He rarely breaks it out, but when he does, it lands. “What’s going on? You stressed about the season? You’re having a great one.”
It’s reassuring. Friendly. And totally off-base. But I’m not about to admit I’m too caught up in the woman I’m fake dating, even though it hardly feels fake.
“Nah, I’m all good,” I say. “Just an off day.”
But as I work out, the lie lingers—like the scent of smelly socks.
And it reminds me of the end of my marriage. The lies my ex told me.
Just took a nap.
Just out with friends.
Just an extra Pilates class today.
All to cover up the fact that she’d been spending time not-cooking with the private chef.
When I hop off the machine, the lies—by omission—I’m telling now gnaw at me.
As I push open the door of the gym, heading out on Fillmore Street, I turn to my friend, my gut still churning. “And the other thing is—this woman? The one I’ve been…”
I don’t even want to sayfake dating.
But he gives me a reprieve by asking, “Yeah?”
I heave a sigh. “I fucking like her.”
Corbin claps me on the shoulder, his smile sympathetic. “Had a feeling.” Then he adds, “What are you going to do about it?”
I shrug. “That’s a very good question.”
I haven’t devised the answer yet, but that night I text her in bed, hunting for another answer.
Ford: Show me.
Skylar: You think I’ll bend that easily?
Ford: You love when I give you orders.
Skylar: In bed, Ford. In bed.
Ford: C’mon. Just a peek.
Skylar: Aren’t you supposed to be in bed? You have a game tomorrow. Get some sleep.
I’ve got five more minutes till it’s lights out. Told myself I’d focus—and with a game tomorrow, Ineedto focus. Thatmeans no sleepover tonight. Too bad being without her is making it harder to fall into the land of nod.
Ford: But I’ll sleep better if you show me a picture of what you’ll be wearing to the gala.
Skylar: I would never have pegged you as the kid who peeked at his Christmas gifts before Christmas morning. I’m going to be discussing this with Mama Devon at the gala this weekend.
Ford: I did not peek.
Skylar: I don’t believe you.
Ford: I still don’t see that picture, Skylar.
I sit in bed and wait. And wait. And wait. My chest is tight. My fingers are busy, scrolling articles I’m not really reading on a news site. A few minutes later, a text arrives—with an image. I open it so fast.
