Page 53 of The Fake Out
I thought about it for a moment. “What do you want to do after football?”
“I want to go into medical research.”
“Really?”
“I know you only want me for my body, but I have a brain too.” Playfully, he batted his eyes until I cracked a smile. “My undergrad degree is in biology and my plan has always been med school, then a residency in research. I’d like to work somewhere I can study congenital heart defects.”
I was impressed and I realized it made his work with the Children’s Heart Fund even more important to him. “Do you know where you’d like to go to school?”
He held up a finger. “That’s another question.”
“Fine,” I grumbled. “Your turn.”
“So, Peter? How did that happen?”
“Wow. You came out swinging.” I picked out a tortilla chip and began breaking it into tiny little pieces. “We started dating my third year in college. He’d already graduated. Granny was going through cancer treatment, I was commuting to school and working as many hours as I could between helping out with Iris.”
I paused and nibbled on my bottom lip, trying to decide how much of this story I wanted to tell. When we started dating, I’d been twenty and had never been in a serious relationship. More than that, I’d felt so very alone, longing for someone I could lean on a little. But I chose wrong. Really, really wrong.
“Anyway”—I brushed the chip crumbs off the table—“I thought he was a good guy, but he seemed to be confused by the definition of monogamous. I caught him in the act of cheating the day of my granny’s funeral. So now, I hate his guts and sincerely hope one day he is attacked by killer bees and that it’s all caught on video so I can replay it when I need a pick-me-up.”
“Ouch.” His eyes were kind, which I sort of hated. I didn’t want his pity. “He really did a number on you.”
“It’s over now. It could be much worse—I could still be dating him.” I shuddered at even the thought. “Ready for round two?”
He picked up the yellow bottle. “Let’s do this.”
We popped our respective chips in our mouths at the same time. The initial taste was sweet, almost fruity. And then…
“What. Is. This?” Chris coughed, his eyes widening. After chugging half his water bottle, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Why are you not reacting? I can feel it burning my stomach lining.”
It was hot, that was no lie. But one, I liked spicy. Two, I’d done the Taco Truck challenge before, several times. Probably, most of my taste buds had been burned off at this point.
I smiled sweetly. “It wasn’t too bad.”
“Wasn’t too bad? Are you a witch?” He held up his hand. “Don’t answer that. I don’t want to know. Go on, ask your question.”
“Do you have any pets?”
His eyes lit up, a boyish smile exposing his dimple. That dimple. That smile. It did something to my cold, irritated heart. Which I ignored.
“Yep. Three dogs and a tortoise.” He pulled his phone out. “Wanna see?”
“Sure.” For the next ten minutes, he scrolled through his phone showing me photos of three rascally-looking dogs (all rescues) and his Russian tortoise posing in front of a Barbie-sized kitchen with a tiny chef’s hat on its head that made me laugh.
“Now, my question. Why do you hate roses?”
I glared at him. His questions were far more personal than the ones I’d asked. I opened my mouth to say something vague and vaguely untrue, but Chris interrupted me.
“Remember, we said we’d be honest.”
My mouth snapped shut. How had he known?
“Fine. Roses are supposed to be a symbol of love, but mostly they get used for insincere apologies. Give someone roses and all is forgiven. Roses heal all wounds, blah, blah, blah.” I was stabbing the table with my finger now. “Anyone can buy roses. Just like anyone can say the words ‘I’m sorry’ and not really mean them. Roses and apologies, both aren’t worth much as far as I’m concerned. People might believe what you say, but they always believe what you do.”
Every time my father had come home, it had been with a bouquet of roses and apologies, only for him to repeat the process over and over like the worst kind of déjà vu.
“Sorry,” I muttered, my cheeks flushing.
