Page 8 of The Faking Game

And because I don’t like being disliked, I’ve made a point ofnotliking him back. He’s arrogant. He’s competitive. He thinks he’s better than everyone else. The way he carries himself, like he owns every room he’s in.

That kind of confidence borders on conceit.

The times we’ve been around one another since then, it’s become a hobby to catalog all the reasons he’s not a great person. The way he smiles, rarely and crookedly. That he’s never completely clean-shaven.

His clothes always look like an afterthought, yet still fit him perfectly. Thick cable-knit sweaters and loafers. His thick brown hair pushed back, that scar through his eyebrow that he’s had for as long as I’ve known him. Where my brother likes looking expensive, West looks like he’s always ready to play some kind of sport.

He probably doesn’t even think twice about what he wears and is still the most eye-catching man in the room. It’s infuriating.

He makes me feel small, young and insignificant. Like I’m still the girl by the fireplace, asking my older brother’s best friend if he’d like to have a drink with me and being told off.

And now he’s somehow decided that it’s his job to keep me safe here, in one of the world’s largest cities. Rafe told me he would be hands-off. He assured me that West would just oversee the security detail.

Right. Because looking into my bedroom is so veryhands-off.

The next morning, I walk to the atelier space I’m renting two blocks away, carrying the giant bag of fabrics I’ve already sourced.

There are two men trailing me, dressed in jeans and navy jackets, courtesy of West. One has a backward baseball cap over his auburn curls. I spoke to them earlier. Sam and Miguel. They’re a constant reminder that someone might be watching me.

It scares me more than I’ve told anyone.

Because if I tell people, they’ll worry more than they already do, and I don’t like that. It’s the currency of my life: being well-liked. Making others happy. Maybe that’s why West bothers me so much.

I haven’t been able to figure out how to makehimhappy.

And I always figure that out. I know exactly what buttons to press to make my mother ecstatic. She loves beauty, for example. Loves my modeling career. Loves achievements. I’m a master at reading her expressions and her tone of voice.

When I was eighteen, she took me to get a nose job to help the modeling career she had willed into existence for me. My mom rejoiced in my slimmer, slightly upturned nose. My father didn’t notice.

When my parents got a divorce, after my oldest brother’s death, Rafe had just been sent away to boarding school. It left me to handle the fallout alone. I listened to the screaming matches, the threats, the demands, and the protracted settlement in court. By that time, my father had already moved in with the woman who would become Wife Number Two.

There’s a Wife Number Three, too, and I’ve tried to be friends with them all.

I’m good at that: being nonthreatening. It’s easy to make people feel at ease when you can read their signals so well.

The problem with being a chronic people-pleaser who hates conflict is that life is nothing but constant conflict. Fromyou didn’t want sesame on your sushi?toI can’t believe you didn’t call me when you said you would.

Intimate relationships are, as my therapist Zeina loves to say, a constant negotiation of boundaries. But when you’re scared to set those boundaries, you can’t have intimate relationships. Not without bending over so far it’s practically a yoga pose.

Too many times I’ve gone out with men who wanted things from me. “Smile for me, Nora. Go out with me, Nora. Let me kiss you, Nora.” It’s a constant barrage of their wants. I’ve heard it all my life—with men, with my family, with the photographers I pose for.Do this, do that, stand here.

It drowns out my own feelings and overwhelms me with whattheywant. I turn downall men, and with the few I haven’t, my experiences haven’t been particularly fantastic. So it’s easier not to bother with dating at all, which means here I am at twenty-four with my life in order except for these two very small details: I have never been in love, and I have never had sex.

It’s my most embarrassing secret. No one knows except my two closest friends and my therapist. When asked, I’ve always, always lied about it. It feels easier than the inevitable follow-up question ofwhy?

But things are going to change. I’m in a new city, and I have a list of three things to do.

1. Sew twelve cohesive pieces to compete in the Fashion Showcase.

2. Survive West Calloway’s overseeing of the security that I hate needing. Also, don’t let the stalker kill me.

3. Lose my virginity before I turn twenty-five, which is exactly seven months from now.

So far I’ve gotten a jump on the first of those. As for the second one, the stalker hasn’t made an appearance yet. I’m four days into my new life in New York, and I finally feel light again. Like I might have left the fear behind me on the plane ride over.

And tonight I’m getting a jump on the third.

After waking up far too early again because of jet lag, and too sleepy to get a jump on designing for the fashion showcase, I opened my own personal nemesis. The little square on my phone that promises connection.

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