Page 50 of Fake As Puck
“You are.”
There’s something in his voice that makes me think we’re not just talking about weightlifting anymore.
“West,” I start, but he’s already moving away, grabbing a towel and avoiding my eyes.
“We should probably cool down,” he says. “Your flight’s in a few hours.”
Right. My flight.
“Yeah,” I say. “I should pack.”
“Yeah.”
We head upstairs, and I spend the next hour folding the clothes I brought and trying not to think about the way he said he didn’t want me to leave.
What did he mean by that? Was it just about the convenience of having me here for the fake relationship? Or was it something else?
And why do I care so much?
I’m zipping up my suitcase when there’s a knock on the door.
“Come in.”
West appears in the doorway, hands shoved in his pockets.
“Need any help?” he asks.
“I’m good. Just finishing up.”
“Cool.”
He hovers in the doorway, and I can tell he wants to say something but doesn’t know how.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“Nothing. Just... thanks. For this weekend. For helping me out.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I know it was weird. Pretending to be my girlfriend. But you were... perfect.”
“West—” I tilt my head.
“I mean it. You were perfect.”
He turns and leaves before I can respond, and I’m left standing in his guest room, surrounded by evidence of his thoughtfulness, the fancy toiletries, the comfortable bed, the way he tried to take care of me, and wondering what the hell just happened.
I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at my packed suitcase, feeling unsettled and tired and completely confused about everything.
12
The drive to the airport is too quiet.
Liv’s in the passenger seat with her suitcase in the back, staring out the window at the Seattle day like she’s memorizing it. I keep glancing at her, trying to figure out what she’s thinking, but her face gives nothing away.
“Traffic’s not bad,” I say, because apparently I’ve been reduced to commenting on traffic patterns.
“Yeah. Good timing.”
