Pretending

by Shanna Clayton

  “Sure.” He watches me curiously for a second. It looks like he’s about to say something but changes his mind.

  As soon as he’s gone, I lie back on the squeaky bed and let out a long breath. The overhead fan is spinning rapidly, the pull chain to clinking against the side of the bulb. Every second there’s another clink. That fan is right on track with my life. We’re both becoming unhinged.

  I can do this. If I keep repeating that over and over inside my head, I’ll get through it.

  I can do this.

  I can do this.

  Hopefully.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  WESLEY

  Four o’clock finally arrives, and I make my way into Professor Barakat’s lecture hall, walking in with the other students like I belong there. Dahlia’s already sitting in the back where no one is paying her any attention. Her strange makeup is missing, revealing the girl I remember from the library, but she’s dressed in one of her oversized hoodies again.

  I scoot into the next seat without her noticing. She’s staring ahead at the podium, lost in thought. Whatever she’s thinking about, it’s troubling her.

  “Come here often?” I ask, catching her attention.

  She freezes into place, her eyes slightly widening. “Let me guess. Gwen told you I’d be here?”

  Answering that question doesn’t seem like it will help anyone, so I keep my mouth shut. Dahlia leans back in her seat, lifting her hood over her head. I think it’s her way of withdrawing—a defense mechanism taking over.

  “What are you doing here anyway?” she asks me.

  “Seeing as how you’ve already taken this class, I could ask you the same question.”

  “I enjoy the lectures,” she says matter-of-factly. “It reminds me why I chose this field.”

  She’s really passionate about this stuff. That’s most likely my Dad’s doing. His love for archeology rubbed off on everyone that was close to him.

  “Your turn.”

  “You know why I’m here.”

  “No, I don’t.” She stuffs her hands into the front pockets of her hoodie, studying me. “Actually, I don’t get it at all.”

  Seeing her face makeup-free does something strange to me. I feel like I’ve known this side of her all along, like she’s an old friend I’d forgotten, missing her without even being aware of it. I shift in my seat, but I don’t break away from Dahlia’s gaze. Reacting this way over a girl, especially this girl, isn’t something I’m used to.

  Professor Barakat shuts the door, indicating the class is about to begin. It shatters our stare down and bursts our short-lived bubble.

  There’s someone up front—the professor’s assistant most likely—preparing the slide projector. When I look closer, I realize it’s Christine. What’s she doing here?

  “That’s his daughter,” Dahlia tells me, noticing the direction I’m looking. “Every once and a while she stops by to help him with his lectures.”

  “I recognize her,” I say. “But I didn’t know they were related.”

  The lights dim, and the projector brightens the front wall. Dahlia pulls her legs up into her chair, tucking them beneath her. “Today is the analysis of language and phonology,” she whispers, leaning her head toward me.

  “Do you remember all of his lectures?”

  She nods. “He never deviates from the curriculum.” The professor begins to speak, and she stays quiet for a moment, her eyes sharpening in on him. “I don’t think he’s very adventurous.”

  “Why do you care if he’s adventurous or not?”

  She shrugs. “He focuses a lot on archeology, but I bet he’s never been on an expedition in his life. He only admires the people who have enough courage to do what he teaches.”

  I don’t know why it matters, but I don’t say so out loud. She’s been coming to the same class for a while, so I suppose Professor Barakat’s personality nuances have become noticeable to her over the years.

  For a while, I just sit there and listen quietly. Every so often, I’ll glance over to check out Dahlia’s face. She looks as if she’s in a trance, and I wonder what it is about this class that’s so interesting. It doesn’t resonate with me the same way it does for her. I liked it, but there’s a shit-ton of other classes more impressive than this one.

  “He mispronounces the word especially,” she says, a smile in her eyes. “It’s kind of funny.”

  We wait for Barakat to say it again. A few minutes pass, and then he says, “And this part of the tomb was expecially unique.”

  Dahlia and I both crack up, trying to keep our laughter down. She hides her smile behind her hand, and I wish she wouldn’t. She’s got one of those smiles I could stare at for hours.

  “I won’t let you give up your share of the money.” I didn’t mean to get so serious so soon, but the words just sorta fell out of my mouth.

  Dahlia pretends to be unaffected, but I catch the way she sucks in her breath. Avoiding this situation much longer won’t do any good. If Francisco finds out she left, he’ll remove her from the will. She has to come back before that happens.

  “You should be happy about this.” She clenches the arms of her chair, her knuckles turning white. “Everything goes to you now.”

  “Do I look fucking happy?” I turn to face her. “Look at me, Dahlia, and tell me if I look happy to you.”

  “There’s a lecture going on,” she says, gesturing ahead.

  “I don’t care. Look at me.”

  After a few moments, she faces me. She’s stoic, but her eyes say it all. She’s battling something.

  “Why do you even care?”

  Question of the century. Why do I care?

  I look around at the classroom, taking in everything—the walls, the students, and the professor standing in front, wearing a dull gray suit, speaking in his monotone voice, still leaving me clueless as to what is so great about being here.

  “For whatever insane reason, my dad wanted us to live together inside of Kent House until we graduate. If you leave now, you’re dishonoring his last wishes.”

  “I can’t go back, Wesley.”

  “Why not?”

  “I want to…” She shakes her head. “But I can’t.”

  “Are you in some kind of trouble?” For the first time, I start to think something might be wrong. “Tell me what’s going on. I can help you.”

  “I’m not in trouble, I swear. This was my choice.” Lowering her eyes, she adjusts the strings on her hoodie. “I appreciate your concern, I really do, but I moved out for a reason, and honestly we don’t know each other well enough for me to owe you an explanation.”

  “You’re throwing that in my face again?” My voice rises, and a few nearby students turn their heads. Whispering heatedly, I say, “I’m trying to get to know you, but you’re making it almost impossible.”

  “You had three years for that.” She stands up, throwing the strap of her tote over her shoulder stiffly. “There’s no point now.”

  With that said, she walks away, garnering curious stares from several students as she exits the room. I get the feeling she doesn’t cause scenes too often. Even small ones.

  As much as I want to, I don’t follow her. Maybe she’s right about me being too late. It could be a lost cause. Even if it is, I guess I don’t care.

  ~ ~

  When I get back home, I regret not following Dahlia. All of the pointless junk in this house reminds me half of it should be hers. Hell, all of it. I used to think I cared about what happened to everything. Generations of the Kent legacy was built inside this house, not just my dad’s legacy. I have a responsibility to ensure its survival.

  But at the end of the day, they’re just things. After college, I had planned to take the money and run. Go exploring. Fund a new expedition. Anything to make life more exciting without Sam.

  Telling myself this is about my dad’s will makes it easier to deal with the fact that Dahlia is gone, but deep down I know it’s not what’s tearing me apart. It’s the
not knowing. Not knowing where she is and what sent her running. Why hold out for three years, and then give everything up overnight? There’s something wrong with that picture.

  Without thinking about what I’m doing, I flip open my laptop and search for Dahlia online. I’m not sure what I’m looking for. Clues, I guess.

  Most of her Facebook page is set to private, which doesn’t surprise me. I scan the list of our mutual friends. There’s only three, Charlotte, Miles, and Hayes.

  Calling Charlotte is pointless. Even if she knew anything, I doubt she’d tell me.

  Hayes, on the other hand, lives right down the street from us and has been friends with Dahlia for years. He might know something, and more importantly, he owes me one. I pull out my cell phone and dial his number.

  “Hello. Wesley?”

  He sounds surprised to hear from me. I don’t call him on a regular basis.

  “Hayes, I need to ask you something.”

  “Okay.”

  “You’re still good friends with Dahlia, right?”

  He pauses before answering. “Yes.”

  “Do you know where she is?”

  “I um…I’m not real sure…”

  “Don’t lie to me, Hayes.”

  He clears his throat, and I can tell he knows where she is. After what went down at the bar the other night, he can’t say no to me. He owes me this. “I don’t think she wants anyone knowing where she went. She’ll murder me if I tell you.”

  “She’ll get over it.”

  “Why do you care anyway?”

  There’s that question again. I want to growl out that what motivates me is none of his or anyone’s damn business. But I don’t. I get why he’s asking. I’ve never paid attention to Dahlia before now, and I shouldn’t care.

  “That’s between me and her.”

  Hayes sighs heavily. Whatever he knows, he’s having trouble saying it. “She moved in with her ex.”

  “She…what?”

  I wasn’t prepared for that. I’m so stunned, I’m not sure I heard him correctly.

  “She’s living off campus with an old boyfriend,” he explains. “From high school”

  “Uh. Okay.” I have no fucking words right now.

  Giving up everything for a guy doesn’t seem like Dahlia. I know I never knew that much about her, but based on what I do know, this seems extreme.

  “It’s not what you think. They’re not back together or anything.”

  “Then what is she doing there?”

  “Maybe you should to talk to her about that. I’ll tell you where his condo is, but the rest is her story to tell.”

  Images of Dahlia with some other guy take over my imagination. Of them sharing a condo. Of them sharing a bed…I’m not okay with this.

  “Wes? Do you still want the address?”

  “Yes,” I snap without meaning to.

  Hayes notices. “Hey are you okay, man?”

  “I’m fine,” I say, grabbing a pen. “Just give me the address.”

  My blood is boiling beneath my skin. I feel like beating the shit out of whoever this guy is that took Dahlia away.

  Whatever happened last night, it was enough to change my mind about Dahlia Reynolds. Whoever she is, she’s someone I never knew I wanted to know.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  DOLL

  “You should wear less clothes.”

  I look away from the article I’m reading on my laptop and over at Jordan. She’s sitting on her bed, concentrating on painting her nails a bright shade of glittery pink.

  “I’m wearing shorts and a tank top,” I say, almost dumbfounded. These are the smallest pair of shorts I own, and I haven’t worn anything like this since my junior year of high school.

  “Yeah, but you should wear less. Styler likes it when we wear less.”

  Jordan curls up her hand and blows on her nails. Part of me thinks she’s about to crack a smile, but she doesn’t even blink. She’s dead serious.

  I shut my laptop, trying not to gape. “Did Styler ask you and the Fanta twins to walk around in your underwear all the time?”

  Styler is sleazy, but it’s hard to believe he’s that sleazy.

  “He didn’t ask us to, but he said he likes it when we do. And we like to keep him happy so…” She shrugs. “We do what he likes.”

  “Why?”

  Disgust is probably written all over my face, but I can’t help it.

  “It’s not easy finding housing this close to campus, rent-free,” she explains. “A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do, right? Tuition isn’t cheap these days.”

  “No!” I say, shaking my head in horror. “No, no, no!”

  Jordan glances up at me, surprised by my outburst.

  Standing up, I say, “We’re long past the days of women’s lib, hun. You get a job, apply for scholarships, live on Ramen noodles if you have to.” I start pacing because I’m so worked up, keeping my eyes trained on Jordan. “But you never ever degrade your integrity for some guy because he pays your bills. Nothing is worth more than who you are. If you sacrifice your character, you have nothing left.”

  “You mean he’s not paying your rent too?”

  Actually, Styler and I hadn’t discussed that yet. But now that I’m thinking about it, I decide I’ll be paying my own way while I’m here. I never needed a job while I was living in Kent House. But that doesn’t mean I can’t find one now. I’ve waited tables before. I can do it again.

  “No, he’s not paying my bills. I plan to work and make my own money. ”

  Looking unimpressed, Jordan begins working on her right hand. Apparently she’s not big on girl power.

  “So why are you here then?” she asks me. “You obviously don’t care much for Styler. Why not go live somewhere else?”

  “It’s a temporary arrangement,” I say, trying to stay vague. Telling her about the map is out of the question. “I want something he has. He’s agreed to give it to me if I live with him this semester.”

  “So you’re saying you wouldn’t live with him under normal circumstances?”

  “No, but—”

  “So technically, you’re sacrificing yourself for what you want too.”

  “It’s not the same thing. I’m—”

  “It’s exactly the same thing.” Jordan sets down her nail polish and looks up at me. “We’re both here for something we want. Who are you to go all judgmental on me?”

  I open my mouth, then shut it again.

  Damn.

  She’s got me there.

  “You’re right.” I sink back onto my bed, speechless. “You’re so incredibly right.”

  We’re no different. I hate myself for what I’ve sacrificed in order to be here, and yet here I am. Swallowing it all and living with Styler all because of something I want.

  Looking at Jordan is like staring at a reflection of myself, only she isn’t as bad as me. She actually enjoys walking around in her underwear.

  My phone rings from the nightstand. Gwen found it nestled in the back of her purse after the party and brought it by earlier today.

  Charlotte’s smiling face lights up the screen. I take a breath, collecting myself, then answer her call. “Hey, Char.”

  “Doll, my love, do you know what tomorrow is?”

  My eyes drift to the gift-wrapped box sitting on the floor next to my bed. “Um, it’s Sunday.”

  “Yes, but what’s special about it?”

  “I don’t know, is it a holiday?”

  “Stop messing with me,” she giggles.

  “Oh, I remember now. It’s your twenty-first.”

  “That’s right!” she squeals happily.

  Her enthusiasm is contagious enough to make me grin. “So what are the plans? Is Miles taking you out to get hammered?”

  “No, we’re going to dinner together tomorrow night. But the clubs on Sunday are lame.”

  “You should go out tonight,” I suggest. “They’ll serve you at midnight.”

  “My thoug
hts exactly—and you’re coming with me!”

  “What?” I fumble with the phone, almost dropping the thing. “What did you say?”

  “Do you realize that neither of us has celebrated a birthday together since high school? Last time was my sweet sixteen luau. I remember because that was right before my boobs filled out.”

  “And Jason Miller pulled off your coconuts.”

  “God, I don’t know what I was thinking,” she groans. “I’m still traumatized.”

  “No one saw anything.”

  “Except for Jason, and trust me, his expression is forever burned into my memory. I’ll never forget it.”

  I bite my lip to keep from laughing.

  “Anyway, back to my birthday plans. Are you coming or what?”

  Let me see, how do I tell her no in the nicest way possible? This is Charlotte Hart we’re talking about. People don’t say no to her, not even nicely.

  “I don’t know, Charlotte. I um, I’m not really the going out type. I’d rather celebrate with you later on in the week.”

  “Doll, don’t start this crap.”

  “I’d just be in the way. I’m sure all your sorority sisters will be there, and I don’t want to be the one hundredth wheel.”

  “No, it won’t be like that, I swear. They have a pool party planned for me during the day tomorrow. Just me, you, and two of my closest friends. That’s it.”

  “You should go,” Jordan mentions casually. I hold my phone against my chest, prepared to give her my most menacing stay-out-of-it look, but then she adds, “Styler is staying home all night. He’s planning to work his magic on you, whatever that means.”

  Nausea swiftly grips my stomach. I place the phone next to my ear. “Where and when should I meet you?”

  ~ ~

  Hypnotizing melodies fill the small pub, too many people crammed inside because the band is a local favorite. Sitting at a bar around so many people without my makeup makes me anxious and uncomfortable. Since Gwen isn’t around to do it for me anymore, and I haven’t learned to perfect it myself, I don’t have another option. Without it on, I feel like I’m standing in open gunfire, no bulletproof vest to protect me.