Page 23 of The Holiday Fakers
“What do you most like to draw?”
I can’t admit the real answer, so I just shrug like a moody teenager being asked about their hobbies.
“And what media? Pencils? Paint? Watercolor?”
Again, I don’t answer.
“Guano? Blood?”
My head whips around. “What?”
Brody grins. “Just checking you’re actually listening.”
My heart skips a beat. “Rest assured, I don’t draw with blood or poop. I either use a digital stylus or pencils if I want a break from the screen.”
“Can I see any of your pictures?”
My insides lurch so violently I’m surprised I don’t throw up. There’s no way he can see any of the drawings I’ve done of him, so I fumble for an answer, my skin clammy with dread. I forget entirely that I have plenty of pictures that don’t feature him at all.
“It’s okay, you don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
I’m torn. I want to show off what I can do, but Brody’s a super-cool superstar, and I’m a super-nerdy fantasy fan artist.
Any negative comment online about my art sticks to my soul like super glue. No matter how many positive comments there are, they can never outweigh the shitty ones. I know I shouldn’t pay the haters any heed, and most likely they’re just jealous, but I can’t shake their words. They erode my confidence like drops of acid.
And it’s not just the hate, but the silence that also breaks my spirit—only hearing crickets in response after I’ve spent so long crafting a post.
“Maybe. I’m just a bit private about them,” I say, omitting the fact that I post the ones not starring him publicly online.
“Well, I can’t draw for shit, so whatever you do, I’ll think is great.”
I smile.
We’re quiet for a few more minutes, then Brody clears his throat again. “So, we bumped into each other at Espresso Yourself, got chatting, and then started hanging out?”
As I imagine the scenario, my eyes sting with longing at the thought of it being true. Even just hanging out as friends. Because hewasmy friend when we were growing up.
“Sounds good.”
“And how long ago was this?”
“I told my mom in April that I would be bringing someone home at Christmas if things worked out.”
“Okay. April. Got it.”
I cast my mind back over my Brody King Google Alerts that have been pinging into my phone for the past nine months to check if he’s been linked with any other women. Luckily, he hasn’t, but his ex has been throwing out cheating allegations.
“I wasn’t unfaithful to Marisa.”
Are you reading my mind?
“She cheated on me but didn’t want the press finding out, so she said I was the unfaithful one.”
“I didn’t believe it,” I say firmly, playing the part of loyal friend.
“Thanks. That … means a lot. But most of the other stuff is true. I don’t know how much you’ve heard, but you should probably be prepared for when your family starts grilling you about why you’re with someone like me.”
“They would never do that.”
