Page 130 of Play Fake
“I hate that you have to deal with that,” he says quietly.
“Me too,” I whisper. “But it’s not like I can stop the wedding.”
“No,” he says slowly. “But you don’t have to deal with it alone. I’ll be there, and I’m pretty sure Ava is just waiting for you to give her the green light to go absolutely insane on him.”
The unexpected comment punches a quiet laugh out of me, and some of the tightness in my chest loosens. “You’re probably not wrong. She’s been suspiciously calm lately.”
“She’s plotting,” he says with mock seriousness. “It’s what she does best. You say the word, and I give it twenty minutes before she’s on a mission.”
I shake my head, smiling despite myself. “God, she would, too.”
His grin softens into something more careful. “Are you still planning on going to your parents’ place for Thanksgiving?”
The question sits between us for a second. I hadn’t even let myself think that far ahead—past the wedding, the rehearsal dinner, the mental gymnastics of seeing Zach’s family again.
“I don’t know,” I admit finally, “I need time to think about it. I can’t picture sitting at that table and pretending everything’s fine. But…it’s Thanksgiving. It’s complicated.”
He nods slowly, not pushing. “That’s fair. Just…whatever you decide, I’ve got you.”
My throat tightens a little, but in a good way this time. I squeeze his hand back. “I know.”
The waitress drops off the rest of our food, and Beck immediately starts stealing fries off my plate, like nothing in the world has changed. And honestly? Sitting here with him, it feels like I can handle the chaos waiting for me. Maybe not all at once. But piece by piece.
By the time we leave the café, my chest doesn’t feel quite so tight. Beck has that effect on me—calm, and just ridiculous enough to keep me from spiraling.
We walk toward the athletic complex, the late autumn breeze carrying that sharp bite that hints winter’s right around the corner. I’ve swapped my jeans for leggings and pulled on my warm-up jacket, ponytail swinging as we cross the lot toward the stadium. Beck’s gear bag is slung over his shoulder, his free hand brushing against mine with every step.
He glances down at me. “Hey…you know you’re always welcome to crash my family’s Thanksgiving, right?”
I blink up at him. “What?”
He shrugs, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah. If you don’t want to deal with the Pierces or the awkward forced politeness, you can come hang with my crew. It’s a full house, but that’s kind of the point.”
My heart does a weird, fluttery thing. “Who’s all going to be there?”
He starts ticking them off on his fingers. “Dad, Caroline, Joey, and Alyssa, obviously. My grandparents on Caroline’s side—they come every year. My cousins. Then my mom’s parents are driving up from a few hours away, and her brother’s coming too. It’s…a lot. But it’s good.”
I stop walking without meaning to. “Wait. Your mom’s parents?”
He nods, like it’s no big deal. “Yeah. They’ve always come. Even after everything. They visit her at the hospital sometimes too.”
The way he says it is so matter-of-fact, but it hits me right in the chest. There’s no bitterness in his voice—just quiet acceptance. His family doesn’t cut people out. Theyhold them close, even when things are complicated.
“That’s…really beautiful,” I say softly.
He looks down at me, eyebrows slightly raised, like he hadn’t even considered that it might be remarkable. “Yeah. I guess it is.”
Something in my throat tightens. Maybe it’s because I’ve spent so much time lately feeling the edges of my own family—where their expectations cut and where they smooth things over for appearances. The contrast between that andthis—Beck’s family, choosing inclusion, making space—makes my chest ache in a good way.
He bumps my shoulder lightly. “So, if you decide you want to skip the awkward family politics, there’s always a spot at our table. Caroline makes way too much food anyway.”
I laugh quietly, but there’s a sting behind my eyes that has nothing to do with the wind. “Thanks, Beck. That…means a lot.”
He gives me that soft, slightly lopsided smile that always gets me. “Anytime.”
The sound of the whistle echoes faintly from the field ahead, pulling us both back to the moment. He grabs my hand for just a second before letting go.
“C’mon, Prescott,” he says with a grin. “Try to keep up.”
