Page 96 of Play Fake
He doesn’t explain right away. Just closes his laptop with a soft click, grabs his truck keys from the hook by the door, and nods toward me.
“Come on,” he says. “I’ll show you.”
I hesitate only a second before slipping off the bed and tugging on my sneakers. There’s something in his voice—gentle, but firm enough that it feels like an invitation, not an obligation.
The late afternoon sun is sinking low as we climb into his truck. The cab smells faintly like cedar and his detergent. Neither of us talks much on the drive, but it isn’t uncomfortable. Music hums low through the speakers, just enough to fill the silence. Beck’s hands are firmly on the wheel, jaw set in a way that makes me think he’s not entirely sure about this but is doing it anyway.
We turn off the main road about twenty minutes later, the trees thickening around us until a set of gates comes into view. A brick sign out front readsWillowridge Psychiatric Center, letters carved clean and even into the stone.
My stomach gives a soft, sympathetic twist.
Beck pulls into the small parking lot and kills the engine. For a moment, neither of us move. He stares through the windshield at the building like he’s seeing it for the thousandth time and still never quite gets used to it.
“She’s been here for…a long time,” he says finally, voice low. “My mom. She was diagnosed when I was ten. Schizophrenia. It got bad fast. The meds helped for a while, but she had a coupleof episodes that…” His hand tightens on the steering wheel. “It wasn’t safe for her. Or anyone else.”
I stay quiet, letting him have the space.
“She’s stable here. Mostly. They have a long-term wing that feels more like a residential program than a hospital. But she’s not…she’s not the mom I grew up with anymore.” His throat works, like he’s forcing the words past something heavier. “Visits are hard. She doesn’t always know who I am. Some days she calls me by my dad’s name. Some days she thinks I’m her doctor. And some days…” He blows out a breath. “Some days she’s just gone somewhere I can’t reach.”
My chest aches for him. “Beck…”
He shakes his head slightly, like he doesn’t want pity. “Angela was the only person outside of my family who knew. Back when we were together.”
His voice dips lower, rougher, and he clears his throat before continuing—turning his head just enough that his gaze finds mine. He’s watching me carefully. Measuring.
“Not because I told a lot of people,” he adds. “Because Itrustedher.”
I meet his eyes, holding his stare. “And then she betrayed that trust.”
The smallest, bitterest laugh escapes him. “Yeah. You could say that.” He leans back against the seat, eyes drifting toward the building again. “She was my best friend for a long time. Not just my girlfriend. That’s the part that gutted me. I didn’t just lose the person I thought I’d spend my life with. I lost the person who knew everything about me.
“That’s why,” he says after a beat, eyes still on the building, “I promised myself I wouldn’t put my heart in that position again. Not unless I knew for sure it was worth it. No more blind trust. No more giving everything away just to get crushed.”
I do my best to hold back the tears I can feel forming behind my lashes. I can’t imagine the pain of not only walking in on the person you loved being intimate with another person, but to have trusted that person so much with such vulnerable pieces of you. My heart truly breaks for him.
Being publicly humiliated by Zach was one thing, but I had no emotional attachment to him. I don’t even know if I’d go as far as saying we were friends. I had hard boundaries with what I would share and even what I’d allow to happen between us physically while I was trying to get myself to fall even the smallest bit for him. Thank God that never happened.
His gaze slides back to mine then—searching. The intensity of it steals my breath for a second. There’s so much sitting in that look. History. Hurt. Maybe even a quiet question he isn’t ready to ask out loud.
One that I might be ready to answer.
But I know now isn’t the time for that conversation, so I clear my throat and look toward the entrance. “Do you…want to go see her?”
“Yeah. I think I do.” He studies me for a beat longer, then nods once. “If you’ll go with me.”
So I do.
Beck exhales slowly, like he’s bracing himself, then pushes his door open. I follow suit, the late afternoon breeze cool against my skin as we cross the small parking lot. He reaches for the door first, pulling it open for me, but when we step into the lobby, his fingers brush mine—light, hesitant.
I don’t think about it. I just lace my fingers with his.
His shoulders ease, just barely. Not enough for anyone else to notice, but I feel it in the way his thumb grazes my knuckles once, like he’s reminding himself I’m here.
The lobby is quiet, softly lit, with pale green walls and a mural of trees painted along the far hallway. It smells likedisinfectant and lavender, an odd mix that tries a little too hard to be comforting.
At the front desk, a nurse in light blue scrubs looks up from a clipboard. “Hi there. Visiting?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Beck says, his voice lower than usual. “Beck Harrison. I’m here to see Lynn Harrison.”
