"Explain what? That you lied to me?"
"I didn't lie, I..." she hesitates. "Yes, I lied, but only about my last name and what I do for a living."
"Oh yeah?" I huff. "What about sharing an apartment with your friend? What about all of those details? The mess, your lifestyle, your neighborhood..." Blair doesn't answer, and my anger builds. "Let me guess—you don't actually live in a shared apartment on the Upper West Side either, do you?"
"No," she admits. "I live on Central Park West."
I whistle through my teeth. "So then you certainly don't struggle to pay your rent."
"No."
"I figured as much. So literally everything you told me about your life was bullshit." I have to force myself to keep my voice down in the hotel lobby. "I read in Forbes that you retired at thirty-six. Must have been some company. So you're what—a multimillionaire?"
“All cards on the table, I’m a billionaire, actually.”
“A billionaire…”
The word lands like a punchline to a joke. It's so absurd it almost circles back to funny—except it’s not.
"And you thought it would be fun to slum it with the wedding planner? See how the other half lives?"
"It wasn't like that," she says.
"Then what was it like, Blair? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you were bored with your rich life and decided to play pretend with someone desperate enough to hire a fake girlfriend. Did you laugh about it? About how pathetic I was?"
"God, no. Liv, I would never?—"
"You know what the worst part is?" I interrupt. "It's that I actually started to trust you. I told you things I don't tell anyone. I thought our conversations were real."
"Itwasreal for me."
"Nothing about you was real. Your entire backstory was fiction and you had every chance to tell me the truth." My voice cracks on the last words, betraying me. "I opened up to you and got nothing in return."
"That's not true, Liv. Everything I felt was real."
"Whatever. I've got to go." I cut her off, my professional mask sliding back into place as my heart shatters. "I've got an event on and it's two hours until showtime. Don't ever call me again."
34
BLAIR
Danny's bedroom overlooks Mom's vegetable garden, where neat rows of late-season tomatoes and peppers stretch toward the tree line. His walls are covered with baseball memorabilia—signed photos, vintage pennants, and a collection of baseballs from every major league stadium he's ever visited. The shelf above his desk displays his prized possession: a baseball signed by Cal Ripken Jr. that John surprised him with for his twenty-first birthday.
We've been camped out here for five days now, ever since the doctors cleared him to come home with strict instructions to "take it easy." Of course, Danny's version of taking it easy would involve throwing fastballs in the backyard within hours, so we've had to implement what Mom diplomatically calls "fictional medical guidance." We told him he needs to stay in bed for a full week to let his brain heal properly or he might not be able to play baseball again. It's not entirely untrue—rest is important—but mostly it's the only way to keep him from overdoing it.
The evidence of our extended sleepover is scattered across every surface: empty ice cream containers, Danny's laptop open to Netflix, and his running commentary notebooks wherehe's been documenting every statistical detail mentioned in each film. We've bingedThe Natural,Field of Dreams,Bull Durham,Major League, andThe Sandlottwice. Danny's personal favorite remainsA League of Their Own, which he quotes while keeping notes about the Rockford Peaches' batting averages.
My family home sits on fifteen acres of rolling hills about twenty minutes outside Asheville—a sprawling colonial that Mom and John bought when they married. It's a peaceful place where you can sit on the wraparound porch and see nothing but trees and pasture for miles. John's workshop occupies the converted barn, and the constant hum of his sander or table saw provides a comforting background soundtrack during the day.
Danny shifts beside me on his bed, adjusting the bandages that still cover half his head. The bruising around his eyes has faded to a yellowish-green.
"I'm so bored," he announces with a deep sigh. "This is the most boring I've ever been in my whole life. I mean, I like that you're here, but I don't like being in bed."
"Just a few more weeks," I remind him. "But I promise you, when you're all better, I'll take you anywhere you want to go. Anywhere at all."
Danny's eyes light up immediately. "Really? Anywhere?"
"Anywhere. Your choice."
