Page 44 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

But I looked.

The texts were like echoes of our own conversations. The same thoughtful analysis. The same hidden intelligence revealed slowly. The same gradual transformation from bad boy to something more.

"'The way your fingers move over piano keys reminds me of poetry in motion,'" I read, the words burning my throat. "'Like Keats set to music.'"

"He's good, isn't he?" Sarah's voice was almost sympathetic. "Making each girl feel special. Like she's the only one who sees the real him, I bet he quotes poetry to you, too. Probably writes some. Very romantic."

Don't remember how he looks in the moonlight while quoting Keats. Don't think about the poems his grandmother mentioned. Don't recall how he writes about Victorian medical practices like they're sacred texts—

"You don't know him," I said, but my voice wavered.

"I knew him well enough to recognize the pattern." She stood, smoothing her perfectly cut skirt. "He'll play the misunderstood intellectual for a few months. Then the playoffs will end, scouts will make offers, and suddenly the whole reformed bad boy act won't be necessary anymore."

She headed for the door, each click of her heels against the floor like another crack in my carefully constructed world. At the threshold, she paused.

"Check his texts around midterms last semester. When he was supposedly too busy with hockey to see anyone? He was actually helping me practice for my senior recital. Old habits die hard, I guess." Her smile was perfect, practiced, poisonous. "But I'm sure it's different with you. I'm sure he really means it this time. I'm sure he's not just adding dental tools and medical history to his collection of conquered interests."

The door closed behind her with a soft click that sounded like breaking glass.

I stared at the dental tools in my hands, their familiar shapes suddenly strange. Everything felt off-kilter, like someone had rearranged my carefully organized world while I wasn't looking. The Victorian medical displays that usually brought me comfort now seemed to mock me – artifacts of another time, another life, another girl who thought she was special.

Practice must have ended because Jack appeared in the doorway, still in his workout clothes, hair damp from theshower. He looked exactly like the boy I'd fallen for – the one who made me believe in impossible things.

But now I couldn't help wondering how many other girls had seen this same version of him. Had he looked at Sarah this way while discussing Chopin? Had he smiled at Emma like that while analyzing art? Had he touched Kendra's hand the same way while practicing French?

"Hey," he said, moving closer. "You okay? You missed practice. Usually, you're pretending not to watch while reorganizing the same shelf fifteen times."

The teasing note in his voice, once endearing, now felt like sandpaper on raw skin. "Did I?" My voice sounded distant. "I thought you'd be busy. With Sarah's recital practice, maybe?"

He went still, that athlete's instinct for danger kicking in. "What?"

"Interesting conversation with her just now. Very enlightening. About patterns and projects and girls who think they're special." I set down the dental tools with exaggerated care. "Tell me, do you have a system? Pick a girl, learn about her interests, play the misunderstood intellectual until you get bored?"

"Sophie—"

"Or is it more organic than that? Do you actually convince yourself each time that it's real? That each girl is different? That you're not just trying on personalities like hockey jerseys?"

"That's not—"

"Did you write poetry about Chopin the same way you write about Victorian medicine? Did you sketch Emma's art with the same passion you show for medical history? Did you—"

"Stop." His voice was sharp. "Just stop. You have no idea what you're talking about."

"Don't I?" These texts seem pretty clear. 'Your music speaks to parts of me no one else sees.' Sound familiar? Or how about this one: 'You make me want to be more than my reputation.'"

My laugh was bitter. "At least you're consistent. Do you keep a file of romantic lines for each type of girl? Art quotes for the painters, music metaphors for the musicians, medical references for the—"

"That's enough!" He moved forward, but I stepped back, putting more distance between us. The hurt in his eyes looked real, but then, everything about him had seemed real until now.

"Why? Hitting too close to home? Or just not used to girls figuring out the pattern?"

"You think you've figured it out?" Now he was angry too, that dangerous quiet anger that was worse than shouting. "You think you understand everything based on some texts Sarah showed you? Did she mention she was the one who ended things? That she couldn't handle dating someone who might choose hockey over music?"

"Oh, so it's her fault? Like it was Emma's fault? And Kendra's? Always the girls' fault that poor misunderstood Jack Morrison can't maintain a relationship?"

"You know what?" He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture I once found endearing. Now, it just looked like another practiced move. "Maybe it is my fault. Maybe I do get too invested. Maybe I do try to understand what makes people passionate about things. But at least I'm not hiding behind rules and regulations because I'm too scared to admit I might actually feel something real."

The words hit like a physical blow. "Don't you dare—"

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