Lessons in Faking (Hall Beck University #1)

Chapter 26

CHAPTER 26

Entertaining ourselves on the long drive had turned into 5 questions, 10seconds —an impossible game Wren had come up with, in our first week together.

I’d been drunk, coming home from my first college party, energized off the high of free booze, socializing and meeting Jason. Not at all tired, I’d found my new roommate in bed with a book in hand. She’d only given me a lazy smile when I bulldozed through the door, louder than I should have at two in the morning. On a whim, I’d challenged her to 21 Questions, to get to know her better, and Wren quickly turned it into 5 questions , 10seconds .

Nobody answers 21 questions honestly , she’d explained. Though with five questions in ten seconds, you hardly had time to answer at all, never mind make up a lie. The stress alone made you blurt out the inevitable truth.

It was my turn to ask. “Favorite fruit?”

“Apples.”

“Least favorite girlfriend?”

“Ella in Kindergarten.”

“Favorite girlfriend?”

“You.”

“Why do you hate me?”

“I don’t.”—A lie, perhaps?

“What did you and Wren talk about?”

Another great thing about the game? After some trivial questions that would let the other’s guard down, answers just started tumbling out of them.

McCarthy’s lips parted, ready to spill out the answer just as quickly as the last few. He caught on in the last moment, and a sly grin took over his features. His eyes flicked in my direction, only for a second, head shaking in disbelief.

“That’s a low blow, Pressley. Even for you.” He wagged his finger at me in amusement, then brought it up to his mouth and pretended to lock it and throw away the key. It kind of defeated the purpose when he said, “My lips are sealed.”

I grinned. “Worth a try.” I blew a strand of my curtain bangs out of my face, leaning back into the passenger seat. “What did poor Ella do to you?”

McCarthy huffed as I reset the timer on my phone. “Even at our young age, she was a very demanding woman.”

“I’m a demanding woman.”

McCarthy snickered. “I know.” His eyes slid toward the countdown. “Ready?”

I nodded, pressed start, and he fired his first question at me. “Favorite movie?”

“ Moana .”

“First celebrity crush?”

“Young Leo.”

“Favorite snack?”

“Sour Patch Kids.”

“Why do you need to get back at your brother?”

“Since our parents died—” By the time I’d cut myself off, it was already too late.

It was like we’d been ignoring the elephant in the room and it finally stepped on us.

The silence that lingered after mentioning my parents only lasted around three seconds, but I looked at McCarthy like a deer in headlights. I didn’t even notice the phone timer buzzing in my lap, until he blindly reached for it and turned it off.

I scoffed at myself, a humorless ghost of a laugh. I’ll give it that, this drive had been a good distraction from the mess my actual life was in. The life that didn’t include McCarthy, who took me on road trips, made sure I ate and was about to introduce me to his whole family over Thanksgiving.

Suddenly, dead parents, fucked-up sibling dynamics and crumbling friendships were all the more prominent. My mood plummeted and my stomach twisted with an uncertain dread.

“Is that something you want to talk about?” he asked. “Your parents?”

Until now, I didn’t think it was. Not with him, anyway. My eyes shifted, scanning the signs we passed, the trees alongside the road, as I mulled over his question— his offer .

I wasn’t sure whether I was ready to show him the part of me that wasn’t all snappy comebacks and sarcastic jokes. The one that was still broken, would probably always be—a little bit.

“I know it’s always helped me,” he added thoughtfully, his voice even and calm. “Talking about things, I mean.”

And he was right. At least according to my therapist, he was. Stephanie had always insisted that talking was the key to handling this. Burying and suppressing would only make things worse.

Clearly, Henry hadn’t listened to her.

My gaze swept over the guy behind the steering wheel. His eyes on the road, relaxed but alert. “We’ve still got a long drive ahead of us,” he said, glancing at me. “And I’d love to listen. If that’s something you want.”

I blinked at him, let out a breath. McCarthy was a good listener; I knew that much. And he had offered.

So once the floodgates opened, I told the poor boy everything. More than he probably wanted to know.

“So your parents both went to HBU?” he asked during a short pause in my rambling. I nodded. My eyes set on the passing scenery as we steadily approached civilization and left the long, winding highway behind.

“It’s where they met,” I elaborated. “My dad wrote his thesis at HBU during his semester abroad. They basically begged him to.” I scoffed at the memory, the legacy behind his name lingering. “For the soccer thing.” My head cocked in McCarthy’s direction at the mention of the sport, though his eyes were still on the road. “They knew he’d go pro the second he graduated—his parents were adamant that he needed a degree, and HBU wanted his name attached to them. Back then, their soccer team wasn’t anything special.”

“Because they didn’t have me,” McCarthy joked, and the corner of my mouth twisted up at his words, accompanying my eye roll.

“Surely,” I drawled, exaggerating the word before shifting my gaze outside once more. “I guess they didn’t have you, but once Dad agreed to his full ride semester, they had Felix Pressley. He became captain, led them to victory in his senior year and the rest is history, I guess.” The rest being: Felix Pressley becoming a soccer legend by the time he was twenty-three; playing for the British national team until Henry and I were five; then “retiring” to play in the States, where he’d been valued at 70million dollars.

“And your mom?” His question wasn’t hesitant. Mentioning my mother so casually, I forgot I was grieving her for a second.

That was new. Unfamiliar. Kind of… nice. Of him.

I almost thanked him again, just for treating the subject like any other.

“Naomi Yung had a flourishing business, by the time she entered her junior year of college,” I said, reiterating the thousands of headlines and articles in a booming voice before dropping the humorous tone. “First one to focus on deep data instead of just big data, offering applied statistics to—” I cut myself off. McCarthy hadn’t asked for a deep dive into my mother’s life’s work. “She graduated with honors. Her bachelors and her masters. By the time she’d left university, DeepStat had acquired their largest competitor and she was a multimillionaire. Self-made.”

“Hold on,” McCarthy said. “You’re telling me your mom was a… statistician?”

I laughed, no humor in the sound. “Originally,” I agreed. I knew what he was getting at, so I pointed it out before he could. “Yet here I am,” I scoffed, defeated and burned out and realizing what had been sitting on my chest for so long. “Failing Statistics, of all things. Hating soccer.” And disappointing the only two people I didn ’ t want to disappoint . “They’d be disappointed if they were here to see, wouldn’t they?” I swallowed thickly, realizing how heavily the question hung in the air.

The sound of squeaking brakes interrupted what should’ve been an awkward silence. My head snapped in his direction. The seatbelt dug into my chest, holding me in place. My eyes, wide, found his.

Did we hit an animal? A person ? I searched for the reason for his abrupt stop, panic taking over my body, pulse thumping through my skin.

But nothing. Just a dark intersection, entirely empty. The traffic light illuminated the inside of his car in a cool green, turning to harsh red as we sat in silence. I looked back at him, meeting his gaze in a startle as another realization hit—that this had been the first time I’d let it all out. That it happened to be McCarthy I was letting it out to .

My breath hitched painfully in my throat, a little shocked, definitely scared and the embodiment of insecure. If there was one person who shouldn’t see me in any of those states (and most definitely not in all of them at the same time), it was Dylan McCarthy Williams. Wasn’t it?

If that were true, I wondered why his jaw shifted, and his brow creased as he scanned me in the red light. His eyes flew across my face in rapid speed, concern in his tense features as the same emotion flashed through them.

I’m sorry , I meant to say. I didn’t mean to unload that on you . But the words stuck in my throat, my heart somersaulting in my chest, and it only got worse when his lips were suddenly on mine, body leant across the console meant to be separating us.

Another gasp flew out of me when our lips connected, this one surprised and low and kind of pleased. There was nothing primal or hungry in the way his lips moved against mine this time. No eagerness to go further, no impatience. Just color rising to my cheeks and stomach flutters as I realized that this was it .

That I’d never been kissed so tenderly. So sweetly. So reassuringly.

A kiss had never said so much—more than all the words, in every combination, could ever do.

And when he inched away from my lips, his forehead against mine and his breath a little heavier against the tip of my nose, I wondered if I’d ever recover from this. From him. From the little devil on my shoulder telling me: Dylan McCarthy Williams was it .

His eyes opened, hand still lingering on my cheek as his thumb rubbed feather-light circles. “If I ever hear you say something like that again—” he began, his voice so quiet, I had to concentrate on every word he said to catch it all. His head shook lightly against mine, eyes closing again. “You’re a once-in-a-lifetime kind of woman, Athalia. You get done what you want to get done, when you want to get it done. You don’t have to live on your parents’ schedule, and you don’t live in their or your brother’s shadow. You’re your own person. You know that, don’t you?”

All I knew was that I didn’t know what to say. That he’d rendered me speechless and fucking teary eyed.

I huffed against him in light amusement, forcing a similar sound out of him. “I’m sorry,” I finally got out, sounding less strangled than I felt. “I didn’t mean to unload all this on you. I should deal with my own shit before—”

“Shut up,” He created another inch of distance between us, his other hand coming up to hold my face. “I’ll deal with your shit as much as you’ll let me. I want to. Just like I want to hear everything you have to say, everything you want to tell me. Don’t ever apologize for that.”

Oh God.

I leaned in to kiss him this time.

A little sloppier, more distracted by the taste of his lips and the way he explored me, rather than the funny feeling in the pit of my stomach. His hands moved into my hair, pulling one strand behind my ear before disappearing into it completely. I couldn’t help the satisfied sigh that slipped past my lips in the tenth of a second they weren’t on his.

The sound drew a low groan out of him that only made me want him more. Closer. So much closer . The thought alone drove me further across the console, heat pooling between my legs as I pushed him back into the driver’s seat. I struggled to unbuckle my belt with one hand, when everything within me just wanted to focus on him.

Him, who teased my lower lip, biting it gently before my low moan encouraged him to do it harder. Him, whose uncontrolled breathing against my parted lips sent a shiver of need down my spine. Him, who occupied every corner of my conscious mind.

His honey-brown eyes; the dark mess atop his head, that was parted in the middle today, but usually hung messily across his forehead; the way his pink lips would curl into a smirk before eventually breaking into a grin that very rarely revealed his dimple.

A loud honk stopped me in my pursuit of his lap.

My eyes opened, breath hitching in my throat as we shot apart. The interior of his car was no longer glowing red, was instead illuminated by the deep green of the traffic light and the headlights of the car behind us.

McCarthy cleared his throat, startled as he struggled to clear his mind enough to shift into first gear. He quickly found his footing again, holding up an apologetic hand to the driver behind us as he got the Jeep rolling with a small squeak of wheels against tarmac.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he muttered, glancing my way as he rolled through the residential streets. He seemed familiar with his surroundings now, more comfortable taking his eyes off the road for a second longer to look at me. The teasing tone in his voice told me he was rather pleased about it.

In a lapse of all judgement, I confessed, “I really want you.” I almost sounded desperate, the way my voice broke toward the end of the sentence, and I was shocked to discover I wasn’t embarrassed by it at all.

“What?” If only for a second, his flustered state was obvious. It almost made me smile.

In my hazy mind, he was around every corner. I was distracted. Really, truly distracted for the first time around Thanksgiving. Surprisingly, it felt better to think about Dylan McCarthy Williams than my dead parents. So, I leaned into the feeling of it.

“I really, really want you,” I repeated, sounding more casual about it now. I enjoyed the way he gulped, the way his eyes slid back to the road in a hurry, and the way he couldn’t help flicking them across my frame again, a second later.

“Fuck,” he exhaled, shaking his head before it fell against the seat. “You can’t say shit like that when I’m about to pull into my family’s driveway, Athalia.” As if on cue, he did.

It’s hard to believe we’d been on the road for over six hours when he signaled left, then rolled up to a gate with a family crest at its center. It opened automatically before we’d even come to a halt, allowing McCarthy to drive up the gentle incline.

He stopped in front of four garage doors, embedded into a small hill on which the mansion stood, accessible via a prom-worthy staircase. Something I was envious of and the reason I’d always preferred our summer house in the Hamptons to the New York penthouse we’d grown up in.

The other car standing in front of the closed garage door was a white BMW, specks of dirt sprinkled across its sides and bumper. I wondered which one of his sisters it belonged to.

Were they all here? What about his father? McCarthy hadn’t really mentioned him. He hadn’t mentioned much about this weekend at all, actually. And I should’ve probably used the last five minutes of this drive to find out what I was getting into, instead of telling McCarthy how much I wanted to have sex with him. Jesus .

I had no other choice but to ignore his last words, because the second he turned off the engine and unbuckled his seatbelt, a young girl shot down the stoned staircase and toward the black Jeep. Delilah .

Any plan to brief me on his family—black-listed topics, names I shouldn’t mention, things I should prepare for—flew out the window. As soon as the man beside me noticed his little sister, his door swung open, and the girl was in his arms no more than five seconds later. I couldn’t help the smile on my lips when I watched him with all his six foot something, looking up at the twelve-year-old as he crouched in front of her.

I slid into my coat as soon as the late November air hit me, then closed the door behind me hesitantly. The sound awarded me their attention, their smiles so hauntingly similar, there was no doubt about their shared genes.

“Hey,” I greeted, waving at the girl a little awkwardly as I approached them, nerves suddenly flooding my system. I’d never banked so much on the opinion of a twelve-year-old. God, I hope she liked me, though. I hope they all would.

“Hello.” She smiled brightly, coming up to me in big, confident strides. Her skin was a little darker than her brother’s, her hair curlier and bouncing with the few steps she took to get to me. Without hesitation, she held her hand out for me to shake, and gave a smile so bright, every ounce of doubt and worry about this long weekend disappeared. “I’m Delilah, so glad to finally meet you.”

What McCarthy lacked in politeness and manners, this girl seemed to bring to the table. She gave me a little nod as I shook her hand, and before anyone else had the chance to say something, another unfamiliar voice boomed over the driveway.

“Dylan McCarthy Williams!” An older woman—her hair a pale blonde—roared as she appeared at the top of the stairs to her house, pointing an accusatory finger at her son. She held a pair of oven mitts in one hand, and shook her head at the two empty paper bags he was carrying. “You better not have stopped for fast food when I’ve saved you both a plate of lasagna.”

His grin deepened as he jogged up the stairs, probably even more so when he threw his arms around the woman at least seven inches shorter than him. He gasped. “How could you accuse me of something so cruel, Ma?” He laughed into the embrace, sneakily handing the bags off to another girl, who’d appeared behind them.

Her dark hair was sleek, some freckles covering her tan skin across the nose. Comfortable-looking bunny slippers decorated her feet and a fluffy robe covered her tank top and shorts. “For me?” she asked, a hint of excitement in her voice at the prospect.

McCarthy nodded, still in his mother’s arms and not seeming like he was planning to move. “Just for you, Dakota. ’Cause you’re my favorite.” Behind him, Delilah gasped in outrage, while Dakota’s smile grew, hastily opening one of the empty bags, the smell of our food probably still lingering inside.

McCarthy burst into a loud, carefree laugh when she threw it at his head, exasperation in her groan. While his sister began complaining, various insults coming from her lips and accusatory fingers being pointed, his mother’s attention slid to me. I only noticed because I’d still been looking at him. This entire time. Had I been staring? I tried to smile at her as casually as I could.

She shook her head in amused disbelief, sending me a goodhearted eye roll at her son’s behavior, only to whip him across the back of his head with the oven mitts a second later. My smile turned genuine. He deserved it. Probably.

“So you beg me to let you bring a girl to Thanksgiving, then skip the introductions?” she said. Her eyes shifting off me, she brought some distance between herself and her son.

“Not a girl, Mom,” Dakota snickered, wild amusement in her tone. “ The girl.”

Natalie shook her head again. “I cannot believe I raised you.” Her tone playful in its accusation.

McCarthy’s attention slipped away from his sister at once—not without throwing a silencing glare her way—but amusement and joy still glimmered in his eyes when they landed on me.

I ignored the word begged pointedly. I didn’t even let myself think of it.

“Nothing’s being skipped,” he said quickly, then shot another look at his mother. “And no one was begging. If I remember correctly, you jumped at the opportunity—”

“Because you’ve been talking about her for—!”

“ Dakota !” His voice was harsher when he shushed his sister. She leaned against the door frame, watching the situation with obvious amusement. His outburst only made her shrug, eyes moving to me with a wink before she headed back inside.

Clearing his throat, McCarthy overcame the few steps between us. “Sorry about them,” he muttered into my hair, the sound traveling into the pit of my stomach where it awoke… something. His hand found the small of my back, then gently nudged me inside the house.

“I heard that, young man!” his mom noted from behind us in a sing-song voice, and I couldn’t help the muted snort that escaped me. My head quickly shook, craning upward to find him already looking at me.

The tip of his nose was tinted a deep red from the cold, cheeks a little lighter in their color.He was smiling— at me, with me, all of the above : I didn’t know. He just smiled, content and carefree and happy, before he properly introduced me to his mother.

“You should’ve gotten rid of that Jeep a long time ago, Dylan.” Mr. Williams was the spitting image of his son, just that his hair was grey, his skin a little wrinkled and darker. They resembled each other right up to the unamused, lazy tone in their voices.

“Thanks for the input.” McCarthy’s attention shifted away from the lasagna on his plate, though he didn’t turn to look at his father, who was sitting on the couch behind him with a newspaper in hand that he wasn’t looking up from, either. The similarities in their manners were almost comical. Then, McCarthy’s lips turned up into a wide, faked grin, eyes on me as they rolled. “I’ll consider it.”

His father sighed, head shaking. “You won’t,” he stated matter-of-factly, as if they’d had this conversation a thousand times before. “At least park it in the garage, so we don’t have to look at the godawful thing whenever we leave the house.”

As if to sweep the tension out of the air, their older-looking golden retriever rushed into the room. I’d fallen in love with Rose in about two seconds, in which she’d only just managed to jump up my leg. Now, she scurried around the dining table in search of any food that might have fallen off our plates. The way she looked up at me with her big brown eyes, I would’ve sacrificed my entire meal.

McCarthy had made sure I wouldn’t get the chance to excuse myself and hide in his room to mope some more. Not in a cruel, forceful way— but less than an hour at his place, I was so involved in conversations, and too interested in listening to them, that I forgot I should be grieving. I’d learned and understood more about McCarthy in that hour, than I had in the entirety of our arrangement.

“ This ,” I pointed to the rest of the lasagna on my plate. “Is delicious, Natalie.”

She hummed in contentment, pleased by my words as her eyes slid to McCarthy beside me. “I’m sure you would’ve enjoyed it more if this guy hadn’t stopped by some awful fast food place earlier,” she said pointedly, her eyes rolling again, before she sent me a warm smile. “I’m glad you like it, Athalia.”

McCarthy’s head snapped in his mother’s direction at her accusation—a gasp escaping his lips as he shook it, dark hair bouncing with the movement. But he decided against arguing when he found her attention on me.

“It’s really good, Mom,” he agreed instead, nodding grandly and trying to keep her eyes off his fork, currently digging into the rest of my meal. He didn’t succeed, of course.

But Natalie just shook her head once more, hands in the air as if she was giving up before she stood. “Good luck,” she sighed in a weirdly endearing way.

“So,” Dakota popped into the chair her mother had been in two seconds before. “When are we doing baby photos?” Her question caught me off-guard, though I wasn’t about to complain about embarrassing childhood pictures of McCarthy. Think of all the stories, all the compromising information I was about to get out of this weekend.

“As soon as we can, please.”

Dakota seemed pleased by my quick and eager reply. McCarthy shot me a look of betrayal, mouth slightly parted before probably figuring he shouldn’t have expected anything else.

“We’re never—” he was cut off by Denise, his Europe-travelling older sister.

“Did someone say baby photos?” She stood behind Dakota’s chair, her hands placed on the backrest, excitement lingering in her voice. Her curly hair was in a bun atop her head. “I’m pretty sure Diana still has that video from Aunt Kiki’s wedding—” She turned her head toward the living room, the words sounding more like a question as she directed them at their oldest sister, Diana.

“I do!” It came from the couch not a second later, and Denise was halfway to her sister by the time she’d finished that sentence.

“His first drop of alcohol,” Dakota filled me in quickly.

“When I was fifteen ,” McCarthy added for context. His head landed on the table in playful annoyance. “No baby photos,” he groaned before coming up for air. “No dancing videos, either.”

“ Dancing videos?” Consider me officially intrigued.

Neither of his sisters took him seriously, only nodding in pretend-understanding before shaking their heads as soon as they looked back at me. My lips curled at the scene, feeling the guy beside me give up.

One last attempt when he said, “ I mean it .”

“Sure you do,” Dakota agreed, sporting a fake smile too wide to be natural.

McCarthy glared at his sisters, then pushed away from the dining table. The way his chair scraped across the floor was loud enough for Mr. Williams to shout, “The floors, Dylan! Jesus,” from the adjacent living room.

“It’s getting exceptionally late, everyone,” McCarthy announced loudly. The clock only showed half past ten. Dakota’s brow rose at his statement like she knew that too.

I only just managed to accompany my awkward wave with a “goodnight”, before I half-followed and he half-dragged me out of the room and up the stairs.