Page 48 of Hard to Fake

Miles did this. He had my shoes fixed after the party.

I’m surprised, grateful, and touched.

As I slip the shoes on, I feel a sense of warmth spreading through me.

It’s such a small thing, but Kevin only made an effort when there was a public payoff, or if there was something in it for him.

This is a private detail that means the world.

I make my way back to the kitchen, my heels clicking on the tile as I whistle.

Last night, I caught the Kodiaks basketball game on TV. They were hosting a hungry Dallas team. Miles looked good out on the court. He was quick, agile, and his movements were fluid.

He’s figuring out his shit. I can too.

I shift back onto the upholstered stool and return to my laptop.

First, I finish the seating arrangement so I can’t help running into Elise.

I most definitely do not put Caroline and Kevin at our table.

Next, I pull together a mood board of ideas from Elise’s teasers of the upcoming launch.

Scanning other social media, I look for connections in her brand and target market.

I asked a few friends about the budget Elise’s company would probably have to hire a spokesmodel, and they confirmed that it’s big.

Exactly what I need to kick off the next phase of my life.

Which is why I review my social account with a careful eye, making sure I have the perfectly curated feed.

I can see which of the photos my mom’s campaign didn’t like.

To be safe, I archive them. Just temporarily.

I’m satisfied with my work and start to type a text to Miles.

Brooke: Thank you for the shoes. It was very thoughtful.

I’m about to hit Send when a new image shows up in my feed.

Judging from the angle, the picture of Aliya and Miles is a selfie taken with her phone, and posted with the caption “When you know…” with two heart emojis.

His arm is looped casually around her waist, and she’s pressing close to him, her hand possessively on his neck.

It douses me in frigid water, like the icy pond at the gardens.

He said they weren’t serious, but still, it’s a reminder.

He’s not really mine.

I stab the “unfollow” button—I only followed her in the first place because she’s local, in the industry, and her campaigns occasionally give me inspiration.

But the sudden wave of nausea tells me it’s no longer worth it.

Jay: Pick you up on the way to laser tag?

As I reach for my phone to reply to Jay, I see a message from Miles.

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