Lessons in Faking (Hall Beck University #1)

Chapter 19

CHAPTER 19

???, Wednesday, 8:55 PM

Congratulations! You’ve won a $1000gift card of your choice. Go to (link) to claim now.

I was well on my way to block the spam number, cursing McCarthy for doing exactly what I had told him not to do, when a second text followed.

???, Wednesday, 8:55 PM

And take your boyfriend out for a nice dinner with it after his game on Sunday.

I rolled my eyes, and snapped that smile off my face.

ME, Wednesday, 8:56 PM

fuck you

I’ll be there

ME, Wednesday, 9:22 PM

for contractual reasons, of course

MCCARTHY, Wednesday, 9:22 PM

Of course.

Wren was only half annoyed when I’d asked her to join me. In fact, she agreed without any form of bribery. By her own free will, she was cheering in the stands, hands thrown in the air when McCarthy scored the 1–0 against Brown.

I was more surprised by my own holler that followed the goal.

I settled quickly, though a smile played on my lips as I watched the HBU boys tackle the striker with a group hug. I couldn’t hear their own cheers and yells over the boos of the crowd that was eighty percent Brown students. It made sense—being a good two-and-a-half-hour drive from campus, made sure there were hardly any of your own students there.

It didn’t matter, though. We were still beating their ass in the pouring rain. Home or not.

At halftime, the score remained the same and we went into the short break with a 1–0lead. I let myself fall back into the seat Wren had pulled me out of when the first goal of the game was scored, and sighed. My heart beat too fast for comfort and I felt exhausted as soon as the adrenalin of our performance stopped pumping through my veins.

“Look what I brought!” Winning must’ve had some kind of effect on Wren because her spirits were unusually high.

Her shoulder-length, split-dyed hair was messy when I turned, cheeks red from the cold, and the yelling in an attempt to overpower the negative Brown energy she’d told me she sensed . In her hand, as if it was the only thing that would ever bring her joy, was the Polaroid camera I got for her birthday last year.

The black color matched half of her hair, as well as the dark HBU hoodie she was proudly wearing. My eyes snapped to her again, promptly mirroring the grin on her face.

“I want to remember beating Brown’s ass in their home stadium for the rest of my life,” she said, making sure her voice was loud enough to be picked up by the crowd around us. A rare, victorious grin played on her lips when she emphasized we were beating Brown’s ass.

I rolled my eyes, though I couldn’t suppress the smile on my face. I loved seeing her so care-free, so happy. Whether that was built on somebody else’s misery (Brown’s), I didn’t care. I never had. I never would.

Maybe I should’ve gone to more of these games with her.

A sudden tsunami-sized wave of guilt rolled through me at the thought. It came out of nowhere, and was so unexpected I almost took a sharp breath in surprise.

Wren shook the camera in her hand once more, snapping me out of my ‘I’m-a-horrible-friend’ realization. Impatiently she requested, “Would you?”

I nodded when I took it from her, lining up the shot before Wren poked her tongue out, eyes squeezed shut in a smile, waiting for the flash that came several seconds later.

“So you’re keeping a record of rooting for McCarthy?” I teased, letting the camera fall into my bag and shoving that guilty feeling down my throat. I replaced it with the only coping mechanism I knew: sarcasm.

Snatching the photo from my hand, she grimaced. “Don’t even start,” she muttered, though humor lingered in her voice. “He’s always been on the team. I’ve always cheered for the team. That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t laugh if he fell on his face.”

I couldn’t help the amused snort. Wren continued. “Remember when he got that fistful from the random goalie one time? In the middle of the game?”

Obviously, I hadn’t been there, so I shook my head.

“God,” she sighed, reminiscing in what I assumed to be the good old days for her. “What I’d do to be able to relive that moment.” I could hear the smile on her face, even before I turned back to her.

I hoped my huffed laugh sounded like I found the anecdote just as funny. For some unknown reason, I did not.

“What happened?” I wondered, suddenly oh-so-interested and, again, wondering why I didn’t go to these games more often.

Wren shrugged as she fell into the seat next to mine. “God knows. I wasn’t focused on the specifics of it.” It looked like she was watching the scene play out in front of her mind’s eye right then, and the pleased smile on her face was concerning.

But she was happy, and even if it was my fake boyfriend’s misery she was happy about, so be it. I didn’t care about him.

Or why he’d gotten punched in the face.

HBU won 1–0. As per McCarthy’s prediction, Henry didn’t let a single shot get through their defense; most of the time, he was acting like a goalkeeper himself, minus the hands. A few roars of victory rattled through the stands. Though mostly, the sound of defeated sighs, curses and boos surrounded us.

My attention was entirely on McCarthy. Wren cheered twice as loud beside me, and I clapped with a wide smile on my face, but neither contributed to keeping my eyes off the guy.

Despite the temperatures, and despite the rain, the entire team’s shirts came off the second the whistle announced their victory. McCarthy jogged from his position in front of Brown’s goal all the way to our own, casually, though with glee filling every single one of his bouncy steps.

I only realized I was staring at him when his head turned in my direction, and our eyes met instantly. He didn’t even have to search the stands. After all, he’d known where to find me. He had spotted me as soon as the teams had gotten onto the pitch. His eyes had been flying through the stands, and I’d made it easy for him when I lifted my middle finger high in the air, a slick smile on my face. He’d blown me a kiss in return.

Now, his eyes remained on me similarly. That winning smile graced his lips, dimple on full display when he caught my attention already on him. His head tipped back in a laugh I couldn’t pick up on—but wished I had—before he winked at me.

I rolled my eyes. Wanted to force my lips to act accordingly. Failed at that—miserably. So my smile stayed put as I continued clapping, and my gaze followed him all the way to the other side of the field. Wren’s voice drew it away from him. “How are we getting home?” She sounded distracted, eyes on the field, still clapping.

Neither of us felt up for a two-hour drive at nine in the morning, so we’d carpooled with Laila (who I finally figured out was Michael’s cousin, not sister) and her friends. Knowing there wouldn’t be space for both of us to get back, because she’d told us said cousin would ride home with them. She’d told us again, and again, and again. All we’d said was: future-us will figure it out . And I despised past-us for it.

I sighed. “How are we getting home?”

Wren shrugged.

Great.

“You could’ve clapped harder.”

“You could’ve played better.”

“I didn’t hear you cheer once , Pressley.”

“You never will.”

I ended up in McCarthy’s car, if you couldn’t tell. The run-down black Jeep wasn’t what I’d expected him to be driving, though I liked its charm. Compared to my G-Wagon, it had character.

It took almost thirty minutes to convince Wren to take the only seat left in Laila’s car. Once I’d succeeded, I turned in McCarthy’s direction, ready to humiliate myself. Of course, he’d watched the entire thing unfold in amusement.

He’d leaned against his car, unbothered by the pouring rain, and his brows raised expectantly. I knew he wouldn’t let me off the hook without the words coming out of my mouth. He wanted to hear them. From me.

So I asked him to give me a ride. And he said yes, instantaneously.

“Admit it,” he continued teasing now, eyes on the road. One hand held onto the steering wheel, the other fell around the stick lazily. Yeah, that’s right. McCarthy was driving manual. “That was one hell of a goal.”

It had been one hell of a goal; I could admit that. Just not to him.

“It definitely… went in,” I agreed, nodding thoughtfully.

He was smiling so hard, biting his bottom lip to try and keep it from showing. Unsuccessfully. My eyes quickly shifted when his tongue poked the inside of his cheek in continued amusement, lightly shaking his head.

If only to distract from every inappropriate thought currently in my head, I rummaged through the bag I brought. I inspected my keychain as if I hadn’t been carrying it with me since I was nine years old. I felt the soft material of the scarf I’d decided to take off when McCarthy started blasting the heating. And I dug deeper, simply to keep myself busy.

Busy, busy, busy . Don’t look at him , I warned myself. It’ll only remind you of… The Incident.

But there it was. What I’d been trying to drown out, forget it ever happened. Very successfully , might I add. The thought of his lips on mine; the scent of his cologne lingering in the air; the feel of his thumb drawing distracted circles on my cheek, while his hand gripped my waist. All things I barely even thought about anymore. Couldn’t you tell?

I wasn’t oblivious to the burning of my cheeks, and I could imagine the color of them just as well. I quickly shook my head.

Busy, busy, busy.

I grabbed the next thing I caught between my fingers. And I whipped out Wren’s Polaroid camera before knowing what it was––before even realizing I’d forgotten to give it back. And I short-circuited for the second time in McCarthy’s presence.

“Smile!” My voice was eerily high as I held the camera up, pointing the lens at me and the man to my left. His head flicked in my direction, brows furrowing in the fraction of a second he took his eyes off the empty road. I didn’t wait for him to comment. The reason for this was distraction, after all.

Looking at the fully developed picture several minutes later, I wasn’t sure how well that had worked out for me.

How great I looked hardly kept my attention for longer than a second. With McCarthy’s wet hair all messy, and his damp shirt stretched across his biceps, I didn’t feel very distracted from anything at all. The way he looked at me instead of the lens didn’t make it better.

I forced my eyes shut, stifling a frustrated groan, and instead let go of a huff. In another desperate attempt at distraction, I clipped the Polaroid onto his rearview mirror and carefully watched his reaction.

“That kind of defeats the purpose of it,” he commented matter-of-factly, eyes continuing to flicker to the photo. His brow rose, and he threw his next glance my way.

I shrugged. “Don’t be so boring,” I teased. “You’re going to die one day, McCarthy. If it’s gonna happen this way, at least I’ll be the last face you see.”

The thought of him dying was less pleasant now than it would’ve been six months ago. It made my insides clench and tugged at my heartstrings in a way I didn’t want to interpret. It almost made me want to take the photo back. Instead, I added, “Nothing really matters.” Because it didn’t.

A laugh slipped past McCarthy’s lips, teasing and ironic and beautiful.

“Except money, right?” A challenging tone played in his voice, and he side-eyed my reaction curiously, carefully, as if he was trying to provoke me—just enough. I assumed this was another one of those instances where he forgot he ’ d grown up with just as much money as I had.

I shrugged, not giving him the satisfaction of successfully winding me up. “Money matters less when you’ve always had it,” I said. “You of all people should know that, McCarthy.”

He gasped, pretending to be shocked. Amusement lingered in his expression.

I couldn’t help the frail smile on my lips at his reaction. “Don’t get me wrong,” I quickly added, rolling my eyes before I turned in his direction, catching his gaze. “It’s great. Probably the best thing that’s happened to me. But I didn’t work for it, it’s always been there. You know?”

“How very self-aware of you,” he snickered, sarcasm etched into his tone. He casually shifted into a higher gear, gaining speed. “It’s heartwarming to hear you’re aware of your privilege. I didn’t know you had it in you.” More sarcasm, then silence.

“Well.” I shook my head. “You didn’t work for it either, did you? We’re in the same boat. Whether you like it or not.”

“ Right .” He dragged the word out, his brows rising in amusement again. “Only that I worked three summers in a row to buy this car, and the only reason my dad is paying my tuition is so I wouldn’t take a scholarship spot away from someone who actually needs it.”

“So that makes you a better privileged rich kid than me?” I didn’t mean to sound irritated, though my ability to package my delivery into the appropriate amount of sarcasm took a toll whenever I got annoyed. And I was well on my way there.

McCarthy huffed, his eyes stayed on the road. “Arguably, yes.” He looked pleased with himself, probably noticing he’d succeeded in getting under my skin. Again. “Anyway,” he pressed on. “Speaking of the best thing that’s ever happened to you, money can’t really be on top of that list. Can it?” All irony was blown out of his voice and features, and I was a little amazed by how swiftly he changed topic. It gave me whiplash.

“What?” I snorted. “Are you expecting to hear your name?”

“Will I?” His grin was goofy, unguarded, when he dared a glance my way, and I was horrified to feel my own lips twitch into a smile, despite the fact I wanted to be annoyed with him. I forced my gaze to the road.

“In your dreams, maybe.”

“Yeah.” He hummed. “Most definitely in those.” My eyes snapped back onto him. Like he didn’t just say what he’d said, he continued before I had the chance to comment on it. “What about family, friends? Aren’t they up there?”

He’d have to have lived under a rock for the past seven years to be unaware of my family’s… fate. About the fact I didn’t really have one. Sure, Henry was still there. But barely.

I laughed in slight amusement, shaking my head. “Are you… trying to get to know me, McCarthy?” Fake bewilderment took over my entire face, and it was hard to keep up when his lips stretched into a grin. Again.

“And what if I am?”

It was a good question. What if Dylan McCarthy Williams was trying to get to know me? I didn’t have an answer to that one just yet. So I shrugged, and thought about his initial question.

“Family?” I clarified humorlessly, eyes out the window again. “The one that died when I was fifteen, or the one that I’m currently conspiring against?” It’s not like he didn’t know. If you followed soccer the way McCarthy did, you were probably mourning Dad’s death when it had happened. You might still remember where you were when you found out. Felix Pressley was enough of a legend in his field.

But there was a gravity to the words––my confession. Something McCarthy couldn’t have begun to comprehend. I only did when they’d slipped out of my mouth ten seconds ago.

I’d been so busy plotting and planning the perfect revenge plan, I’d completely lost sight of the bigger picture—of the fact my brother was the only family I had left. And that we were not on good terms. I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to be, if he kept walking through life like an only child, only remembering he wasn’t when I inevitably became an inconvenience. He kept acting like he cared, only when he saw something in my life he deemed worth fixing, and then crossed all boundaries in order to do so.

My eyes closed, and I feared if I said another word, looked at the wrong person at the wrong time, it might all come crashing down. The dark reality that I couldn’t say family mattered most, when it never had to them, either.

If it had, maybe my parents wouldn’t have decided to spend Thanksgiving in the Bahamas. Maybe they wouldn’t have gotten on that plane, wouldn’t have flown straight into the turbulence that made sure they never got to step off it again. Maybe I wouldn’t be dreading the day others gave their thanks.

And then, maybe Henry wouldn’t have grown up trying to compensate for the lack of control he’d felt that day by focusing on nothing but control. Maybe that way, he wouldn’t just think about himself, and his career, and his future, but actually stop to consider the people he’d lost on the way. The fact that he’d probably lost a little bit of himself on that way, too.

“What about Wren?”

I swallowed thickly, eyes remaining closed despite the urge to look at him when the suggestion left his lips. “She’s family, isn’t she?” he asked, thoughtful about the silence that had passed.

When my mood had gotten gloomier, close to our first Thanksgiving together, Wren had put the pieces together relatively quickly. Like most people, she’d known who my parents were, what had happened to them. Unlike most, she hadn’t mentioned them before I did. And even if she hadn’t been familiar with the exact holiday they’d died on, one quick Google search would have let her know all she needed.

So it hadn’t been rocket science to figure out why I was closing off to people. Why I’d spent my days under the blanket, reading or texting or crying. Very quietly. Apparently just not quiet enough, because next thing I knew, she’d packed a bag, thrown half of my closet into it and announced she’d be waiting for me in the car. No room for ifs, buts or whys: no room for arguments.

We’d known each other for roughly three months when she took me to spend Thanksgiving with her family. For the past three years, she’d insisted on doing so for every other holiday, too.

Christmas? I was there.

Easter? You guessed it.

Fourth of July? Yup .

Her parents hadn’t questioned my presence once. From the moment we’d arrived, Delphia and James had welcomed me with open arms. Nobody asked about my bad mood or why I had locked myself in their guest room. Nobody forced me to eat with them. Instead, if I hadn’t shown up for dinner, there was always a plate waiting, right by my door. Most of the time, I did eat with them, but when I didn’t, there was understanding.

They understood me. Valued me. Maybe even… loved me, a little bit.

In three years, they had shown me what family meant more so than most people that had been in my life forever.

“Doesn’t have to be blood, for it to be real.” McCarthy must have been aware of where my thoughts were leading me. His voice was calm and kind, when he interrupted them. “You can choose. You always have a choice.”

When my eyes opened and slid to him slowly, his face was as soft as his voice had been. Features relaxed, kindness in his eyes. He offered me a smile just as genuine once he noticed my gaze on him, a gentle nod accompanying the gesture.

Understanding, I thought. That’s what he was giving me.