Page 120 of Fake Dating My Best Friend

Five hours ago, I was in Asher’s office at the gym, standing at the edge of something I’d wanted my whole life, but instead of stepping forward, I bolted.

And somehow, I ran straight into the last place I ever wanted to be.

Facing my father.

For twenty-one years, I built a life aroundnotneeding his answers, convincing myself his absence was just a footnote in my story, not the whole prologue. It would’ve been easier to keep running. To go home, apologize to Asher, and shove my feelings down for another decade like they’re something I can outlast.

But I’m tired.

Tired of running. Tired of keeping Asher at arm’s length when all I want is to fall—completely, recklessly—into him.

It’s been fifteen years, Isla. Fifteen years of feelings. It doesn’t pass. It will not pass.

I need to know. Why did my father leave? Why did he never look back?

Why wasn’t I enough?

If I can understand that. If I can figure out what made me so easy to leave, then maybe I can fix whatever’s wrong with me. Maybe then, I won’t ruin things.

Maybe then, I’ll have a shot with Asher. At love. At something that doesn’t end with me watching someone I care about walk away.

“We should . . . maybe we should go inside?” My father suggests, gesturing toward his apartment building with an awkward, jerky movement.

I nod, following him up the concrete stairs to a second-floor apartment with peeling paint around the doorframe. The inside feels like the physical manifestation of loneliness.

A few kids’ drawings are still taped to the side of the fridge, edges curled, the paper yellowing. A cracked plastic toy car sits under the radiator. In the corner, there’s a small bookshelf, one shelf half-empty, the rest stacked with outdated schoolwork, and a bent princess tiara tangled in a string of Christmas lights.

The couch is sagging, one cushion missing. The coffee table bears the faint circle of an old juice stain that no one ever cleaned. On the wall, crooked picture frames hang—some empty, others still holding photos of two smiling kids and a woman who clearly once loved him.

It looks like someone left in a hurry. Or didn’t care enough to take the memories with them.

At least they left something behind.

Conner and I? We never even made it onto the wall.

There’s no sign of me here. Just the pieces of a life I never got to be part of.

“Sorry for the mess,” he mumbles, scooping up a pile of mail from the kitchen counter with clumsy urgency, like clearing the papers might somehow erase the years between us. “I tried to clean up after your text, but . . .” His voice trails off, his hand cutting vaguely through the air before dropping to his side.

I scan the apartment, taking in the mismatched furniture, the dishes stacked in the sink, and the thin layer of dust settled on the TV stand. So this is what hours of preparation looks like. Not much. Either he was too rattled to do more, or this is as good as it gets.

I guess I didn’t get my stress-cleaning gene from him. If I had five hours, this place would be spotless. Maybe even have a scented candle burning for extra credit.

“It’s fine.” I lower myself onto the couch, perching on the edge of the cushion, my muscles too tight to sink in. The fabric is rough beneath my palms, worn down from years of use. I cross my arms, my fingers gripping my sleeves. “How have you been?”

Small talk, with the man who missed my graduations, never saw the acceptance letter I once held up like it meant something, and has no idea if I still sleep with the teddy bear he gave me.

For years, I told myself if I ever saw him again, I’d haveplentyto say. A whole monologue, probably. Some cutting, dramatic speech that would make him understand exactly what he missed, exactly what he ruined.

But now?

Now, I can’t think of a single thing.

Because how do you sum up twenty-one years of absence? How do you tell someone all the things you wished you could’ve shared with them when they weren’t there to listen?

I sit there, staring at the man who should’ve been my dad, and for the first time in my life, I’ve got nothing.

“I’ve been . . .” He sits in the chair across from me, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Managing, I guess. Working in sales for a manufacturing company. Nothing exciting.”

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