

D.?M.?W