Lessons in Faking (Hall Beck University #1)

Chapter 17

CHAPTER 17

We walked home in silence.

Henry probably took off while McCarthy still had his tongue down my throat, and I was too sober to pretend whatever had happened didn’t… happen. So I’d left him standing in the hallway, ready to march home by myself. It hadn’t even been a full minute before McCarthy caught up, leaving with me and without saying goodbye to a single one of his friends. He probably shouldn’t have done that, but I wasn’t mad about the company.

Yes, it surprised me, too.

McCarthy broke the comfortable silence that lingered in the dark street first, about five minutes in.

“Was it that bad?” His shoulder bumped mine jokingly, the gentle motion almost throwing me off my heels. If it weren’t for his hand immediately curling around my waist to keep me steady. Of course.

My head snapped in his direction to find a sly expression on the pink lips that had been so soft and welcoming—

“Awful,” I confirmed quickly, shaking my head to cut that inner voice off, before my cheeks could heat up. “Absolutely terrible.”

Letting me out of his grip, he snorted in amusement. We continued down the road.

“Agreed.” He nodded thoughtfully. I only glanced his way because I knew I’d spot the bad attempt at a smile he was trying to hide, and I kind of wanted to see it. “Very poor effort from your side.”

“From my side?” I rested my hands on my hips, coming to a halt to scowl at him. Half because I wanted to sell my faked outrage, half because my feet were killing me and I didn’t think I could walk a single step further in those shoes.

“ Yep .” He popped that “p” so self-assuredly, my eyes practically rolled out of my head. Then I shook it in amused disbelief.

“Right.” In response, I rolled my “r” as condescendingly as I could. He laughed, then kept moving. And though I was in so much pain the second my feet moved off solid ground, I followed him like a lost puppy.

“I am right.”

“Sure,” I snickered. Giving up the shoe battle, I looped my arm through his—putting all my weight on him—before letting out a loud, satisfied sigh with the relief that it brought.

He didn’t bat an eye at it. Or me. Just laughed softly and asked, “You good?” with that sarcastic undertone I wouldn’t recognize him without.

My first response was another groan, signifying the No that slurred past my lips a moment later. “My shoes,” I complained, “are killing me.” To emphasize, I dragged him to a stop again, only to wiggle my heeled boot in front of him.

McCarthy’s brow rose in amusement when he looked back at me. “If you keep stopping like this, I swear we’ll arrive after my alarm rings,” came his reply. “Which is at six in the morning.” His voice carried a playful annoyance, and without a word of warning, he dragged me across the sidewalk, coaxing loud insults and complaints out of me. When he pushed me into a seat, I shut up almost immediately. Another sigh of relief fluttered through the air as I leaned into the hard, wooden bench he’d planted me on.

“What are you doing?” I asked curiously, all previous anger dissipating. My head tilted as he started fumbling with his shoes beside me, and the sound of my voice guided his eyes to mine. Almost like he couldn’t help it.

Something about that view, of him looking up at me through those dark lashes, his brown hair—almost black in the darkness—flopped into his forehead and his brows raised… it did something to me.

Something I couldn’t think about further.

“I’m giving you my shoes,” he said matter-of-factly. Just like that. No laugh, no explanation. Just McCarthy taking off his shoes and giving them to me .

“What?” I asked—perplexed would be an understatement. “You really don’t need to—”

“Shut up.” He said it without even looking at me––right as he slipped out of his sneakers.

I think I preferred that side of him. The side that told me to shut up and didn’t catch me off guard with random acts of kindness. At least I knew what to do with that version of him.

Kiss it, apparently.

“You keep on wobbling in those shoes and we’ll never make it home.” He placed his pair in front of me.

“I can walk barefoot.”

McCarthy snorted. “I’m not letting you walk home barefoot.” He acted like it was the most absurd suggestion. Like he wasn’t about to do so himself.

“Why not?” I blurted. “It’s a good idea, actually.” I leaned forward to take my own shoes off, sure I didn’t want to take him up on his offer. It was simply too nice, and I didn’t know how to deal with that.

But his hand flew to my wrist, and I immediately hesitated. My grasp lingered on the heel of my shoe, ready to slip it off, and I made sure to keep my eyes on the pavement. Because I knew he was right beside me. The scent of his cologne prominent in the air. Everything around me screamed Dylan McCarthy Williams, and I didn’t think I could take seeing him, too.

“Pressley,” he said, a note in his tone that was unfamiliar. “Put on the damn shoes so we can get home.”

So I did.

My heeled boots dangled from McCarthy’s hand, his white socks turning darker with every step we took. Beside him, I was still wobbling, but in his shoes (which felt at least twice my size), instead of mine.

And though it was a pain in the ass to do so, there was no literal discomfort that came along with it, and I preferred that. As we walked, I wondered if he accidentally ended up on my left side or if he somehow knew about the sidewalk rule.

The comfortable silence that followed was one of my favorite things about McCarthy. The fact we didn’t have to keep forcing conversation, that we could just shut up around each other, without a lingering awkwardness.

“Why do you hate me?” I asked plainly, genuine curiosity in my voice, and without the accusatory tone you’d expect in a loaded question like that. I actually wanted to know. Who wouldn’t be a little curious?

McCarthy scoffed. I could feel his head turning in my direction, though my eyes stayed on the road in front of us. In the distance, some cars rushed past our small college town as we steadily approached my apartment building. I’d gotten used to the size of McCarthy’s shoes, and only limped half as badly as I had in the beginning, when he’d made fun of me for it.

In return I’d called him Bigfoot.

“I don’t hate you,” McCarthy snarled, the sound less irritating than it usually was. “If anything, I hate your brother. And I pity you for how long you’ve been having to deal with him.”

“Well.” I shrugged, kicking a pebble into the strip of grass to my right and almost losing his shoe in the process. A glance at him confirmed he’d seen the entire thing. His grin was deep, but at least he had the decency to look down, while he tried to get it under control. I quickly cleared my throat, eyes ahead again. “Same difference. Why do you hate him?”

“Have you met your brother?”

I snorted. Loudly. And I immediately regretted it as the sound travelled through the empty streets further than I’d expected. Though, as my head turned in his direction, cheeks tinting a light pink, his lips had already split into a wide grin, and he was no longer apologetic about it.

Before I could double down on my answer, McCarthy came to a halt. He held out my shoes, and I only recognized the redbrick building beside us as my own when he nodded toward it. “You’re welcome,” he teased as I took them from him, stepping out of his sneakers simultaneously.

This time, I rolled my eyes, though that smile never left my lips. Despite the sarcastic remark he probably expected, I meant it when I said: “Thank you . ”

He probably didn’t know how to deal with that any better than I had with his shoe trade, and I told myself that maybe we were even now. Unfortunately, I knew we were far from displaying an even amount of kindness.

A thank you didn’t match up to walking barefoot, just so I could wear his shoes. Not by a long shot.

“Seriously,” I tried again. “Thank you.”

Nope. Still miles behind him. He remained silent. “All right, then.” I nodded toward the door of my building as if he didn’t know we had arrived. “I’ll see you Monday?”

He nodded. His hands disappeared in the pockets of his jacket. “Just get in and I’ll be on my way.”

Ugh. Stop. Being. So. Nice.

“Thanks.” At that point I felt stupid. I hurried to find my keys in the small bag I’d brought with me, to get out of his sight before another “thank you” (that wasn’t even close to measuring up to his kindness), slipped past my lips.

Scrambling inside, I turned back only when I’d made it into the elevator. My gaze met McCarthy’s, just as he was about to leave. Unsure what to do, I gave him another smile through the glass entrance separating us. Another one that I meant, too.

To my surprise, he returned it without missing a beat.

Thanks , I mouthed one last time.

For good measure.