Page 11 of Play Fake
We quickly dip inside and grab drinks, iced coffee for me and a hot one for Ava. We fall into step beside each other before she speaks again.
“All right, superhero,” she says, eyeing the buildings ahead. “Where to first?”
“Abnormal Psych,” I say, tucking my drink into my bag’s side pocket.
She groans dramatically. “Yikes. I’ve heard that professor is brutal. Half the pre-meds avoid it unless they’re forced.”
“Comforting.”
“Hey, you’ll kill it.” She smirks. “Color-coded notes, remember?”
I shake my head, but her grin is infectious, pulling a smile out of me anyway.
We reach the psych building, its sandstone walls climbing high with ivy snaking along the edges. The glass doors gleam under the late-morning sun, reflecting clusters of students sprawled on the grass outside. The air smells faintly of eucalyptus from the trees dotting the courtyard, sharp and clean under the heat.
Inside, the halls buzz with voices and the squeak of sneakers on tile. Flyers line the walls—advertising study groups, mindfulness workshops, even a flyer for the cheer squad’s next fundraiser.
Ava slows as we reach the stairwell. “Second floor for me,” she says, gesturing with her chin. “Text me if your prof tries to scare you off with horror-movie case studies.”
“Only if you text me back when you get buried under lab reports.”
She laughs, giving my arm a quick squeeze. “Deal. Good luck, Soph.”
I nod, shouldering my bag a little higher as she disappears up the stairs. Then, I turn down the hall toward my classroom.
My stomach tightens, but I push through it, fingers tightening around the strap on my shoulder.
New semester. New class. New chance to prove I can carry everything at once without cracking.
At least, that’s what I tell myself as I step into the room.
The room is big, with tiered rows of long desks and chairs that creak when you sit down. I slide into a spot near the middle, unpacking my notebook and pen. A few clusters of students are already chatting, but there are still plenty of open seats scattered around.
I take a sip of my coffee, trying to shake off the weight of Claire’s call, when something shifts inside me—a strange awareness crawling up the back of my neck.
I glance toward the door.
Even in a crowded doorway, he stands out. Broad shoulders, hair still damp like he didn’t bother to dry it completely, and those eyes—clear, sharp, the exact same shade of green I remember from the other night.
Beck Harrison
For a heartbeat, I think maybe he won’t notice me. That I can stay anonymous in the sea of students.
But then his gaze sweeps the room, finds mine, and holds.
That flicker of recognition hits me straight in the chest.
He grins—small, almost private—and it pulls a smile out of me before I can stop it.
My stomach twists, equal parts nerves and something else I can’t name.
Beck makes his way up the aisle, every step steady, like he’s completely at ease here while I’m scrambling just to breathe normally.
When he stops at my row, his voice is low.
“This seat taken?”
5
