Page 120 of The Faking Game

“What do you really feel about tonight?”

Her eyes drift to mine, and then out toward one of the windows. “It is what it is. I had fun, before…that.Thanks for coming with me.”

“No. That’s not what you really feel,” I say. “You don’t have to comfort me. You don’t have to cater to whatever you thinkmyfeelings are. Tell me how you’re doing.”

“If you know me so well, why don’t you tell me?” Her voice is testier now, and my lip curves at the sound. Good.

“I think you’re scared. I think you’re frustrated. And I think you’re angry at having to spend an hour being brave on the phone with your family instead of being the one comforted.You’rethe one who got those texts tonight. Not me. Not Rafe. Not your mother.”

Her eyes flash. “Maybe I feel all of those things, but what good would it do to say it?”

“Do you need to box again? Because I’ll get the gloves right now if you do.”

“No, no, I just need…” She stands and wraps her arms around her chest. She walks over to the nook but turns immediately, pacing the length of the couch. “I’m frustrated. I’m annoyed. I’m… Not once did Mom ask how I was feeling. That shouldn’t be surprising, after twenty-four years.”

“Tellme, then. I’m asking. How are you feeling?”

“Terrible. We had to leave early.” She takes a deep breath. “All these security guards have to stand out in the cold because of me. I hate it. I hate all of it, and I’m angry at whoever he is for making me do all of that.”

“Those are other people’s feelings,” I say. “Not yours.”

“I’ve spent so long taking care of everyone else’s feelings. I don’t even know what mine are anymore.” She puts her hands over her face and takes a deep breath. “I hate bothering all those people. I hate, hate,hateit.”

“Fuck inconveniencing others. It’s not your fault.”

“But it feels like it is, and Ihatebeing a burden. I know I’m a burden to you.” She paces behind the couch. “Or at least I was, before we agreed to the whole fake dating thing. At least now you’re getting something out of it too.” Her voice rises. “And I hate that everyone seems to be looking at me, to see how I respond, in order to decide how they’re feeling. If I was upset on the phone with Mom tonight, she would have been catatonic with stress. If I told Rafe that I’mterrified, he would be on the next plane here instead of finalizing the deal he’s worked for years on.”

“You’re not a burden. Not to anyone.” My voice comes out low and harsh. “You’re allowed to be terrified.”

“I don’t feel like I’m allowed to be. Because ifI’mnot okay, others won’t be either… and they’ll makemefeel bad for it.” Her chest rises with quick breaths. “I’m so angry at whoever is doing this for putting me in this position. I’m angry at myself for not being stronger. I’m angry at my brother for not including me in decisions, for still thinking he needs to protect me.” Her eyes well up, and she blinks that away. “And I hate that with this whole stalker thing, I’ve proven that he’s right. I do need protecting.”

“Good,” I say. “Get angry.”

She paces again, eyes blinking furiously. “I am. I’m furious that this man thinks he has therightto influence my life. The right to make me feel scared and unsafe. I hate that I can’t go for a run in the morning without guards, without looking over my shoulder. And you know what else?” She stops in front of where I’m sitting, her eyes blazing.

“Tell me,” I say.

“I’m tired of pretending to be so fine and strong about the whole thing. Tired of smiling and shrugging and saying ‘yes, isn’t it crazy?’ to downplay it, to say that the stalker is probably someone harmless. Because he might not be, and I spend so much time worrying about the situation being far, far more serious than that.” A tear tracks down her cheek. “He was in the same room as me tonight, West.”

My hand tightens at my side. “I know.”

“It’s terrifying. I’m terrified.” She closes her eyes, and another tear joins the first. “And I feel like I’m not even allowed to say that out loud.”

It takes me two strides to get to her. I cup her face and brush away one of the tears. Her summery eyes are a deep green, and they glisten in the lighting. “Listen to me,” I tell her. “You have every right to be scared. To be angry. To feel whatever the hell you want to feel.”

“Now I’m angry,” she whispers, “at how I always cry when I get mad.”

I pull her against me.

Her head finds the crook of my neck, and she’s warm, pressing against my collar. Something fractures a little inside me at her fear. She’d hidden it so well. I thought she was silly that first week. For taking the risks she did.Didn’t she understand?

But she did.

Of course she did. She always has.

“Good,” I say. “I like you angry.”

“You’re strange.”

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