Page 79 of Play Fake
“About Time,” I admit, a little sheepishly.
His mouth curves. “Never heard of it.”
I gasp. “What? That’s a crime. You’d love it.”
“Pretty sure you just said it’s a romance movie.”
“It’s more than that,” I protest, laughing. “It’s…I don’t know. It’s about family and choices and time and love. It’s one of those movies that stays with you after the credits roll.”
He watches me for a long beat, like he’s storing away the way I light up when I talk about something I love.
Then it’s his turn. “All right, my turn,” he says, leaning back on the bench. “If you could live anywhere in the world, where would it be?”
I wrinkle my nose, thinking. “Somewhere near the ocean but not too crowded. I like the idea of quiet mornings and a small community. Maybe a coastal town with a farmers’ market on Saturdays.”
He nods slowly, like he can see it too. “I like that.”
We keep going, tossing questions back and forth—childhood memories, favorite meals, the weirdest thing we’ve ever done. I learn he used to collect football cards as a kid and still has them in a shoebox under his bed. He learns I once tried out for the school musical in middle school and forgot my lines halfway through.
By the time our wrappers are crumpled and our water bottles half-empty, the air between us has shifted—subtle, but real. Like we’ve been building toward this without realizing it.
Finally, Beck taps the packet with his knuckle. “All right,” he says with a small, reluctant smile. “Guess we should actually start working.”
“Guess so,” I echo, though part of me wants to keep asking him questions instead.
26
BECK
We’ve been at this table for almost an hour, the late afternoon light filtering through the oak branches and striping the pages of Sophie’s notebook. We’ve gotten some real work done—outlined the basics, divided up a few tasks—but somewhere along the way, the conversation started to wander. Little questions here and there. Favorite movies. Worst cafeteria meals. The kind of easy stuff you ask when youwantto know someone, not because you have to.
Sophie taps the end of her pen against the table, scanning the packet again. “Okay,” she says slowly. “Remind me what the difference between positive and negative symptoms is again? I keep mixing them up.”
Before I even think about it, the words come out. “Positive symptoms are things that shouldn’t be there—like hallucinations, delusions, disorganized behavior. Negative symptoms are when things thatshouldbe there are missing. Flat affect, withdrawal, stuff like that.”
Her pen freezes. When she looks up at me, her expression isn’t teasing—it’s surprised. Almost…startled. “You didn’t even have to think about that.”
I shrug, a little too stiff. “Yeah. Guess not.”
She tilts her head, searching my face like she’s trying to piece something together. “Did you already study this section?”
“No,” I say too fast. My hand curls into a fist under the table, the instinctive kind. “Just…know it.”
There’s a quiet beat between us. She doesn’t push, which I appreciate more than I can say. She just nods slowly, scribbles something in her notes, and moves on.
But the damage is done. My heart’s thudding like I just ran a sprint. I didn’t mean to sound like that. It’s not like Iwantto be fluent in this stuff—it’s just carved somewhere deep, the kind of thing you don’t forget.
She starts rambling about who should handle which sections of the project, and I let it wash over me while I get my breathing under control. She has no idea what that slip cost me, and I’m not ready to explain it quite yet.
She doesn’t linger on it, thank God. Instead, she flips the packet toward her, chewing on her pen cap like she always does when she’s thinking. “All right, next one.”
Her eyes skim the page, and she reads, “Which of the major schizophrenia subtypes is no longer officially recognized in the DSM-5, but is still often used informally in clinical settings?” She groans softly. “Ijustread this, and it’s already fallen out of my brain.”
The answer slides out of me before she finishes the sentence. “Paranoid type. Technically, they dropped the subtypes in DSM-5 because they weren’t stable or distinct enough, but people still use the old terms sometimes, especially clinicians who trained on DSM-IV.”
She stares at me again, mouth slightly open. “Okay, Harrison, what the hell. Do you have a photographic memory or something?”
I laugh quietly, but it’s hollow around the edges. “No. Some things stick with me easier than others.”
