Page 81 of The Fake Out

“Sure did. I’ve heard the way he talks about you. And now, I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

“How does he look at me?”

“Like you’re his favorite thing in the whole world,” Aggie said.

I wondered how I looked at him.

But I was too afraid to ask.

THIRTY-FIVE

Are you less than ninety degrees? ’Cause, girl, you are acute.

—SHELBY M.

The next afternoon, we all piled into the rented SUV for the half-mile trek to the lake the Sterns’ property butts up to. Margot packed us a fried chicken dinner and sent us off with strict instructions to make sure Millie took breaks. The beach on their property was quiet and secluded. A long dock jettied into the lake where two boats were parked under an awning. Chris pulled the car next to a picnic table and a small blue shed.

“Come on, I’ll show you the pool house. It’s not much but it has electricity and a bathroom,” Aggie said. It took her a moment to unlock the padlock on the door. It was one room. A smallish bed pushed into a corner, a mini fridge and microwave, and a tiny but functional bathroom.

It was a beautiful day, about eighty-five degrees with a light breeze. While Chris unloaded the car, we dragged beach chairs that were stored in the pool house and set them up in a line. Millie announced she was going to take one of the tubes and float on the lake.

“Sunscreen first,” Betsy said.

“Hurry up or the good tubes will be gone.” Millie tugged her t-shirt off and stood with her back to Ellie.

“Cute suit,” I said to her. My eye immediately dropped to the scar that peeked out of the top of her swimsuit.

Millie raised a hand to cover it.

My face reddened. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“No, it’s not that.” She pursed her lips and I swear her eyes grew three sizes bigger. “It’s just there’s always a reminder that I was—”

“—born with a broken heart,” her sisters said in unison. “Yeah, yeah. We get it.”

“She pulls that card all the time,” Aggie said. “Like we haven’t figured it out already.”

Millie put a hand on her hip. “Hey, it works on Mom.”

“That’s not saying a lot.” Betsy was rocking a two-piece that matched her pink hair perfectly. “I’m pretty sure Mom still believed in Santa Claus until a few years ago.”

“Wait, Santa’s not real?” Chris said, from right behind me.

I turned to say something sarcastic, but my breath sort of fizzled out like a dying balloon.

Chris Stearns was a world-class athlete. He wasn’t some guy you knew from high school who used to play basketball. Nor was he one of those dudes who worked out for forty-five minutes before work and hogged all the weight machines at the gym. It was in his job description to take care of his body, keep it strong and lean and healthy.

Obviously, Chris was good at his job.

How did I know? He was shirtless. Let me say it louder for the people in the back: he did not have a shirt on.

He should really come with a warning label. Something like CAUTION: When seen shirtless, this model may cause momentary memory loss, particularly of one’s own name, as well as body temperature spikes and extreme amounts of gawking.

“All done,” Betsy announced, and I ripped my eyes away from Chris.

Millie took off down the dock. “Last one in gets the wonky tube.”

Betsy moved on to Aggie and, when she was done, she tossed me the bottle and presented me with her back.