Page 3 of Faking It

Out of the blue, at twenty-six years old, at the height of his career, he left. With no explanation whatsoever.

Then he came back.

His sudden about-turn gave everyone whiplash. Again, he gave no explanation, just returned like nothing happened. Only this time, the bad boy persona got upgraded to a destructive monster. Not a week goes by that he’s not involved in some shit or the other. The gossip pages love him, especially ANON. He makes their work so much easier. I can’t stand him for that. I hate how he got everything handed to him on a silver platter, and instead of being grateful, he’s single-handedly wrecking his life.

Meanwhile, there are people who keep wishing for a big break.

People like me.

But, deep below my dislike for Carter lies a dormant fear, a fear that we might run into each other, and he’ll recognize me. I keep going back to that night we met seven years ago, one that started off so well but ended with me grabbing my bag and making a quick escape.

“Bet you’re over there scrolling through that nasty gossip page, aren’t you?” Logan calls out.

I scrunch my face. “ANON isn’t a gossip page; it’s a pop culture tabloid.”

“Whatever you want to call it. I don’t understand why anyone supports them when they’re not even real journalists. All they do is publish bullshit. I swear, they’re gonna get sued one of these days.”

Logan’s only upset because he hasn’t gotten the rite of passage from ANON and their half a million followers, that’s all. I ignore his comment and keep reading.

My cell phone soon blares with an alarm that tells me it’s time to go. I gulp down the last drink of coffee and grab my purse off the rack.

“Hey, babe,” Logan calls as I grab my purse off the rack. “Don’t wait up later, okay? There’s a chance I won’t be coming back tonight.”

“Are you still working on the budget for the film?” I ask, stopping at the door. He claims that his accountant is only available at nights.

Logan’s eyes remain locked on the screen as he replies, “Yup.”

There’s no use pushing for more information, not if I want him to remind me that we’re not all that serious. Giving him a thumbs-up gesture, I make my way out the door. The open elevator door greets me, a sign that the building manager is still feet-dragging its repair.

Grunting in frustration, I take the ten flights of stairs, my body damp with sweat by the time I step through the front door of my apartment building. The gentle breeze is long gone. A warm hair hits my face, adding to the heat passing through my body. Wiping a sliver of sweat from my brow, I toss my blonde hair back, wishing I’d secured it in a ponytail instead.

As I climb down the front steps, I notice an envelope sticking out of my mailbox. Curiosity makes me detour from heading to the parking lot. I hardly get mail nowadays, ever since…

No. I won’t focus on what was or what could have been. I’m not going down that depressing rabbit hole again.

I come to an abrupt halt as a neighbor’s kid suddenly zips by me, his laughing clashing with the garbage truck rolling by. As I move off, another comes running, and it’s too late to shift. He collides right into me.

“Jeez, lady. Look where you’re going!” he shrieks as I help him up. I can’t help chuckling, which quickly evaporates when he flips his middle finger at me before running after his friend.

Shaking my head, I pull the envelope through the slip, and a chill runs up my spine when I spot the handwriting on the front.

To: Leanna Finnegan, it reads.

Oh, no, no, no. It can’t be.

There’s no return address, which means someone delivered it personally. Years of suppressed anxiety rises to the surface, and the envelope quivers in my hand as I squint at the words.

To: Leanna Finnegan.

A person who no longer exists. No one knows me by that name. Not here. Not in this city, where the secrets of my past are tucked in a secured folder. Ana Kent is only six years old, and I’m the only one who knows it.

Which means only one thing.

This envelope came fromher.

With a gasp, it falls from my hand. I stare down at it, wiping my hands on my skirt. Tension zings through my body as I scan the neighbourhood, partly expecting her to jump from behind the dumpster. My mind tells me that’s impossible, that there’s no way she found me again. I changed my name and my hair. Lost the weight. Hell, I even changed the color of my eyes. Yet, it’s the only thing that makes sense.

To: Leanna Finnegan.

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