Page 95 of Faker
twenty-five
One dim hall takes me to a short corridor, and when I shove open a set of heavy doors, I’m in what I assume is an auditorium.
I fall into one of the cushy velvet seats and stare at the floor beneath my heels. I’d crawl out of my skin if it were physically possible. Tate kissed his ex-girlfriend. In front of me. How the hell... why the hell...
A loud squeak causes me to twist around. Tate starts to head for me, but I hold up a hand to halt him.
“I can explain.” His tone is placating. I hate it.
I stand. “Don’t.” The whisper I manage is like a cannon of anger and hurt from my mouth.
I back away, hoping with each step that the ground will open up and swallow me. It would hurt less than to watch the man I care for betray me right in front of my eyes.
I call on every boss-bitch tip I’ve ever read, every technique I’ve ever employed to try and keep it together. I stop moving and stand tall, my arms crossed, my eye contact unwavering.
“How could you do that, Tate?”
His chest heaves with a breath, like he’s about to launch into a long-winded explanation. “Look, that’s not... it’s not what you think.”
“Really? You’re going to lie to my face on top of cheating on me?”
I employ the steady, hard rhythm I’ve used countless times before, yet now it feels like a needle through my throat. This man standing before me is not who I thought he was. He’s a faker, too, but in the worst possible way.
Wetness hits my collarbone. When I touch my face, I realize I’m crying. Only a few tears though. I wipe them away, biting the inside of my cheek to keep the rest behind my eyelids where they belong.
“Just stay the hell away from me.”
I dart out of the auditorium and into the hallway. Tate’s heavy footsteps echo behind me. When he touches my shoulder, my entire body cringes.
“Emmie, wait.”
I spin around. “You kiss your ex in front of me and expect me to just shrug it off?”
He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He stands, lips bitten into a thin line.
Another tear falls, and I scrub it away. His words, his feelings for me, it’s all been a lie. If he’s someone else’s—his ex’s—then everything between us is tainted. He clearly doesn’t care about me the same way I care about him. If he ever cared about me at all.
“I guess you have a type for sure.”
When I realize I’ve said the words out loud, I feel a stabbing pain in my chest. I can barely stomach how insecure I sound. Tate definitely has a type. He likes tall, tan Asian girls. I’m just a fetish, a kink for him to satisfy. Nothing more.
Through the shock, I somehow find my voice. “That’s why you were a jerk to me when we first met. Because I look like her. I reminded you of her, didn’t I?”
He stands, his face a sheet of solemn white. “That’s not—”
“Just answer the question.”
I think back to all those months ago when I fantasized about giving him a verbal dressing-down in high heels, staring at him face-to-face. My dream is coming true tonight, but it’s mutated into a nightmare. This moment is nowhere near as satisfying as I’d thought it would be. I don’t feel vindicated or triumphant. Instead, I’m a heartbroken mess wishing I could be anywhere else, wishing I could feel anything else other than this jumble of pain and anger.
This man, this man who I thought was so special, so different from every other guy I’ve ever been with, has hurt me in the most unimaginable way.
His chest heaves with a sigh. “Yes.”
I swallow back the boulder in my throat. “So not only was I paraded around like some consolation prize in front of your classmates this evening, but I also had a front-row seat to you starting things back up with your ex.”
Red seeps up his face. A huff of air follows, his shoulders rising with it. “That’s not even close to the truth. If you would just stop for a second and let me explain—”
“No, Tate. No more explaining, no more excuses. You’ve hurt me since the day you met me. You could have just explained yourself then.”
