Lessons in Faking (Hall Beck University #1)

Chapter 30

CHAPTER 30

It had been worth it. Hearing his even breaths before I’d fallen asleep, and pretending not to wake when he’d brushed a strand of hair out of my face the next morning. His touch had lingered before he tiptoed out of his room when dawn was just breaking.

His casual smiles and usual jokes around the rest of his family would suggest last night never happened. The way our fingers would brush when no one else was looking showed me he hadn’t forgotten.

There’s nothing I want more than to touch you, to feel you.

My head between your thighs.

Hearing you moan my fucking name.

I certainly hadn’t forgotten. I wouldn’t for a long time, I thought.

So, yeah. I noticed how snug the white long-sleeve fit around his biceps. And how flattering his hair was with a little bit of a gel. And his perky butt when he carried our bags to his Jeep.

Sue me.

As he loaded our luggage into the back of the car, I leaned against the passenger side. The sun was out for the first time in a while today, and though it was still cold—seeing-your-breath kind of cold—the sun made it bearable. I squinted, watching the McCarthys trot out of their house one after the other, a smile on my face when Natalie was the first to embrace me.

“It was lovely meeting you, Athalia. Really .” She squeezed me tightly, and I delightedly returned the gesture. “Such a change of pace from the troublemakers I usually have around.” She gave all five of her children a playfully scolding look, and while complaints rained from their mouths, a laugh escaped mine.

“Thank you for having me,” I said softly. “It means a lot. More than you can probably imagine.” I sighed. “I’ll extend the same courtesy to you guys. Promise.” With that, she walked the few steps over to her son, while I said goodbye to the rest of his family.

Diana leaned against the car beside me with a loud sigh. She smiled against the sun, and I swear the warmth it radiated was similar. His entire family was so incredibly lucky with their genes, it wasn’t even fair.

She turned in my direction, her smile teasing when she nudged my shoulder. “ So ,” she dragged out, eyes shooting to her brother just once, very quickly. “I’m glad he finally had the balls to do this.”

I couldn’t help but huff in amusement, a little confused, nonetheless. “Do what?” I wondered, hoping I wasn’t missing some big, obvious thing that’d make me look stupid for not connecting the dots. But Diana just smiled, throwing her head back with a gentle laugh once more. Her short hair seemed a bit lighter in the sun.

“You know,” she muttered through a deep breath, then gestured back and forth between me and Dylan. I don’t think I knew. “This thing. With you. And him. God knows he’s been wanting to ask you o—”

“Great!” Dylan clapped his hands together, cutting his sister off and throwing an arm around her. I almost groaned out loud at his interruption. “Goodbye, Didi.” The grin on his face told me he knew exactly what he was doing. “Always a pleasure.”

Diana rolled her eyes in amusement, though she slung her arms around him anyway. Over his shoulder, she gave me a wink. “I guess that’s your sign to leave,” she snickered, a knowing brow raised.

“It is indeed.” Dylan opened the passenger door. His look was expectant when I didn’t immediately jump into the vehicle, though after a nod in its direction, I obliged his request and slipped inside. He gave everyone another hug—his mother’s was a bit longer—and then jogged around the car to get inside.

“ You —” I grumbled as soon as he pulled out of the driveway, pointing an accusatory finger his way. “You always interrupt my most interesting conversations. Do you know that?”

His sheepish smile was noticeable even when he concentrated on the road. “I might.”

This time, in the safety of his car, I let that frustrated groan out. My head fell back into the seat with the sound. “So what was she about to say, then?”

“Who?”

“Your sister.”

“Which one?”

Another groan. “ Diana .”

“Oh.” His eyes darted to me again, coming to a halt at a stop sign. “No idea.” He grinned broadly as he shifted into first gear and got us rolling again.

“You’re the worst.” I glared at him to add to the dramatics. “Seriously.”

He grimaced. “I’m about to make it so much worse, princess. I’m sorry.”

My brow wrinkled at the words. Unfortunately, I wasn’t worried enough to ignore the effect his supposedly teasing nickname had on me. “What?” I asked carefully.

“How does Statistics for the rest of the drive sound to you?”

My face fell at once, body deflating. “No.”

The self-satisfaction was prominent in his smile and the amount of confidence in his one-word answer. “Yes.”

“I’m just going to get some gas.” Turning right to pull into the station, Dylan took the opportunity to let his gaze wander me once before snapping back onto the road.

His head fell back with a laugh, having interpreted my miserable expression to be his fault. With a grumble, I released a long-suppressed sigh. “Meanwhile,” he drawled sweetly. Ignorantly. Destructively. “Take that time to think of the correct answer.”

“Fuck you—”

But my insult was cut off by his door closing, and there was no time to throw more at him after his kind suggestion. I groaned loudly, all alone in his car. After the sixty-minute Statistics hell I’d just been through, it was a well-earned release. Though, unfortunately, halfway through the unnecessarily long, frustration-filled sound, the passenger door swung open, and I startled so harshly, my groaned turned into a horrified squeal. A horror-movie worthy scream.

“Dylan!” His name slipped past the loud gasp, wishing I had his mother’s oven mitts to whack across his head. My hand still on my heart, I could feel it bursting out of my chest underneath.

His grin was wide, and sweet, and irresistible. All dimples, zero shame.

Forearm resting against the top of his car, he leaned down to eyelevel, then pointed a finger at me. “And do not google the answer.” My door shut again.

This time, I watched his every move until he disappeared into the gas station to pay. Though, as soon as his silhouette disappeared behind the glass doors and they slid shut behind him, I made use of his little piece of friendly advice—which was really what it had been. I hadn’t even considered googling anything. If I were being honest, I’d forgotten I owned a phone over the last few days. So, as I slipped it out of my bag, the reminder was well appreciated.

Until my missed messages began flooding in.

The dings cut themselves off—that’s how many, how fast they were coming in. And although I turned the sound off as soon as I could, the vibrations were enough of an indicator of how fucked I’d eventually be, going through them all.

Maybe I’d just get a new phone, a new number, instead.

With my stomach churning, phone still vibrating, and messages continuing to pop up in the notifications bar, I went to do what Dylan had told me not to. Unfortunately, I didn’t get quite that far.

HENRY, Wednesday, 9:22 PM

are u home?

could you just open the door please?

your lights are off.

could you just open the door?

i’m staying over the holidays. if you need anything lmk

please?

Athalia?

They all came in, one after the other. I didn’t know what compelled me to click on the banner notification, but a second later I was staring at a string of grey text messages, missed call notifications and my brother’s name on top of the chat.

HENRY, Thursday, 9:09 AM

are you okay?

do you need me to come over?

i will

HENRY, Thursday, 9:45 AM

i know i fucked up but can you just open the door?

i heard you and wren had a falling out

and i don’t want you to be alone today

are you okay?

your neighbor let me in. i’m waiting in front of your door if you need me

not that you need me for anything but

yeah

HENRY, Thursday, 4:01 PM

i’m getting worried.

Followed by a string of missed calls. Followed by:

HENRY, Thursday, 7:30 PM

seriously just let me know you want space and I’ll back off

but you’re not saying anything and i’m freaking out a little here

athalia?

HENRY, Thursday, 11:11 PM

i’m thankful for you, little sister

I think that message delivered the final punch that threw me out of his chat, and into my general inbox. Tears broke at the corners of my eyes, fueled by guilt, more guilt and then some.

Feeling guilty hadn’t been on my fight-with-Henry bingo card. But how could I not?

I’d just… left him. My twin brother, who’d gone through the same kind of traumatic loss, felt as awful as I did every year and just hid it better. And he wasn’t just grieving—albeit in that if-I-don’t-acknowledge-something-it-doesn’t-exist kind of way of his—but had been worried sick.

About me .

The worst thing? That, somehow, this was what I’d wanted from this whole McCarthy nonsense, right? His attention—seeing that he cared. The chat bubbles on my phone indicated that I’d gotten exactly what I wanted, and I still didn’t feel any better. Worse, probably.

Mindlessly, I scrolled through the dozens of unanswered texts from distant relatives, old acquaintances, friends. My finger stopped at Wren’s contact picture, hovering and tempted to click it. I’ve already messed with my mood anyway, hadn’t I? Fuck it.

To my surprise—and I felt kind of douche-y for expecting her to care as much as Henry had—our last normal messages smiled at me brightly. There were only two new texts underneath them.

WREN, Thursday, 10:20 AM

if he fucks this up i’ll murder him, but can’t help thinking of u today and hope he doesn’t fuck it up (although I’d love to murder him)

got some things to explain, talk when we’re home

She knew. The realization punched me in the gut.

We talked. No coercion needed, no harm done.

Was this what they had talked about that day? Asking him whether he’d take care of me when she couldn’t— wouldn’t?

I didn’t think I’d ever felt as loved and humiliated at the same time. Didn’t think I had ever hated and appreciated a gesture more. I didn’t even know whether I should be angry or appreciative. Scream or laugh. Or cry.

Fortunately, that decision was made for me when Dylan jogged out of the gas station with a plastic bag in hand. His glance trailed along the empty lot, only one other, rusty-looking car parked in a distant corner.

As quickly as I could, I slipped my phone back into the bag, and leaned into my seat, trying to give a genuine looking smile. I blinked the wetness out of my eyes, sniffed to get it out of my system. Distraction, distraction, distraction , I told myself. By now, I knew McCarthy was a good one.

The boy slipped into the seat beside me, slamming the door shut. “It’s freezing out there,” he complained with a shiver, throwing the bag into my lap and rubbing his hands together as if he couldn’t just turn the car—and therefore the heating—on.

“Like your soul,” I sighed, kind of mindlessly. My eyes had been closed, though they opened with an amused gleam when he gasped theatrically at my remark.

“Wow.” His hand flew up to his chest, clasping his heart as if it were aching. The playfully pained expression made me smile. “What happened in the past ten minutes that has made me the subject of your harsh criticism, Pressley?” His head shook, tongue held against the inside of his cheek to keep him from smiling.

“Seriously,” he pressed. “I’m hurt.” Another laugh rattled out of me. I think it was then, that I realized Dylan wasn’t just a great distraction when we were trying not to have sex with each other and half-failing, he was a great distraction, period . “And to think I got you Sour Patch Kids––I should probably return them while we’re still here.” He nodded at the bag in my lap, eyes wandering back to the gas station with a teasing smile he tried to suppress. He started the car anyway.

The way he made me laugh so effortlessly took me by surprise.

Because of all the things I thought might come out of this agreement: my brother’s affection, the feeling of sweet revenge. A dead body, perhaps. I didn’t expect genuine enjoyment to be one of them. Even my occasional lapse-of-judgement-attraction, or the urge to kiss him whenever his dimple showed, was less shocking than that.

“So.” My head twisted in his direction when he spoke, catching his eyes returning to the road ahead.

“ So ,” I mirrored, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“Do you have an answer for me?”

I blinked. Did I miss something?

“For my statistical problem,” he added in explanation.

“Now I remember why I called your soul cold,” I grumbled, crossing my arms. “You’ve been torturing me for an hour, Dylan. Can’t I just enjoy the rest of our little road trip?”

“You’re enjoying our little road trip?” The question felt like a trap, so I just groaned and slumped back into my seat.

“I’m trying to.” If my eyes weren’t closed, I’d have rolled them to distract myself from the same realization I had just a few moments ago: I was enjoying this. Not just the road trip, not just the distraction, but his company. Him.

“And I’m trying to help you pass Statistics, princess.” This time, I could tell the nickname was back to being an insult. However, my stomach, and the way it fluttered, did not interpret it that way. At all. “And with your last run, you might just do. So let’s not give up now, alright?” His voice had completely dropped its amusement—instead adopted a soft, reassuring tone. Almost a murmur. The hopeful look in his eyes when they flicked my way was really all it took.

With a defeated sigh, I turned back to the road ahead. “Like I said,” I teased under my breath. “ Soulless .”

He seemed to take that as a sign that I was on board, because he adjusted in his seat happily and I could feel his smile all the way over here. I didn’t even have to look at him to know it was there. To keep my head clear, I didn’t check to confirm.

“You have been getting better,” he reminded.

Another word of encouragement or praise, just another word in that silky smooth tone of his, and it would get significantly harder for me to keep my head clear. In fact, it was already filling with how much I enjoyed this, instead of the usual sarcasm and insults.

I tried to steer away from that as best as I could.

“Well, I’d hope so,” I joked. Tried to joke. I wasn’t very convinced it landed, until the corners of his mouth twitched. “You’d make an exceptionally shitty teacher otherwise.”

“Or you an exceptionally shitty student.”

I couldn’t help but laugh at his observation. I couldn’t seem to stop, either. Because when his smile broke free, and when the sound of his laughter joined mine, it was like the floodgates opened and every sound from him was funnier than the last.

My belly hurt, and my cheeks ached, and this was probably the most physical activity I’d done in a while. That’s how I felt, at least: exhausted, but energized. Happy, carefree. Distracted.

I was still smiling when our laughter died out, becoming occasional huffs and heavy breathing. “Touché,” I said, eyes on him. “I guess the probability of your hypothesis is much more likely.”

And he almost looked impressed.