Page 103 of The Fake Out

The paint was sticky on my skin. Smears of blues and yellows mingled, creating swirls of green.

He didn’t let go of my hand as he pulled me down the hall to the bathroom, or even as he turned on the shower. An eerie silence descended on us while we waited for the water to heat.

With capable hands, he squeezed the body wash onto my loofa. Then he worked painstakingly to gently scrub every inch of my skin. The paint colored the water green as it circled down the drain under my feet. When it ran mostly clear, he moved on to my hair, tenderly massaging my scalp. And in almost no time, we were in his bed, his arms locked around me, pulling me tight against him.

Every night, he held me like he’d never let me go. Even as his breathing evened out, he never loosened his grip. Normally, I fell asleep enveloped in the peace of being with him. But tonight, I didn’t feel peaceful.

Emerson was used to being alone. Was that the issue? That the idea of hoping for a life with someone was scary to him? Or was it something he didn’t want? Maybe he didn’t want the pressure of having another person to worry about.

Or maybe he just needed to be chosen for once.

According to the clock on the nightstand, it was after one. On Monday. My meeting with Mr. Whittemore was in a few hours. Did I want to go back to New York? I’d always been scared to go after the things I really wanted in life. I’d always taken the safest path. Nothing about leaving Doucette Design was safe. My paintings had done well last night, but there was no guarantee that would happen again. And although I had a meeting next week with the Revs to talk about designing a city jersey, they very easily could go with another artist. After that? Who knew when another opportunity would pop up.

I’d have to depend on selling my art for income, but who was to say there would be any interest? Creativity was weird. It came in bursts and sometimes it didn’t come at all. Some days, I struggled to find the inspiration to paint or the motivation to force the brush to move. And yet if I took the plunge, then I’d have to do it, even when it was hard. I didn’t feel brave enough to make that decision.

I squirmed, and Emerson’s arms loosened in response. Holding my breath, I slowly eased my way over so I was facing him. Then I ran my fingers along the scruff of his jaw. His long eyelashes fluttered, and warm breaths slipped through his full lips.

I sighed. Of course making decisions that would alter the whole trajectory of my life would be scary. But he’d tell me to be brave and to believe in myself. Right now, though, I wasn’t sure what that meant.

By the time I slipped out of bed, though, long before the sun was up, I knew what I was going to do. But I couldn’t wake him. If I did, I was afraid he’d try to talk me out of my decision.

I rolled onto my back and blinked up at the ceiling, instantly feeling off. Lolling my head to one side, I took in the empty space beside me. Gi was already up?

I tossed the blanket back and stood.

“Gi?” I called. But I was met with silence. After a quick lap through the empty apartment, I searched for my phone. Finding the living room and kitchen empty, I headed back to my room, only to find it on my dresser, next to a neat pile of clothes I’d worn last night.

A pile I hadn’t put there.

With a tap on my phone’s screen, I squinted at the time. Eight fifteen. My heart plummeted. Fuck. Her meeting started in fifteen minutes. She was in New York.

I ran a hand down my face and cursed again. I’d planned to set an alarm and walk her to the train, but my mind had been singularly focused on holding her last night. I’d upset her. I knew it. She hadn’t said a single word after I told her not to love me, and the silence had crushed me, leaving my heart in shards. With a hand pressed to my aching chest, I lowered my head and closed my eyes. Every moment after that one felt like the beginning of the end.

One that I’d created and now had to live with.

I’d just set foot in the locker room when Tom Wilson appeared in the doorway of his office and sent me to Hannah. Shoulders drooping, I’d turned on my heel and headed her way. Regardless of what she needed today, I didn’t have it in me to be her dancing monkey. There wasn’t an ounce of fun, happy Emerson accessible at this moment.

“Rough morning?” Hannah asked as I stalked into her office.

I shrugged, brushing a serious question off in a way I was far too good at. “What’s up?” I wasn’t in the mood for a game. Waking up alone this morning had been the most painful experience I’d had in a long, long time. Gianna still hadn’t replied to my text, but she’d viewed it.

So what the hell did that mean?

She spun her computer monitor toward me. On the screen was the picture of Gi and me that Hannah had taken last night.

The shards of my heart crumbled further. We looked so fucking happy in that moment. My arms around her. Her hand on my chest. I wanted to go back in time. Soak in that sensation.

“I wasn’t sure how you’d want to respond.”

“To what?” I asked, squinting at the image again.

She hummed and adjusted the screen a little. “Did you read any of the comments?”

I shook my head and angled over her desk so I could focus on the words. The first comment had my jaw locking.

“What the fuck?” I snapped as I skimmed another. One after another, I read them, my body winding tighter and tighter until I was ready to snap. Although some were typical comments about how hot I looked in a suit or genuine comments about their love of the Revs, they were mixed in with hundreds of nasty comments. The trolls attacked Gi for not being the type of girl a professional athlete would want. Some saying she’d better up her game or I’d lose interest. Some outright calling her fat.

“So we can ignore it,” Hannah said, “or say something. I’m happy to help you work it out. But I wasn’t even sure you two were together.” She tilted her head, scrutinizing me knowingly. “Although by the rage on your face, I’d say you are.”

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