Page 12 of The Dating Charade

“Oh, really?” Sporting pink slippers, she stepped an inch out the door. “That’s too bad.” She checked her watch. “Dinner, I’m guessing?”

“Dinner theater, actually.”

Her brows rose considerably. “I didn’t peg you as a dinner-theater guy.”

“I’m not.” Jett reached into his wallet and pulled out two tickets. “You want them? They told me at the box office My Fair Lady was the ‘hit of the season.’”

Sarah laughed lightly and took the tickets, reviewing them. “Sixty-five bucks a seat? You can’t let these go to waste.”

“Do me a favor. Use them so they won’t. You still have a good thirty minutes to get there.”

She paused, bit her lip as she looked at them. “I’d be happy to, but I don’t know of anyone I could snag in such short notice. Definitely not tonight, with Thanksgiving tomorrow. We’re quite the loners, aren’t we?” She smiled up at him, then pushed the tickets his way with one hand as she flapped her letters with the other. “Ah, well. Off to the mailbox. Sorry things didn’t work out tonight.”

He took the tickets and she passed by him. It was indeed painful to let one hundred and thirty hard-earned dollars slip through his fingers. And despite his complete and total disinterest in watching an ensemble decked in makeup dance on stage, there was still the matter of two fine dinners going to waste—according to the online menu, two New York strips in a spicy coffee rub with baked potatoes drowned in sour cream and chives, strawberry cheesecake, endless coffee. As it was, he would be lucky to find a couple slices of leftover pizza in the refrigerator.

Sarah turned the corner and went down the stairs. After a moment’s thought, Jett walked over to the railing and called down as she slipped her mail into the box. “Hey, Sarah. I changed my mind. I’m up for steak if you are.”

In only seconds, Sarah blew by him, calling out as she dashed in her apartment, “Give me two minutes.”

“Sure.”

As he waited, he drew out his phone, the Cassie quandary returning like a briefly paused game. The fact was he was not in the position to solve the puzzle alone. He needed someone closer to help him. Much closer—so close, perhaps, they were able to steal Cassie’s identity and still walk away friends. If he was going to do this, he needed to have an inside man—or in this case, woman—so he could execute this perfectly.

“Almost ready! Just getting on my boots.” Sarah’s muffled voice called out just beyond the door as Jett began to type.

To Cassie’s imposter: let’s talk.

5

Cassie

The room was littered with scraps of wrapping paper and snips of gold and red ribbon. More ribbon twirled slowly as it dangled from the low ceiling where several of the girls had taken advantage of the holiday and taped yards and yards of the stuff throughout the room. The door to the game room, and every other door in the building, was covered in cheerful wrapping paper: reindeer in little red sweaters with presents on their backs, snow-covered Christmas trees, nutcrackers, and long, festive trains. A wooden ornament hung over the wrapping on Cassie’s door depicting baby Jesus in a manger. Christmas music played loudly—and being December 1, quite proudly—over the speakers.

Every possible chair in the place was in use.

“We’re going to need more shoeboxes over here, Keely.” Cassie spoke as she hurriedly opened another bulk box of donated deodorants and set them beside one of the girls’ chairs.

This was the biggest event of the season for the girls, and today was the culmination of all their hard work. It had been months since Girls Leadership Club, a subset of Girls Haven, had made the unanimous goal to collect supplies and assemble Christmas shoeboxes for that year. And they had worked tirelessly. Several Mondays Cassie had chauffeured them throughout town, letting them take the wheel as they charged like the businesswomen they were destined to become into stores and organizations, giving their well-prepared speeches (and poster-board diagrams). And what an incredible turnout. United, they had managed to gather enough supplies for a whopping total of 346 boxes to send to those in less fortunate circumstances overseas.

The pride in Cassie’s eyes was so thick she practically needed glasses.

“Van’s full. Where should I put these?” Star stood behind Cassie, an armful of colorfully wrapped boxes stacked to her chin.

“Just start making a pile by the door. This is going to take multiple trips.”

“I’m running out of soap,” one of the girls called out from her station. The girl dropped a bar of soap into a box and pushed it in front of Bailey’s area.

Like little elves in a Ford factory, they had two extremely efficient assembly lines going. Four girls wrapped the boxes as quickly as their Scotch Tape fingers would allow, two girls ran completed stacks of boxes to the van, and the rest dropped their designated items into the boxes before pushing them along the line: a toothbrush, comb, deodorant, toy, coloring book, pencils, stickers, woodwind recorder (their pride point, for which the girls had received over four hundred donations), a Girls Haven shirt, underwear, and a sturdy three-pack of socks.

Cassie moved down the hall to her office, where cardboard boxes took up nearly every square inch of floor space. She squeezed inside and began rummaging for the soap. As she did, her eyes trailed over the blooms on her bouquet, and for the zillionth time what should have been a feeling of pleasure at seeing the festive display was overcome by a deep sense of regret.

Why on earth had she not given that guy a chance?

Sure, Cassie had never been good at spontaneous things. Despite what her currently cluttered office might say, her personality leaned on the side of precision and organization, and with those qualities naturally came a resistance to such messy and potentially chaotic things as meet-a-guy-on-a-sidewalk-at-night dates. Too much could have gone wrong. In fact, too much that day had already gone wrong.

Rachel, one of the DCS staff, had come by unannounced that afternoon, leading her to scramble for replacement staff so she could take the private meeting in her office. She was familiar with the questions, but discovering that Cam had been moved with her mother to a women and children’s shelter for protection was shocking and heart wearying. Cam—cheetah-print-wearing, sassy Cam—had been tagging along with Star at Girls Haven for over a year and never said a word about the abuse she’d been facing, sexually or physically. It was Cassie’s job to protect and empower these girls, and yet for all the training and all the careful watching, she hadn’t had a clue. She ached over that fact.

So, there Cassie had stood outside, waiting on Bree to pick her up, holding it together until she could slide inside the car with her friend and share every emotion—including the guilt—that simmered. She’d known Cam was resistant to getting too close at the Haven. Why hadn’t Cassie taken her resistance as a silent cry for help? Why had she let the busyness of the business—the programs, the reports, even the Christmas-box program—occupy more attention? And if she was really honest with herself, why had she gone with the flow and focused her attention on the other girls, like Star, like Bailey, who wanted to be loved? The ones who were easy to love. The ones who rewarded Cassie’s time and attention with responses of affection. But Cam? If she had only pushed harder past her exterior walls, spent more time making Cam a priority . . .