Lessons in Faking (Hall Beck University #1)

Chapter 34

CHAPTER 34

However, there was something very physical-only about waking up in an empty bed the morning after. Nothing screamed casual like reaching for the person that’s supposed to be lying next to you, only to find their spot cold and empty.

I should have been ecstatic about it. The way my heart fell into the pit of my stomach would be temporary. Better to find out Dylan had changed his mind about me now, than after I’d replayed that thing he did with his fingers, or the way he’d muttered my name when he’d come.

Why wasn’t I ecstatic about this?

Turning with a grumble, I opened my eyes to the empty side of his bed. The covers were neatly pulled back, the imprint of his head still on the pillow. When I sighed, his scent crept into my nose too. That’s when I noticed the hot pink sticky note stuck to the headboard, and my stomach twisted.

Sticky notes didn’t say casual to me, my physical-only side complained.

Sticky notes didn’t say casual to me, my why-wasn’t-I-ecstatic-about-this side cheered.

I got up embarrassingly quickly, grabbed the pink paper, and ripped it off the headboard to read.

Had to leave for Harvard game. By the time you’re up I’ll probably be done. Text me, we can go celebrate.

In the corner, he’d drawn a rose identical to the ones he’d been terrorizing me with just weeks ago. Fuck physical-only. By the wide smile on my lips, one side had won so long ago, denial had become my trusted companion.

Although it was to no one but myself, I let that admission simmer for a moment. Took a deep breath in and out. Thought about it. Thought about him. Thought about him some more. Took a deeper breath and scrambled out of his bed, away from his smell entangled in the sheets.

I’d fallen off that cliff a while ago. My smile when I opened his chat told me that.

ME, Saturday, 11:25 AM

how well did being cocky serve you? did you win or is this going to be a defeat-lunch?

either way I’m down

I didn’t know why I had expected an immediate response, but when it didn’t come, I didn’t like the slight disappointment settling in my chest. I took my time getting dressed, deliberately keeping my phone out of reach. It wouldn’t hold out much longer with its ten percent battery, anyway.

My jeans were no longer on the floor, but hanging across the heater under the window, miraculously dry. But Dylan must not have had the time to search for my shirt, because when I found it half hidden under his bed, it was still wet. I cringed at the touch.

My eyes slid through McCarthy’s room and got stuck on his closet. A few minutes later, his grey HBU hoodie fell over my blue jeans, and I’d put on a pair of fuzzy socks from the back of a drawer.

I tiptoed down the corridor and staircase before I realized both of Dylan’s roommates were on the soccer team. Something swelled in my chest at the thought that he’d trusted me enough to leave me here.

Three hours later, I was back in full denial mode. Square one: Dylan McCarthy Williams was despicable. Just the worst. I never liked him, would never like him, and last night was as big a mistake as asking him to be my fake boyfriend in the first place.

He hadn’t replied to my texts, if you couldn’t tell.

I hunched over a textbook at our kitchen counter, sitting on one of the stools. Wren was on the other side, trying to decide what food to order—her eyes running over the different menus spread across the rest of the island. At least twenty of them.

My mind wasn’t where it should’ve been either. This was the fourth time I’d read the exact same sentence, and my head slumped onto the open book with a groan.

Wren’s gaze snapped in my direction, considering me for a second before breaking the tense silence. “What?” she asked, brows furrowed.

“Nothing.”

That was obviously not convincing, because a second later Wren asked again. “What is it?”

“You’re going to laugh at me.”

A beat of silence passed, during which she tried to figure me out. She was usually great at that, so her lighthearted answer didn’t surprise me.

“I probably will,” she agreed, and my head lifted at that, sending a glare her way. “But tell me anyway, maybe there’s wisdom behind the joke I’ll make.” In exchange for my glare, she winked at me, though permanently shifted her attention from the takeout menus onto me.

I groaned before the word “McCarthy,” slipped out in a mutter. I wasn’t surprised when her brow furrowed. I wouldn’t have understood what I’d said if I hadn’t been thinking about him (and my unanswered texts) for the past hours, either.

“What?” she confirmed that I’d spoken too quietly. Maybe it’s better that way.

I shook my head quickly before it fell back and I was looking at the ceiling, my hands fidgeting with the dish towel hanging on the side of the island. “McCarthy,” I breathed out, slower and with more conviction behind my words. “It’s McCarthy— God , this is embarrassing.” When my eyes slid to my best friend again, they narrowed.

Wren’s goofy grin was rare. The one that revealed her white teeth, made her nose crinkle and her eyes narrow, not in annoyance but with a laugh. “What?” I practically hissed, and the outburst made her snort in amusement.

“Nothing.” Her hands flew up in mocked surrender, then she changed her mind. “I’m just wondering if you even know his first name at this point.” The incredulous look on my face made her continue. “Well,” she began. “You’ve been dating for months. You’ve been hooking up, too, I assume. Do you moan his last—”

I cut her off so quickly, I would’ve stumbled over any word that wasn’t: “Wren!” Hushing and blushing; loudly, hysterically. “We have not been ‘dating for months.’” I put air quotes around the words as I recovered from my outburst.

“What do you call hanging out every day and going on actual planned dates, like, once a week, then?” She raised her eyebrows as if she knew she had won right then and there. But I wasn’t giving up that easily.

“ Fake dating.” I put emphasis on the fake , my arms crossing victoriously.

“Your orgasms are fake, too, then?”

I grabbed the towel I’ve been fidgeting with to throw at her, hurling it right into her face and knocking a few takeout menus off the counter in the process.

“Stop,” I whined a second later, regretting it as soon as the word slipped past my lips. I shook my head, and a questioning look formed in my features. “Why is it so weird to talk about him like that? We’ve always done it, with all kinds of guys.” And I didn’t think it had anything to do with Wren’s past feelings for me. Even if, maybe, it should.

But, “We love talking shit about men,” I groaned. “It’s like our favorite hobby.” I pouted, slouching over the kitchen island, my head landing in my hand, and my elbow resting on top of the granite surface.

Her smile softened at that, head tilting slightly in that I’m-going-to-be-a-good-friend-now kind of way. Like when she’d pulled an all-nighter to help me study for my last final, or when she had to tell me my ex-boyfriend was cheating on me. She’d sat me down, put an arm around me, her head on my shoulder before she did. She was looking at me the way she had back then, too.

“Because you like him.” She pointed it out like it was obvious. Like I hadn’t only come to terms with the fact this morning and wished I hadn’t ever since.

“I do not like him.” I glanced at my phone. “He hasn’t even texted me back, and—” My eyes widened, and Wren gave me a knowing look. “Oh my God,” I gasped. “That was pathetic. I’m pathetic, aren’t I?”

And to top it all off, as if it was an instinct I couldn’t fight off, even if I’d wanted to (which I didn’t), I jumped for my phone the second it vibrated on the counter next to me. It’d been face down, and hope fizzed in the pit of my stomach when I turned it over. It fizzled out quickly.

“LinkedIn.” I slid my phone back out of my immediate reach, letting go of a humorless laugh. Wren couldn’t help the actual laugh that bubbled out of her, and the sound made my lips twitch. Involuntarily—I still felt pathetic.

“Oh my.” She sighed, smile still on her lips as her head shook sympathetically. “You’ve got it bad, haven’t you?” Her tone was as teasing as it was genuine, her smile as amused as it was comforting.

“I wish I had another dish towel.” I faked a grin so wide my cheeks hurt, only dropping it when she laughed, and my smile turned genuine with a roll of my eyes. But I didn’t disagree, did I? “I don’t want to have it bad.” I concluded, looking at her as if she had the power to extract my feelings, bottle them up and make them look pretty on a shelf.

“ Hah .” Her head fell back with a laugh. “Been there, done that,” she joked. There was no bitterness in her voice, no malice to the words or a deeper meaning to be interpreted, but I felt guilty regardless. I grimaced with an apologetic glance.

“Look.” She cleared her throat, trying her best to steer clear of any lingering awkwardness. “I may not be McCarthy’s biggest fan,” she admitted, stepping around the island to nudge me toward the living room. I grabbed my phone from the counter, just in case. It earned me an eye roll from my best friend. “And if it turns out he has no reason to ghost you, I will personally kick his ass.” We sat, and I let myself fall into the cushions with a deep sigh. “But until then…” Wren trailed off as if it was hard enough to give him the benefit of the doubt.

I dropped my head onto her shoulder in defeat. “I think I hate him,” I lied.

“We can pretend you do,” Wren’s voice adapted that comforting lull that made me close my eyes and take a deep breath to relax. “What do you hate most about him?”

We’d spent so much time together, and yet all I could think of was one thing.

“That he doesn’t know how to use his phone.” I sounded like a pouty child, and I didn’t care one bit. Neither did Wren.

“For me it’s the ego,” she said in amusement. “But not knowing how to use his phone is a close second.”

“How close?”

“ Very close .”

“Good.” My lips twisted into a smile, adjusting my head on her shoulder for more comfort. Right then, I was just glad to have her with me. Glad we were here together. Glad she stuck around. Glad she was my best friend.

“Fuck him, right?” I asked, sending a look in need of reassurance in Wren’s direction. I paced across the living room, my vibrating phone in one hand, the other one wildly gesturing, I concluded my short rant. “I shouldn’t answer,” I said more confidently. Immediately, that crumbled, and I sent her another look. “Right?”

My eyes darted down to the McCarthy shining brightly on my screen, the green and red call buttons equally enticing.

“Well,” Wren began. “I’d love to hear him beg for forgiveness.” One point for green . “On the other hand, he needs to know you’re not constantly available for him.” Two points for red , because it was a much more compelling argument.

My distress only grew when the phone had been ringing for long enough to know it would stop any second now. So, short-circuiting—as I did when it came to McCarthy—I picked up.

“Look who finally remembered they had a phone,” I drawled sarcastically. Wren gave me a thumbs-up.

“Athalia.”

My stomach dropped when it wasn’t Dylan on the other end. I held the phone away from my ear to read the contact name again. McCarthy written in bold, big letters, underneath the seconds of the call ticking by. Nine, ten, eleven. “Hello?”

I quickly brought it back to my ear. “Yes?” I said, unsure where the lump in my throat came from. “Who’s this?” Wren gave me a strange look as I held her gaze.

“It’s Blake—”

“Blake!” I repeated, a little too cheery to keep Wren in the loop. Her brows drew together just like mine had. Immediately, my tone dropped back to its concerned note when I remembered he wasn’t calling from his own cell. “Is this your way of asking for my number?” A fake laugh accompanied my attempt at a joke, and it fell on deaf ears.

Blake cleared his throat at the other end of the line, as if preparing for a speech in front of thousands of people. “Listen, uh—” he stammered, and I knew if we were having this conversation face to face, he’d be avoiding my gaze relentlessly. But we weren’t, and so I kept my eyes on my best friend, for some kind of comfort. “It’s Dylan,” he said.

My head spun, immediately jumping to death. Car crash, heart attack, a foul that made him break his neck. The possibilities were endless and scary, and I felt my breath pick up, my chest rising and falling faster, heavier.

“It’s Dylan,” I repeated, monotone—unsure what to say or do or feel. “What about Dylan?” My voice was surprisingly neutral, considering the wave of panic that had just crashed over me. I think the hand in the pocket of McCarthy’s hoodie was shaking. The one holding the phone was not.

Wren looked concerned, whether that was because of the cryptic pieces of conversation she was hearing, or the fact that, in reality, I wasn’t hiding my panic well at all, I didn’t know.

The entire situation felt all too familiar for comfort.

Flashbacks of Aunt Claire on the phone, eyes continuing to flicker back and forth between my brother and me as she tried to comprehend the fact her sister had just died. The fact that she was the one who had to tell her kids they’d just become orphans. She had probably felt similar to how I did now, my mind immediately jumping to the worst case scenario.

“We’re in the hospital, he’s—” Blake hesitated, and I didn’t mean to jump at that cue. The word kind of just slipped out.

“Dead.”

Wren shot in my direction so fast, I was surprised she didn’t fall over her own feet. Concern riddled her features as she leaned closer to the phone I pressed tightly against my ear.

“What?” His breath hitched. “No, no— God, no . It’s nothing like that.” My relieved exhale wasn’t subtle, though I didn’t care one bit. “He’s pretty bruised up, a couple of broken ribs, the hospital gave him… something —”

Not dead, but pretty bruised up with a couple broken ribs, in so much pain the hospital had to give him something . It didn’t sound like a reason to celebrate. “Which one?”

Blake stuttered on the other line. “Which—?” he repeated. “Which drugs?” He cleared his throat. “I don’t know, I could probably ask.” He was moving around, maybe scouring the hospital corridors for a nurse or doctor. I shook my head even though he couldn’t see it.

“Hospital.” I cut off his search, and he stilled on the other end. “Which hospital?”

“Oh.” He seemed relieved to be exempt from the task of figuring out which drugs his best friend was on. “Saint Francis Memorial—”

The line went dead because I’d killed it, already halfway through the apartment, throwing on sneakers and a coat, grabbing my car keys without much regard.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” I was mid-departure when Wren’s voice boomed through the space. She had put on shoes too, and was heading for the coatrack. Snatched the car keys out of my hand, grabbed her own, and without waiting for a reply, stepped through the door I had opened for myself. When I closed it behind me, she finally asked, “Where are we going?”

I didn’t know why, but I laughed at that. Maybe it was the nerves, the adrenalin and the worry coursing through my veins. Maybe the endless adoration I had for the girl beside me, but I laughed until we stood in the elevator, half-way to the ground floor. Then, I sighed, and it felt as though my entire face twitched back into reality. “Saint Francis Memorial.”

Although she hadn’t joined in with my laughter, she took on that serious expression and I could see the shift between the two. Where her brows drew up slightly, her eye twitched once and her lips curled in concern and worry. For me or Dylan? I didn’t know.

Her pace picked up, though she said nothing. I could tell she wanted to stop dead in her tracks right then, give me a big hug and encouraging words, but knew the last thing I wanted was to slow down. So we power-walked to her car, while she typed the address of the hospital into her maps app.

Unprompted, I recalled every word Blake had said, as soon as she started driving. Filling Wren in on the broken ribs, the bruises, and the drugs he was on (which meant he was in enough pain to need them, in the first place. Which, in turn, wasn’t good).

“ But ,” I said, the note lingering. “Not dead.” I tried to sound hopeful. Though, how low was the bar if not dead was supposed to be an encouraging statement?

“God,” I exhaled, my body slumping back into the seat. “I’m an asshole.” Wren’s eyes jumped from the road onto me for a second, and I took that as a sign to go on. “I was annoyed the guy wasn’t answering a stupid text when he was probably on his way to the fucking hospital.”

Realization settled, and it didn’t feel pretty. In fact, it felt awful, and I wanted to crawl into a hole and never leave it again. “I’m not pathetic—just an asshole,” I figured, and Wren shook her head.

It had been similar with my parents. Henry and I had been upset about their spontaneous Thanksgiving trip idea, which hadn’t included their children. We’d been dumped with one of the few sitters we’d rotate through, sitting in the living room overlooking New York City.

“ I hope it rains ,” Henry had said. “ I hope the food is bad,” ’ I had countered. Hours after they should’ve arrived, hours after we hadn’t gotten a made-it text or call like we usually would, we’d kept going. “ I hope the mosquitos are vicious this time of the year ,” Henry had said. “ I hope the water is cold ,” I had said.

By then, they were already dead.

“You’re not an asshole.” Wren snapped me out of my thoughts, and I shook my head quickly.

“I am!” I interrupted. “Even you gave him the benefit of the doubt.” I didn’t even realize the severity of that until now, and my lips parted in both guilt and incredulity. “Oh my God,” I gasped again. “Even you—”

“Athalia,” she snapped, and my head flew in her direction. “Would you stop guilt-tripping yourself over something you had no control or knowledge over?”

My mouth opened to disagree, though her sharp, one-second glare was enough to close it again. My legs bounced in the passenger seat as I struggled not to go on and on about how much of a selfish asshole I was—had been—for the entire rest of the drive. Which—full disclosure—was only another minute or two. By the time we’d parked the car and speed-walked inside, the only thing I could think of was Dylan McCarthy Williams.

The fact an entire soccer team filled the hospital lobby didn’t just let us know we were in the right place, but that Dylan’s accident couldn’t have been too long ago. That, or his team just loved him so much, they were still here hours after he’d been checked in and diagnosed; probably hoping he’d get discharged today—though from what Blake had said, I doubted Dylan would spend his night anywhere other than a hospital room. Some sat with their heads down, others had offered their spot to the few elderly people among the hospital crowd. My brother stood in the farthest corner there was, his arms crossed in front of his chest, staring at his feet, one of which was propped against the wall behind him.

Later , I thought. Instead, I scanned the place for Blake.

I spun around at least three times, pushing myself up on my tiptoes to catch a glance of his dark skin and the short hair. Nothing. Just rows of vaguely familiar faces noticing me, falling into whispers with their teammates, like little girls who weren’t sure if they’d just walked past a C-list celebrity.

If they knew why I was here, who I was here for, couldn’t one of them just point me in the right direction? The right room? The right floor?

“Room 219, second floor.”

I hurled toward my answered prayer. And stared back at Wren. “How do you know?”

Her head tilted lightly, turning me toward the receptionist. “I asked ,” she said, giving the blonde, middle-aged woman a light wave. “And the nice lady told me.” The nice lady smiled back at us, then nodded.

“But you hate talking to strangers.”

Wren was the introvert to my extrovert. When there were reservations to make, customer-services to call or things to ask, she sent me to do it. As it was the only thing I could do for her—the only way she seemingly benefited from our friendship—I did so gladly.

So, Wren casually going to ask the receptionist ( anything , never mind where we’d find McCarthy) was to me what premium Hamilton tickets were to her. I could have cried if I wasn’t already halfway to the elevators.

I love you! I mouthed, watching her make her way over to Henry, and with a sigh, I pressed the button to the second floor. Six times.