Page 41 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector
“Okay,” Greg says, wary.
“I think I know why Brad posted that photo,” I add, forcing the words out. “He saw me yesterday when I went to get my things from the apartment. And… I told him I was with Jackson.”
Silence.
“Youwhat?”
“It wasn’t planned,” I say quickly. “He was cornering me. Refusing to accept that we were over. Jackson was outside. I just…” I squeeze my eyes shut. “I panicked, and I said we were together so he’d back off.”
Another beat of silence.
“Greg?”
“I’m here,” he says finally. “Just thinking maybe I should’ve gone into law instead of medicine. Then I could draft a cease and desist. Maybe then he’d finally get the message that it’s over.”
That pulls a weak laugh from me.
“And Jackson just went along with it?”
“Yeah,” I say. “He didn’t even blink. And afterward, we talked. We decided it might not be the worst idea to keep pretending. At least for now.”
Greg exhales. “Yeah… that sounds like Jackson.”
Then, softer this time, he adds, “He’s always protected you. Since we were kids. Guess some things don’t change.”
A lump forms in my throat. I grip the edge of the counter without meaning to, blinking hard at the floor.
Because he’s right.
There’s a pause on the line, then Greg says, “That’s probably why I had a missed call from Jackson.”
“He called you?” I ask.
“Yeah, left a voicemail. Didn’t have time to listen,” Greg replies. “I’ve been in and out of procedures until now. But I’m guessing that’s what he was calling about.”
He pauses, then says more quietly, “Alright. I’ve got to scrub in, but I’ll call him when I’m out. Just a check-in. I need to hear this from him too. And… thank you for telling me.”
He doesn’t say goodbye, just clicks off the line like he always does when he’s heading into surgery.
I set the phone down harder than I mean to.
My heart is hammering, but it’s not from panic. I’m angry.
Brad knew exactly what he was doing.
One photo. One caption. And now people are going to start wondering.
My stomach turns.
He still thinks he is in control.
Of me.
Of us.
Like none of it ever happened. Like I didn’t walk away.
I grab my phone again, thumbs clumsy on the screen as I pull up Instagram.
