Read Online The Trouble with Faking by Rachel Morgan - Free Book Online Page A

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