Page 62 of Faking It

With what I hope is a casual shrug, despite the fact my face is getting warmer by the second, I reply, “I wanted a clean slate.”

“Meaning?”

Meaning it’s the simplest answer I can give you without saying too much.

“Sometimes, there are things in your life that restrict you from becoming your true self, and you can only be free once you get rid of them. For me, my birth name was such, so I got rid of it.”

My response sounds vague, but he nods. “I understand what you mean. I feel the exact way about my name.”

“So, why don’t you change it?”

“It’s not that easy.”

My eyes fall to where he’s pressing his thumb in the center of his palm. A forlorn expression crosses his face. His thoughts are sad. I don’t need to read his mind to know that.

I take a drink of juice, thinking that’s the end of his probing, but he sits up and looks at me.

“Where are you from? I keep hearing the hint of an accent when you speak.”

I’m not a perfect actress, obviously, since I keep slipping up. This is hard. Refusing to answer might heighten his curiosity and make him go digging, anyway. If he’s resilient enough—and I have a feeling he is, it won’t take him long to find the truth. Lying is my only option, which makes me feel bad. Gideon is growing on me, and I don’t want to deceive him.

But, I must.

His expression clears as I go on, arranging a neutral look on my face. “I’m from Jackson, Mississippi.” At least, that’s where Margaret was from until she moved to New Orleans after meeting my dad. I’d been back there several times as a kid, so I know the area.

“Ha. I knew it was a southern accent.” He actually looks pleased with himself. “It’s safe to assume why you came all the way to LA.”

“Yes. I came to carve a bright future.”And escape my past.“I wanted the typical rags-to-riches storyline. From bartending to the spotlight,” I say, drawing my hands apart as if making a headline. “It needs work, but you get the gist.”

Gideon chuckles, the low, rumbling sound doing things to my insides that it shouldn’t. “To date, I haven’t met a bartender who doesn’t drink. I’m still curious; why don’t you?”

I purse my lips, contemplating another lie, and realizing one is enough for the night. Besides, giving my reason for not drinking won’t open Pandora’s box. The shit from my past won’t escape with this simple truth.

“Because my mother was an alcoholic,” I reply. An image flashes across my mind. I almost flinch as the vodka bottle smashes against the wall, splintering. I remind myself that it’s just a memory. It’s already gone. “I saw how it destroyed her. I vowed not to take the same path.”

“Yes, I understand, more than you know.” At my enquiring stare, he goes on. “My mom was an alcoholic, too.”

My heart dips, pity flooding me. “Was?”

He sees the look on my face. “No, she’s very alive.”

“Oh, thank god.”

“Thank god indeed,” he mumbles in a way that tells me there’s more to this story. “But, yes, her battle was a wake-up call, just like your mom’s was for you. It made me consider what I wanted in life; did I want to keep playing this bad boy narrative, or was I ready to grow up?”

“Are you?” I ask, feeling hopeful for some reason.

“I’m trying.” He’s giving me that shuttered look again like he’s crawling back into his shell.

There’s a but, and without even knowing what it is, I can already relate. Escaping the demons seem easy in our heads, but outrunning them in real life… not so much. I should know. I battle with them every night. The biggest one of all is still out there, still searching for me. Fingers crossed, she remains in that godforsaken backwood, never to emerge again.

Gideon’s mouth opens as if he’s about to say something. The server interrupts with our food, and he draws back. Silence surrounds the table as we eat, but I see the conflict on his face. I know that look. How many times have I wanted to come clean about what I’d done?

He finally rests his fork down. “Thank you for sharing that with me,” he says. “From what I’ve learned about you, that wasn’t easy to do.”

“Well, you came in like an open book, so I had to give something,” I joke, surprised when he doesn’t smile back.

“Not an open book, Ana. You don’t know the half of it.”

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