Page 9 of Fake As Puck
Tess says, “Gotta go. Call Liv later. Bye.”
When she ends the call, I hand her Emma.
“Did you seriously suggest that, Tess?” I blurt because I can’t believe her. All throughout high school, I was not allowed to look at her brother, and suddenly that’s all changed?
“What?” she asks, offended. “It’s not like you don’t like him.”
“Yeah, but we have history. He’s in another state for crying out loud. I don’t know if I can commit to that.”
“What history?”
“You know what history.”
“I know you kissed him at my wedding, but that was three years ago, and you were both drunk.”
“We don’t talk about the wedding,” I remind her as my lips press together.
“Oh,” she mocks. “We’re talking about the wedding.”
“We’re absolutely not talking about the wedding.”
I pick up Charlie and follow her to the bedroom.
“I may have overreacted every time you looked at my brother, but that was high school. We were kids. It’s different now. He’s almost thirty. We’re getting old. I’m not that girl anymore, trying to keep my family and friends separate. I actually wouldn’t mind having you for a sister-in-law.”
I think I’m about to have a panic attack. “You said he would pay me,” I say, putting Charlie down on the bed. “Like I’m a prostitute or escort.”
She laughs. “That’s funny, Liv.” She stares off into space, waiting for me to finish diapering Charlie. “I used to cockblock you guys so bad.”
I roll my eyes. “He never liked me, Tessa.”
She laughs. “Watch and you’ll see.”
I’m sitting on my twenty-year-old bed in my tiny studio apartment above a consignment store that smells like burnt incense and regret. My laptop is open. My bank account is still a joke. And I haven’t stopped thinking about West’s voice since the call.
I don’t need this. I really don’t. But I also need money. And maybe a vacation. And possibly a punch in the face, because I open FaceTime and hit call.
It rings once before he picks up.
He looks…different.
Same dumb jawline. Same too-white teeth. But he’s wearing glasses, his hair is a mess, and he’s smiling.
“You called,” he says, sounding smug.
“Don’t make it weird.”
“Already weird. You’re calling.”
I roll my eyes. “Let’s discuss your tragic love life. What would this even look like for me?” I ask, hating myself for the question.
“Three weddings,” West says immediately. “Spread out over ten weeks. Plus maybe a few team events, family dinner, that sort of thing.”
“How much are you paying me for this ridiculous charade?”
“How much do you want?”
I look at my laptop again. At the payment reminders, the bank account balance that’s basically a joke, the stack of one-dollar bills that Tessa gave me for babysitting her kids tonight.
