Page 56 of Play Fake
I jot down the instructions automatically, but my focus keeps drifting sideways to the boy slumped at my side, pale against the dark sweatshirt he’s wearing.
Beck spends the rest of the class leaning his head against his arm on his desk, looking like he would love the floor to open and swallow him whole.
Professor Nelson finishes up and we head out. Reaching the edge of the quad, I slow, shifting my bag higher on my shoulder. “I’m walking you back.”
Beck stops too, tugging his hood down just enough that I can see the tired set of his eyes. “You’ve got another class, don’t you?”
I hesitate. “Yeah…”
“Then go. Don’t be late because of me.” His tone is solid, but not cold. Just matter-of-fact, like he’s used to carrying his own weight, even when he’s struggling.
I cross my arms, not ready to give in. “You don’t look like you should be left alone.”
That earns me a ghost of a smile, small and soft, aimed straight at me. It makes my stomach flip. “I’ll be fine,” he says, certain. “I just got glutened Wednesday night and still haven’t quite recovered.”
I blink. “Got…what?”
His smile twitches, like he’s not surprised I don’t know. “Glutened. I’m celiac. It means I can’t eat gluten. When I do, it makes me really sick.”
I tilt my head, trying to piece it together. “Like a food allergy?”
“Not exactly.” His eyes hold mine. “It’s an autoimmune disease. My body attacks itself when gluten shows up. So it’s not like hives or anything—it’s more—exhaustion, stomach issues, my immune system going haywire. Always takes me a while to bounce back.”
I study him and the shadows under his eyes, the way his shoulders slope like he’s carrying twice as much weight as usual. And suddenly, the pale skin and the hood over his head make perfect sense.
“Oh,” I breathe, softer than I mean to.
Beck shrugs, like it’s nothing. Like being sick for days is just part of the deal. “So, you see? Nothing you need to worry about. Go to class. I’ll be fine.”
But my feet don’t move. Because even though he’s insisting that he is fine, his eyes tell me more than his words ever will.
I narrow my eyes at him. “Fine. I’ll go to class.”
He lifts a brow like he doesn’t quite believe me.
“But only if you promise me two things.”
That gets the faintest tug at the corner of his mouth. “Conditions, huh? All right. Let’s hear ’em.”
“One—you go straight home. No detours, no pretending you’re fine, and no heading to weights or whatever.”
His lips twitch. “That’s oddly specific.”
I ignore him. “Two—you text me once you’re there. Just so I know you didn’t collapse somewhere between here and your front door.”
For the first time this morning, his smile actually reaches his eyes. It’s small and tired, but warm enough to make my pulse skip. “You drive a hard bargain, Prescott.”
“Promise,” I press, holding his gaze.
He studies me for a long moment, the kind of eye contact that makes the rest of campus blur out. Finally, he nods. “Promise.”
“Good.” I exhale, like I’ve won something, even though he’s the one walking away while I’m left standing here, still worried.
Beck adjusts his hood and gives me a soft nod. “Now go, before you’re late.”
I watch him turn down the path, slower than usual, and only when he’s gone from view do I head toward the building for my next class—my chest tight, mind nowhere near the lecture I’m about to sit through.
I slide into my next class, but my focus is shot. The professor’s voice drones somewhere in the background while I stare at my blank notes page, tapping my pen against the margin.
