Fakers (Licking Thicket 1)

“Fuck,” I said again. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

She was right. I wasn’t about to let her face this final demon on her own. I would go to the dance and keep my head down. Stay quiet and try not to look for Brooks in the crowd. And hopefully, if I was lucky, I could sneak out of there before he spotted me.

Because I knew that I was nowhere near strong enough to resist him if he asked for that dance I’d promised.

17

Brooks

The first text Mal didn’t answer hadn’t bothered me.

The second had been a bit concerning, but I’d been sitting with Paul at my mom’s kitchen table, finishing up the Partridge Pit presentation, so I’d let it go.

But when he’d also ignored my third text, that was when I’d finally broken down and refused to do any more work until Paul texted Ava to see what she and Mal were up to.

“Just to make sure they’re okay! They could be in a ditch, Paul, and you’d never forgive yourself,” I’d reminded him, which was such a Cindy Ann Johnson thing to say that I’d deserved every second of the pitying look he gave me.

Ava had texted back immediately. Spoiler: they were not in a ditch. In fact, they were in the Iveys’ tree house—just a couple of acres from my mom’s kitchen, and well within cell signal—discussing the logistics of Ava’s move to the Thicket and the possibilities for her future. She told Paul they needed a little space and downtime, and she promised to fill him in on everything at the dance. She also sent him a dozen kiss-face emojis to tide him over until the next time she could kiss him again.

“That’s nauseating,” I told Paul crisply, reading the message over his shoulder as I paced the kitchen floor. He snorted in reply, obviously deeply concerned about my opinion.

Besides I wasn’t even sure what was nauseating: the kisses Ava had sent… or the confirmation that Mal was leaving in thirty hours and instead of spending that time with me, he was pushing me away.

“At least they’re not in a ditch,” Paul said comfortingly.

I made a noncommittal noise. I mean… yeah. He was right. But at least if they were in a ditch, I could go and haul them out. I could bandage them up or call the paramedics. I could fix something. Instead, I was left with a whole lot of nothing, except my own tangled thoughts.

Well, that and half a gallon of my mom’s sweet tea chugging through my bloodstream.

Things had felt so solid back in Dunn’s cabin last night—the connection between us undeniable and the future as close as Mal’s lean body next to mine on the double bed. I’d woken up starry-eyed, dreaming of a fairy-tale life where somehow Mal and I found a way to live together in the Thicket, were godfathers to Ava’s baby and uncles to my nieces, worked every day at our incredibly successful and fulfilling careers, and came together each night to discuss every minor drama of our days before fucking like a pair of bunnies—one ridiculously insatiable bunny, and one lean, pierced, hot-as-fuck bunny. Not that I thought Mal was going to give up his amazing life in LA for me, of course, or that I could drop everything and move to Tennessee right away either, but someday, somehow, I’d find a way to make it happen, if he wanted it too.

Then, before the parade today, I’d talked to General Partridge about the concept Paul and I had put together. The man had been really excited about our ideas, which amped up my own excitement exponentially. Instead of putting together meaningless eye candy, we’d taken the time to get to know the product and the people creating it, and the General saw it. Our Partridge Pit campaign was organic and genuine, and our limited testing suggested it resonated with consumers too. It was the way I’d thought marketing was supposed to work, back when I started, before my years at Storms Marketing had jaded me. In short, I was proud of the work we’d done… and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt that way about a campaign. I wanted more of that feeling.

As I’d sat beside Ava in the parade, waving at all my old friends and neighbors, I’d seen a path shining before me that wasn’t a path someone else had laid out, or a path that was good enough, but a path that was uniquely mine and worth having. A genuine life, with genuine relationships and genuine people, and no more faking my way through something that should feel right but didn’t.

Which was why it was so fucking ironic that the second I’d come to this realization, it had all started slipping through my fingers.

“He needs space, Brooks. He’s not breaking up with you.”