Page 74 of The Fake Out

I paused, waiting for the story that went with such a statement. “And? I need to know how this came about.”

“I lost a bet.”

“With who? A really devious farmer? A cow with a gambling problem?”

His eyes sliced to me, then back to the road. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely.” I glanced at the paper. “Oh, this one might be my favorite.”

“Yes, I took ballet lessons,” he said in a grumpy voice. “Coach said it would help on the football field.”

I smirked. “That’s not my favorite one; although I did want to ask if you had to wear a leotard?”

“Yes. I mean, no.” He shook his head. “What’s the next one?”

“Just one more. Is it true you still sleep with a stuffed dog named Spot? Please tell me that’s true. Please.”

“Ha. That one isn’t true. See. You can’t believe everything you read on the internet. Especially when it’s Wikipedia and you have four sisters who love to find ways to torture you.”

I laughed, delighted. “I can’t wait to meet them.”

“I was afraid of that. Don’t listen to anything they say. Don’t look them directly in the eye. Or feed them after midnight. Or say any of their names three times while looking in a mirror.”

“Because bad things will happen?”

“I don’t know, I’ve never been crazy enough to try,” he said, but I heard the edge of affection in his voice.

“You love them a lot, don’t you?”

A dimple flashed in his cheek. “I really do.”

A fissure of unease hit me as I picked at an imaginary string on my shorts. These people were important to him and suddenly I wanted them to like me more than anything. What if they thought I was too opinionated or too fat or too tall or too something?

Or worse—that I wasn’t enough?

And the craziest part of it all was, in the end, it didn’t matter. Because this wasn’t real.

“I’ve told them all about you. They can’t wait to meet you,” Chris said, like he could read my mind. “They’re going to like you.”

“I’ll try my best,” I said, not quite smiling.

He reached over and put a hand on my leg, his fingers curling around my thigh and squeezing gently. “You don’t have to try; just be you. I promise they’ll love you.”

A large boulder seemed to be lodged in my throat. “Thanks.”

He squeezed my leg again but left his hand there, warm and reassuring and dark against my pasty white skin. That dang opposable thumb taunted me.

It was five solid minutes of silence later when Chris spoke. “It’s a bear, not a dog. His name is Chub, and I don’t sleep with him; I keep him on the nightstand.”

THIRTY-TWO

Did you scrape your knees crawling out of Hell? ’Cause, damn, you’re hot.

—KARA R.

The Sterns’ property started long before we saw the house. Flat, endless fields of grass dotted with spindly oak trees. We reached a fork in the road with a sign that pointed left for LAKE and right for HOUSE.

“You have a lake?” I asked when we turned down a winding dirt road toward the house. “How big is this place?”