Page 66 of Play Fake
“You kind of disappeared this morning,” I add, softer this time.
For a second, he just looks at me, like he’s trying to decide whether to brush it off or actually tell me something.
He exhales slowly, shifting his bag to his other arm. “Yeah. About this morning…” His voice is lower now, quiet and careful. “Sorry I dipped like that. It wasn’t fair to leave you hanging.”
The apology catches me off guard—not because he owes me one, but because Beck doesn’t usually explain himself.
I shrug, trying to play it cool, even though my chest tightens. “It’s fine. I just wasn’t sure what happened. One second you were there, the next…”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”
A beat passes. The parking lot has emptied out, the night air soft around us. And before I can stop myself, my thoughts start to unravel.
Maybe I’ve put too much on him. Between the fake dating mess, Zach, my parents, and now the project—it’s a lot. I hadn’t thought about what it might feel like from his side.
I bite my lip, glancing down at the ground. “If it’s…too much,” I start, forcing the words out. “The fake dating thing, or any of this—I won’t be mad if you want to back out. I didn’t exactly give you a choice in the beginning.”
He steps just a little closer, close enough that I catch the faint scent of soap and turf. He reaches up and gently tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers brushing my skin so lightly it makes my breath hitch.
“Hey,” he says, eyes locked on mine. “This has nothing to do with you. I promise.”
Something about the way he says it—like he means every word—makes the knot in my chest loosen just a little.
“It’s just my own stuff,” he adds. “Stuff I’m not ready to talk about yet.”
I nod slowly.
“Okay,” I say softly.
His hand drops back to his side, but the warmth from his fingers linger long after.
Beck nods toward his truck. “C’mon. I’ll drive you home.”
I open my mouth to tell him he doesn’t have to, but the look he gives me shuts the protest down before it starts.
“Okay,” I say instead.
He unlocks the doors and pulls open the passenger side for me. I climb in, the familiar scent of his truck wrapping around me—clean and woodsy, with an undertone of citrus.
As he rounds to the driver’s side, I find myself watching him through the window, my pulse steady but undeniably aware.
Somewhere between a fake boyfriend and a complicated project, Beck Harrison has started to matter more than I intended.
22
BECK
The hospital comes into view before I’m ready for it.
White walls, flat roofs, manicured shrubs out front—everything neat and sterile in a way that makes my chest tighten. I ease my truck into the same visitor lot I used to pull into years ago, killing the engine as the afternoon sun bounces off the windshield.
My palms are slick against the steering wheel. I wipe them on my jeans, but it doesn’t help.
It’s been almost three years since the last time I was here. Since the last time I walked through those doors and saw her. Since everything went sideways.
The last visit ended badly—worse than any of the others before it. She’d been having a rough episode, and nothing I said could reach her. She didn’t recognize me at first. And when she did, that was almost worse.
I stare at the building, the muted blue letters spelling out the name of the psychiatric facility where my mom has lived for the past twelve years. Twelve years. More than half my life.
