The Trouble with Faking (8 page)

“Ah, that smells so good,” I say, taking the mug from her and inhaling. “I’ve always been jealous of your wonderful coffee machine.” I take a sip and—Oh. Wait. Hmm, that’s definitely different. “Mmm, that’s good,” I say, since Laura seems to be waiting for a reaction.

“Great. I’ll just grab some fruit and cereal, and I think Ben should be down in a minute. Then we can have breakfast.”

I take another sip of coffee, hoping it’ll taste better than the first, but—Nope. That definitely doesn’t taste right. I try again, a bigger gulp this time, telling myself I’ll get used to it. After all, I don’t want to waste a mug of—

“Ugh, no, I’m gonna throw up,” I mutter, turning back to the railing as the vomit reflex threatens to kick into action. Without a word, Damien takes the mug from me and tosses the contents over the side of the balcony. “Whoa, hey, what are you—”

“Now you know why I’m having water,” he says, handing the mug back to me with a sly smile.

I smack his arm. “Thanks for the warning.”

Sunday evening finds me cross-legged on Damien’s couch with an array of craft materials spread around me while Damien sits at his desk working hard on an assignment. I got an order last night for twenty ‘So many books, so little time’ pin badges, and it turned out I only had nine left. So I gathered up the relevant craft materials in a lunch box and crossed the parking lot to Smuts.

Quiet music plays in the background while I cut out laminated circles and stitch bits of felt together. The only other sound is the
tick-tick-tick
of Damien’s typing. Everything is perfect—well, it would be more perfect if we were a genuine couple and there was a whole lot of kissing interspersed amongst the typing and stitching, but it’s as close to perfect as I can get right now—until a knock interrupts us.

The door opens and Noah walks in. “Hey, look, it’s the girlfriend.” With a nod to Damien, he closes the door, strolls over, and drops onto the couch as if he has nothing better to do than sit here and watch me sew.

“Yes,” I tell him. “That’s me. The girlfriend.”

“Well, you’ve got a tough act to follow. I mean, that Charlotte. She was a real keeper.” Damien scrunches up a piece of paper and throws it at his friend. Noah catches it and presses it into a tight wad between his palms. “Anyway, who wants to help me pick out my new tattoo?”

Damien looks up. “Another tattoo?” He laughs and shakes his head. “I bet your girlfriend will
love
that.”

Noah throws the wad of paper back at him. “Fortunately, my
girlfriend
doesn’t get a say.”

“How about we swap?” Damien says. “You come finish off this assignment, and I’ll choose your next tattoo.”

“Not a chance, man. You’ll pick out some girly butterfly or something.”

“And you’ll fail my assignment.”

“Or,” Noah says, “I’ll do so well there’ll be an inquiry into why your marks have improved so drastically.”

“Really? You think your marine biology knowledge will help you with this physics assignment?”

“My marine biology knowledge will kick your physics assignment’s ass.”

Damien rolls his eyes and turns back to his laptop.

“Andi, Andi, Andi,” Noah says, turning his attention back to me. “Is this the stuff you sell on your online craft store?”

“Yes. I’m making pin badges.”

“Hmm. I thought pin badges were those plastic circles you pin onto your clothes and stuff.”

“Well, this is the homemade version of that. See?” I hold up the creation I’m currently working on. “First I stitch the larger felt circle onto the pin part. Then I stitch the smaller felt circle onto the larger felt circle, and then the laminated circle with the words gets stuck on top of that.”

“Huh. And people pay money for that?”

A second ball of paper hits Noah’s head, and it fills me with giddy warmth to know that Damien’s sticking up for me even when half his attention is on his work.

“Dude, what?” Noah says. “I was joking. Andi knows I was joking, don’t you, Andi?”

“Like you were joking during the last conversation we had in this room?”

“You know, I actually was joking at the beginning of that conversation. You’re the one who decided to take it up a level by launching into racial issues five seconds after we met.”

I lower my hands. “I didn’t
launch
into anything. I simply commented on your—”

Damien groans as he looks at his phone. “I have to deal with something. I’ll be back just now.” He stands.

“You’re not on duty tonight, are you?” Disappointment tinges my voice.

“No, but I still need to go check something at reception.”

“Okay.” I return to the two pieces of felt in my hands, wondering if Noah will leave now or continue to sit here being antagonistic.

He leans one elbow on the back of the couch. “Guess what,” he says.

I apply a blob of glue to the back of a laminated circle and stick it to the two felt pieces I’ve already sewn together. “What?”

“I know your secret.”

The finished pin badge slips from my fingers. I pick it up quickly, checking that the circle is still stuck in the right place while instructing myself not to panic. “Of course you do.” I look up at him with a strained smile. “You’re Damien’s best friend, aren’t you? Why wouldn’t he tell you our secret?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. He leans a little closer. “
Your
secret.”

“My—What do you mean?”

He gives me a smug smile. “You know what I mean.”

“Ugh, I hate it when people do that. If you want to say something, just say it.”

“Really? You hate it when people do that? Then why don’t
you
say what you want to say?”

“And what do I want to say?”

“Oh, Damien, I love you,” he coos in a high pitched voice. “Let’s get married and have babies and—”

I grab the nearest cushion and throw it at him. It smacks his face, muffling his words, before landing on his lap. Laughing, he picks it up and throws it back.

“You’re an ass,” I tell him, hugging the cushion to my chest and crossing my arms over it.

“So I’m right,” he says with a triumphant smile.

“I didn’t say that.”

“Ah, so that means—”

“You know, I think I should leave.”

“Hey, no, I’m sorry. You don’t have to go. I won’t say anything else about … that.”

I glare at him.

“Seriously. Here. I’ll do the sticking.” He picks up the tube of glue and waits expectantly for me to continue sewing felt pieces together.

I pick up a dark blue circle and a pale blue circle and choose a pink thread. After a few minutes of silent stitching, Noah says, “Sooooo, why are you wearing one orange sock and one blue sock?”

“Because life is too short to worry about matching socks,” I retort.

“I see.”

We go back to not talking.

I stitch.

Noah waits.

I ignore a call from my mom.

More silence.

When I can’t take it any longer, I clear my throat and ask, “How did you and Damien become friends?”

“Is this the part where we ask random questions to fill the awkward silence until Damien gets back?”

“Partly. But it’s also a genuine question, since you’re quite different from the friends he had at school.”

Noah rolls the tube of glue in his hands. “You mean the respectable, hardworking, Valedictorian-material friends?”

I smile, already knowing the direction this conversation is headed in. “If I say, ‘Yes,’ you’re going to say something like, ‘What makes you think that’s not me?’”

“Exactly. And I might also add that you shouldn’t judge people because of how they look.”

“You mean the way you judged me because of how I look?”

“Hmm. Yes.” He tilts his head to the side and considers me. “You’ve still got a bit of that self-righteous look.”

“
How?
” I demand, throwing my hands up. “What are you talking about?”

“Andi.” He smiles. “I’m just joking.”

“Oh, terrific. You get to insult me and then wave it off as a joke. I should try that.” I fold my arms over my chest. “Noah, you look like the kind of guy who might steal my car. Oh, wait, sorry. That was a joke.”

Noah blinks, then frowns. “You look at me and you see a
criminal
?”

“Oh, COME ON. You can dish it out but you can’t take it?”

“I could take it if it actually was a joke,” Noah says, standing up. “The difference is, you’re not joking.”

“How do you know I’m—”

“Because you’re angry,” he says simply. He opens the door. “I’ll see you around, Andi.” The door swings shut behind him.

I deflate against the cushions, trying to convince myself that I have nothing to feel bad about and wondering why I let this guy get to me so easily in the first place.

I bend over, line up the cue stick with the white ball, slowly pull the cue stick back, and bring it forwards fast. The white ball flies across the table, misses the striped ball I was aiming for, hits one of the solid balls, and sinks it. It’s the first ball I’ve successfully sunk. If only it were mine.

“Thanks, Andi,” my opponent says.

“Okay, it’s official. I suck at this.” I’m at the George, a room below ground level at Smuts used mainly for relaxing, watching TV¸ and playing pool or table tennis. It’s a little bit like an underground pub—at least, what I imagine an underground pub to look like, since I’ve never been in one.

I arrived as the first eight-ball game kicked off. Damien beat Yashen, then Noah beat Damien, and then Damien decided I should have a turn. I told him I suck, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer. So I looked around for an opponent who might also be terrible at pool, and my eyes landed on Mike sitting on a couch in front of the TV watching rugby. Mike, the guy I’m supposed to like.

“Hey, Mike,” I called. “Do you play?”

“Oh, not really. I’m kinda useless at pool.”

“Perfect,” I said. “Me too.”

Twenty minutes later, it turns out there’s only one useless pool player in this room, and it isn’t Mike. “Here.” I hold my cue stick out to Damien. “This is your game now. My pool-playing days are over.”

“I guess I should kiss my winning streak goodbye then,” Mike says with a good-natured grin as Damien steps up to the table.

“Not necessarily,” I tell him. “You’re actually pretty good.”

“Okay, Damien.” Mike does a series of exaggerated arm stretches. “Bring it on. Let’s do this.”

I laugh, and Damien gives me a raised-eyebrow look that most likely means,
This is the guy you like?

I shrug and smile back at him, intending for my expression to say something like,
The heart wants what the heart wants.

I take a few steps back and lean against the bar so I can watch them from a comfortable distance. After a minute or so, Noah leaves the group of guys watching rugby and wanders over to my side. I can’t think why he’d be interested in my company after our last disastrous conversation. Perhaps he’s come over to get back at me for calling him a criminal.

“Well, isn’t this awkward?” he whispers to me. “The guy you’re pretending to date and the guy you’re pretending to like—facing off over a pool table.”

I ignore him. It’s better than throwing verbal punches.

“I’m actually here because I thought I should apologise,” he says, pushing his hands into his pockets.

“Oh.” I certainly wasn’t expecting that.

“I was provoking you,” he continues, “so I shouldn’t have been surprised when you retaliated. I just didn’t realise you’d come up with a jab that hit so close to home. It took me by surprise.”

I look at him. “Are you telling me you
are
a criminal?”

He laughs. “No. I’m telling you it’s not the first time I’ve been accused of being one.”

“Oh. Well, it was the first time someone’s accused me of being self-righteous.”

“Probably because you’re not.” He smiles at me. “Andi, I was just messing with you. I’m sorry. Some of Damien’s friends are so uptight I can’t help having a go at them.”

I frown at the floor. “I suppose I’m one of the uptight ones then, since your comments managed to get under my skin.”

“Nah, I wouldn’t give you the uptight label.” He leans back against the bar. “The uptight friends and family give me horrified looks, then whisper about me when they think I can’t hear. You look me in the eye and give as good as you get.” He gives me a mischievous grin. “It’s a lot more fun.”