Page 28 of Fake As Puck
I nod. “It is. And expensive. Therapy, medication, all the follow-up appointments. Insurance covers some of it, but not all.”
I don’t know why I’m telling him this. Maybe because he’s listening like he actually cares, not like he’s just waiting for his turn to talk.
“Is that why you need the money?” he asks.
“Partly. The freelance work is drying up, and I’ve got student loans, and my mom needs help with her medical bills.” I shrug. “Money’s money.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, West,” I say, not wanting his pity.
“I am. I’m sorry that you’re dealing with all that. That you felt like you had to do this because you need the money.”
I force a grin, looking at him now. His brown eyes glimmer under the food court’s light. “I wanted to come here. I needed a break from my daily life. And this has been nice.”
“Still.”
“It’s fine, West. Really. Besides, this isn’t exactly hardship duty. Free food, nice accommodations, and all I have to do is pretend to find you charming.”
He genuinely cackles like I got him. The sound is straight from his chest, and my heart is warming at the sound.
“Is it that much of a stretch?” he asks, watching me eat.
The question hangs in the air between us, and I’m not sure how to answer it. Because the truth is, it’s not a stretch at all. The hard part isn’t pretending to find him charming, it’s pretending that’s all this is.
“Come on,” I say, standing up. “We should head back. I need to figure out what I’m doing with my hair tomorrow.”
The drive home is different than yesterday. He’s got the windows down, and when “Mr. Brightside” comes on the radio, we both start singing along without thinking about it.
“You know all the words,” he says during the guitar solo.
“It’s a classic.”
“You used to be obsessed with The Killers.”
“I was not obsessed.”
“You wrote their lyrics in your yearbook. You cried when they cancelled their concert.”
“I don’t cry.”
He’s laughing, and I’m laughing, and when “Don’t Stop Believin’” comes on next, we both know every word to that too.
For a moment, it feels like we’re just us. Like we’re teenagers again, singing badly to classic rock and not worrying about anything more complicated than whether we’ll make it home before curfew.
“Thanks,” I say when we pull into his driveway. “For today. For listening. For not making it weird when I overshared about my mom.”
“You didn’t overshare.”
“I kind of did.”
“Overshare all you want then. I’m glad you told me.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
We sit in the car for a moment, and I realize I don’t want this feeling to end. This easy, comfortable feeling where we’re just friends who happen to be attracted to each other but aren’t going to do anything about it.
