Page 135 of Play Fake
When dessert comes, Beck’s gluten-free pumpkin pie is waiting off to the side so it doesn’t get cross-contaminated.
He leans close, voice low just for me, and whispers in my ear, “Told you they’d love you.”
I look at him, heart fluttering softly. “Yeah,” I whisper back. “You did.”
The doorbell rings just as Joey starts arguing with Alyssa about whether sweet potatoes count as dessert. The sound cuts through the chatter, and half the table goes quiet.
Mark pushes his chair back. “I’ll get it,” he says, wiping his hands on a napkin as he heads down the hall.
A moment later, he reappears, but he doesn’t call out a greeting. He leans down behind Beck’s chair and lowers his voice. “It’s Angela. She’s on the porch.”
My stomach does a tiny, surprised flip, but Beck’s expression is unreadable for a beat. Then he exhales slowly, nodding once.
“Okay,” he says quietly, pushing his chair back. He turns to me, his voice low. “Will you come with me?”
There’s no hesitation in my answer. “Of course.”
Angela stands on the porch with her hands shoved deep into her coat pockets. The porch light catches on her hair, and for the first time, she doesn’t look composed or defensive. She looks small. Nervous.
“I wasn’t sure how else to find you,” she says before either of us can speak. “I figured you might be here. I didn’t realize you were doing lunch instead of dinner this year. I’m sorry for showing up uninvited.”
Beck nods once. “Okay.” His voice is even, calm.
She swallows, eyes flicking to me briefly before locking on him. “I came to apologize. Not for the sake of fixing anything, I know that’s not on the table, but because…what I did to you wasn’t right. You didn’t deserve it.” Her voice wavers slightly,but she pushes through. “You were good to me. Better than I probably deserved. And I broke that. I hurt you. I know I did.”
For a second, the only sound is the muffled laughter drifting from inside, warm against the cool November air.
Beck shifts his weight, hands in his hoodie pocket, and when he answers, his voice is quiet, but strong. “Yeah,” he says. “You did. It wasn’t right. At all.”
Angela’s chin dips in a small nod, like she expected that.
He continues, not cruelly—just honest. “You weren’t just my girlfriend. You were my best friend. That’s what gutted me the most. I spent a long time being angry about that. About you.” He exhales, looking out past the porch railing like he’s finally letting it go. “But…if you hadn’t done what you did, I don’t think I’d be standing where I am now. Or have what I have now.”
He glances at me briefly—not to make a point, not to twist the knife. Justbecause it’s true.
Angela follows his gaze, and her throat bobs as she swallows. “I’m glad,” she says softly. “I’m happy you have something good.”
Beck nods once, shoulders relaxing like some invisible weight shifts off them. “Thank you. For saying all this. I didn’t think we’d ever have this conversation, but…I think I needed it.”
Angela blinks quickly, pulling her hands out of her pockets to shove them back into her sleeves. “Me too.” She steps back off the porch and gives us both a small, genuine smile. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
“You too,” he says quietly.
We stand there for a beat after she leaves, the porch light pooling around us. Beck’s hands are still in his pockets, but his jaw isn’t tight anymore. He looks lighter.
He turns to me, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as his arms come to circle my waist. “Thanks for coming out with me.”
“You didn’t have to ask,” I say softly.
He pulls me against him, and I take the moment to breathe him in. The scent of him becoming my new favorite thing and immediately bringing me a sense of comfort. He’s starting to smell a lot like something I would considerhome.
His fingers find mine as we turn back toward the warmth and laughter inside. “Come on. Before Joey eats the rest of the gluten-free rolls.”
The rest of the evening hums by in a cozy blur. Dishes are washed, pie is devoured, Joey and Alyssa beg Beck to play “just one more round” of a board game, and both sets of his grandparents settle into the living room to watch football. It’s the kind of lived-in chaos that seeps into your bones, and for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like an observer.
I feel like Ibelong.
By the time Beck walks me out to his truck, the night air has turned crisp. Our breath puffs out in little clouds as we make our way down the front walk, hand in hand. The porch light glows softly behind us, golden against the cold.
