Page 68 of Play Fake
The doors swing open into the rec room, sunlight spilling through wide windows onto mismatched couches and tables. A handful of residents are scattered around—some playing cards, others watching a muted TV.
And then I see her.
She’s sitting near the window, hair streaked with more gray than the last time I visited, but her posture is straight, hands folded neatly in her lap. When her eyes lift and meet mine, I freeze.
Because for a second, she looks…like Mom.
Her whole face lights up. “Beckett?”
My throat closes. “Hey, Mom.”
She stands, and I cross the room quickly, folding her into a hug before I can second-guess it. She feels smaller than Iremember, but the way her arms tighten around me nearly knocks the air from my lungs with emotion.
“It’s really you,” she says, pulling back to study my face. “You look so grown up. Taller, broader…just like your father.”
I laugh softly, though it catches in my throat. “It’s been a while.”
She tuts, squeezing my hand as we sit together by the window. “Too long. You’re still playing football?”
“Yeah,” I say, managing a smile. “Senior year.”
Her eyes glisten with pride, the kind I used to see every Friday night under stadium lights when she sat in the stands. For the next half hour, it feels almost normal. She asks about school, my siblings, whether I’m eating enough. I tell her about Alyssa bossing me around, and Joey following me with a football. She laughs, the sound so familiar it hurts.
I don’t realize how much time has passed until a nurse approaches, voice gentle. “Lynn, it’s almost dinner. Let’s wrap up for today.”
Her smile falters, but she nods obediently. “Of course.”
I swallow the lump in my throat and force myself to stand. “I’ll come back soon,” I promise.
She squeezes my hand once more, her eyes soft. “You better. Don’t leave me waiting another three years, Beckett.”
The words hit harder than I expect, but I force a smile, pressing a kiss to her temple before stepping back.
As I walk out, my chest aches with a mix of relief and grief. Because for thirty minutes, I had my mom back. Those moments are rare and never guaranteed.
But now she’s gone again.
By Thursday afternoon, the rhythm of campus life has pulled me back in whether I want it to or not.
Sophie had been running a few minutes late to psych yesterday, and I was grateful for it. I’d needed that buffer—time to get my head on straight before facing her. Professor Nelson spent most of the class lecturing on dissociative disorders—dense enough material to keep everyone’s attention and, thankfully, far enough from our project topic that I could keep my walls up without drawing hers in.
Now it’s just me, Logan, and the clang of iron.
Music’s pounding from the speakers overhead while Logan’s spotting me as I rack the bar after my last set, sweat sliding down my spine. My muscles burn in that good, head clearing way.
It’s the first time in over a week that my body feels like it’s firing on all cylinders again. No lingering brain fog. No nausea. Just strength.
“You’re finally not lifting like a grandma,” Logan says, smirking as he steps back.
I grab my water bottle and take a long drink. “Yeah, well, being poisoned will slow a guy down.”
He barks a laugh. “You and your gluten thing, man. Still can’t believe how bad that messes you up.”
“Yeah,” I say dryly, wiping my face with a towel. “Me too.”
We move through the rest of the workout together, trading sets and occasional trash talk. Logan’s always been good at filling the silence, which works out fine because I’m not exactly eager to dig into my head right now.
By the time we finish, my muscles are wrecked in the best way. I roll my shoulders as we walk toward the exit, the late-afternoon sun spilling through the glass doors.
