Page 21 of Fake Hearts and Kisses

I’m even more terrified her mother has somehow figured out who I am. That could be a problem. An immense problem.

I watch her exit the car and walk to the door, taking a minute to calm myself. I catch up and open the door with a wide smile, watching her scan the diner until her gaze lands on the same booth we sat in two days ago. Daisy orders her food, picking the same items she had on our last visit, and I watch her pick at the fries, swirling them around in ketchup. She takes a small nibbles, her eyes moving to the door, her plate—everywhere else but me. I watch her wrap her lips around the straw, sipping herwater, and think about how her mouth tastes. Howshetastes. How her tongue slid over mine so naturally it was like we were made to kiss each other and only each other. It’s overwhelming, so I close my eyes, and I have to look away. When I look back, her eyes dart away.

“What are your plans when we get back?” she asks me suddenly.

I take a sip of soda to distract myself, trying to think of what to say. What am I going to do? “There are a few projects I’ve been working on. I’ll probably start those.”

“New banks to pretend to hack?” A slight smirk breaks the tension. She relaxes back in her seat.

My heart trembles, but I give her my fake smile. “Maybe.”

She keeps smiling and finally eats her food. Maybe she hasn’t been stewing, thinking about how much she’s regretting bringing me, or worse, regretting fucking me. Perhaps she’s just feeling confused, try to process the last two days. She could just feel strange sharing so many intimate things with me. Her family, her thoughts, her entire body. I’m little more than a stranger.

That’s right, Blake. You are a stranger. You may have watched her like a fucking creep almost three days a week foreight weeks, looked at every image she posted and dissected the meaning behind them, and examined her entire family and her friends, but she didn’t know you existed.

Fuck. When I think about it like that, I’m such an asshole. Not just an asshole, but a demented one at that. I can justify that I didn’t break into Daisy’s emails or file storage, but I’d be lying to myself if I tried to say that somehow made me better.

This is why I can’t be with her, even if she wants me. I’m bad.

Shoves her plate away, she rubs her belly, sighing. I pay the bill with my stolen money, give her a fake smile, tell her a stupid joke, and pretend that her laughter doesn’t make me wish I was better. Different.

Back in the car, she falls back into an uneasy silence. The closer we get to town, the heavier the air in the car feels. I watch the clock on the dash, then avoid it altogether. Then I check my phone to see if time magically went backward, and I have her for a few more minutes, but it’s the same. Time just ticks away. Every minute right before it has passed feels like the best gift because I’m next to her, but then it’s gone, and then every moment with her becomes another second closer to when she’sgone, making that tightness in my chest feel like it’s creeping up and strangling me.

I want to ask her if she has this tightness too because if she does, then we did something without knowing it, and the consequences of the last two days mean we’re both being strangled on the inside.

“Did my mother threaten you this weekend?”

My head swivels in her direction so fast my eyes practically spin out. Daisy grips the steering wheel, her entire body stiff.

“My mother likes to corner her children’s partners and make threats.” Daisy smiles. “I think she likes to watch them squirm.”

My entire body relaxes back into the seat. “Heather came to the cabin this morning.”

“Was it a threat to ruin your life or remove your manhood?”

I unclench my jaw. “I think it was my life, but I’m pretty sure removing my dick would be like ruining my life, so maybe both, though she didn’t specify.”

She nods, and the car falls quiet again. We spend the rest of the drive making small talk. I tell her more stupid jokes; weshare laughs about what her family said on the trip and how mortified Forest must be.

She laughs loudly. “Traumatized is more like it.”

And then it settles again in the car. The realization we are almost back.

After fighting traffic downtown and throwing out a handful of curse words, she stops in front of the coffee shop, looking at the sign in the window. The air in the car is heavy. It’s obvious I don’t want to leave because I’m making no move to open the door. She isn’t kicking me out, so I sit and wait for her to speak.

“You really don’t like coffee?” she asks after we’ve been sitting there too long.

“I hate it,” I tell her.

“Did you really see me in the library and follow me here?”

“Yes.”

“Two months ago?”

Yes,” I say. I want to tell her she doesn’t have to ask me again. None of that was fake.

Just everything else about me.

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