Page 54 of Fake As Puck
But I’m not. I’m back in LA, where the sun is too hot, and my bank account has an extra five hundred dollars and everything feels slightly wrong.
My phone buzzes as I’m waiting for my suitcase. Tessa.
How was it? Are you traumatized? Did my brother drive you insane?
I type back:Survived. Heading to your place now to debrief.
Good. I need details. Charlie’s napping, Emma’s eating Cheerios off the floor, and I have wine.
Perfect.
An hour later, I’m sitting in Tessa’s living room with a glass of wine I definitely don’t need after this weekend’s alcohol consumption, trying to figure out how to explain the past three days without sounding like I’ve lost my mind.
“So,” Tessa says, settling into her chair with the kind of careful movements that suggest Charlie is still asleep. “Rate the experience. One to ten.”
“Seven.”
“Seven? That’s it?”
“It was fine. Easy. Your brother was... helpful.”
“Helpful?” she asks, taking a sip of wine.
“Yeah. He had everything planned out. Knew what to say. Made sure I was comfortable.”
“West’s idea of planning is buying three types of bread because he can’t decide which one he wants. You’re telling me he had everything organized?”
“He bought me two choices of shampoo and a welcome gift basket, Tess.”
“Oh,” she says with her brows raised. “Maybe all that hockey has gotten to his head. It doesn’t sound like him.”
I take a moment to think, to compare childhood West to adult West. “You think so?”
“He was trying to take care of you. Like, actually take care of you. Not just fake-relationship-for-show take care of you.”
I take a sip of wine and try not to think about the way he remembered I like honey mustard or how he booked my next flight without being asked.
“How was he? Really? I mean, was he a nervous wreck? Did he overthink everything? Did he change his shirt seventeen times before the wedding?”
I think about Saturday morning, the way he moved around his kitchen like he’d been making breakfast for two his whole life. The way he handed me electrolytes without making me feel pathetic about my hangover.
“No,” I say slowly. “He was... calm. Sweet, even.”
“Sweet?”
“Yeah. Is that weird?”
“It’s not weird. It’s just... surprising.”
I remind her, “We’ve known each other for fifteen years.”
“Yeah, but you stayed at his house, met his friends, watched his teammate get married.”
I chuckle. “I’m starting to think that you’re overthinking it too.”
She’s quiet for a moment, studying my face like she’s trying to figure out a puzzle.
“No,” she says finally, softening her expression. “I’m just glad it went well.”
