She's Faking It

by Kristin Rockaway

  Sadly, I could.

  “Well,” I said, “I’d love to submit a volunteer application to help you out.”

  “That’d be great...but are you, by chance, looking for a job? Because I need to replace Mr. SoundCloud immediately.”

  It was like she saw right straight into my heart.

  And it would’ve been perfect, if not for one tiny detail. “I don’t have a college degree.”

  “You don’t need a college degree to work here. You need people skills and common sense and compassion. From what I’ve seen so far, you seem to have all of those in spades.” She plucked a business card from her desktop and handed it to me. “Here’s my contact information. My name’s Chandra. Email me your résumé and we can talk it over some more.”

  I stared at the card in my hands, barely able to speak. All I could manage was an astonished, “Thank you so much.”

  Even though I didn’t believe in Demi DiPalma’s four-step manifesting process, this sure seemed like a clear-cut, undeniable sign that the universe was listening.

  Chapter 30

  A week later, I had a job.

  My first real job that wasn’t a temporary, internet-based gig. There were no apps to install, no competition for tasks, no star ratings from total strangers. Instead, there was a set schedule and a steady paycheck and health benefits and a retirement account. There were even two full weeks of paid vacation. I’d struck the jackpot.

  Best of all, it was with an organization that was doing great work, work that mattered to me—dare I say, work I was passionate about? And even though I was only an entry-level office assistant, I could see myself building this into a long-term career. Helping to make the world a little less unfair, one day at a time.

  The weekend before I started my new position at the Community Resource Center, I helped Mari pack up a trailer with all her belongings. Then I waved goodbye as she drove off toward her future in LA. It was a bittersweet moment, but I didn’t have time to brood about it. I had to pack up a trailer of my own.

  Most of the stuff in my old apartment didn’t come with me to my new room in Mari’s old place. The ratty weed-smelling futon, the now totally dead aloe plant, the burned-out broken toaster—they all went in the trash. All I took with me were my clothes and my bed and my favorite pink coffee mug.

  I also took one of those shelving units that Natasha had in storage. It fit perfectly in the corner next to my window, with plenty of room to display all the things that reminded me of Mom. Like photos I’d kept hidden away, and a necklace stand holding that strand of pearls she’d worn to The Nutcracker.

  And, of course, all of her books.

  After tearing through Lord of Scoundrels in one evening, I decided to keep Mom’s entire library, at least until I’d read every last book she’d owned. It was an eclectic collection—everything from historical romance to graphic novels to The Autobiography of Malcolm X. In a way, it made me feel closer to her, devouring the same words her eyes had seen, touching the same pages her fingers had grazed. I’d get to know her in a way I never did when she was alive. Creating new memories to make up for the ones I had lost.

  Natasha helped me set up the whole space, and this time, I gladly accepted her organizing advice. My new home was going to be clutter-free, from the get-go. She taught me the best way to fold my T-shirts, and how to make the most use of my vertical space, and even installed a miniature command center on the inside of my closet door, with a dry-erase calendar and a corkboard.

  “It’s easier to stay on top of your bills this way,” she said, pointing to the calendar, where she’d written “LOAN PAYMENT DUE” on the fifteenth of the month in red block letters. “Do you like it?”

  “I love it. Everything looks so amazing. Thank you.”

  “It’s my job.” Her chin trembled ever so slightly, and she whirled away, straightening the books on the shelves that were already neatly aligned. Her voice didn’t waver when she said, “I haven’t told you this yet, but I’m thinking of finishing my degree.”

  “Really?”

  Natasha turned back around, all traces of sadness gone. “Locally, of course. I’m not gonna commute to LA every day. Right now, I’m trying to see if I can salvage any of my old college credits or if I’d need to start from scratch. One step at a time.”

  “One step at a time.” My voice was a whisper. The idea of my sister finally achieving her long-abandoned dream was enough to take my breath away. “I’m so excited for you. Whatever you need, I’m here to support you however I can.”

  “Thanks. But you’ve got your hands full as it is.” She gestured to the command center, to the books, to the whole room. “It looks like we’re done, huh?”

  “Yeah. I just have to run back to my old apartment and get my bike. It’s under the outside stairs, I forgot all about it.” And apparently, so had Rob.

  “Let me drop you there on my way home.”

  “You know what? I wouldn’t mind taking a walk.”

  We hugged goodbye in the driveway, and I set off on my way. My new place was on Missouri Street—about three blocks south and nine blocks east of my last place on Beryl. It meant I was a bit farther away from the beach now, but still within walking distance.

  And most important, still in PB.

  As I turned onto my old block, the blue bungalow came into view. This afternoon, I had no intention of stopping to daydream. That fantasy was part of my past. From now on, I wanted to focus on reality.

  Unfortunately, today’s reality involved Trey standing in his front yard wearing nothing but board shorts, hanging his wet suit from the eaves.

  I’d been hoping to avoid him on this final trip back to Beryl Street. There were too many things I wanted to tell him—explanations, excuses, apologies—and I knew he didn’t want to hear any of it. I knew we were done.

  But as he propped his surfboard up against his front porch, I realized there was something else I wanted to tell him. Something he’d probably care about, that had nothing to do with us.

  I rested my fingertips on the white picket fence and called, “Hey.”

  He didn’t acknowledge me.

  So I tried again. “I have something to tell you.”

  “Save your breath, I’m not interested.” He didn’t even look at me.

  “This has nothing to do with what happened,” I said. “It’s about your nonprofit idea. I have a suggestion.”

  That got his attention. Slowly, he walked down the path until he reached the picket fence. He stood on the other side, jaw clenched, his eyes never quite meeting mine.

  I swallowed hard. “There’s this organization I started working with, the Community Resource Center. They help people in PB, connecting them with services they might need, like emergency housing or food distribution. Things like that. They also have a whole program specifically for children, especially those in shelters, providing mentors and activities and stuff.

  “Anyway, it made me think of you and your idea for starting a surf school for kids who can’t afford to pay. You might want to connect with them. They probably have kids who’d be interested.”

  He nodded, his bare chest rising and falling with each slow, deliberate breath. “Thanks. I will.”

  “Great, I’ll text you the info.”

  “Are you volunteering there or something?”

  “Actually, I’m working there full-time. My first day on the job is tomorrow. No more HandyMinion-ing for me!”

  I forced a laugh.

  He remained stone-faced.

  Then finally, his eyes met mine. And even though I knew we were done, I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of hope.

  “I’m sorry.”

  His jaw muscles clenched when I spoke the words, but he didn’t tell me to stop. So I kept going.

  “I don’t expect you to believe me, but I wasn’t trying to use you to bu
ild some influencer career. I created that Instagram account as a vision board, and things spiraled out of control so fast. People started offering me free stuff and I couldn’t say no, and then all those likes and comments made me feel special, for the first time in my life. And that picture of Shayla was just a truly horrible coincidence. When I posted it, I didn’t even know who she was yet.

  “And I’m sorry I lied about Palm Desert. I didn’t want to go, but I’d made a promise to my sister, and I knew you’d think the whole thing was ridiculous. I didn’t want you to think any less of me. Of course now I see how stupid that was.”

  Trey didn’t respond. He just stood there, his hazel eyes burning into mine, his jaw muscles working overtime.

  “Anyway,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For encouraging me to believe in myself. For helping me overcome my fear of the ocean. And for having confidence in me. My life has changed a lot these past few weeks, in a really positive way. I’m not sure that would’ve happened if we’d never met. So, thanks.”

  I didn’t wait around to see what he would say or not say. I simply walked away, as quickly as I could, without looking back. When I ducked down the alleyway beside the triplex, my heart was racing. When I returned with my bike, Trey was gone.

  My blood was pumping hard and fast, adrenaline coursing through my body. I couldn’t go home now. I was too amped.

  So I pedaled directly to my favorite place in San Diego: Law Street Beach. There were plenty of gorgeous beaches all over the county, but none of them had quite the same vibe as this one. It was the perfect mix of city and surf, laid-back and lively. Plus, it would always hold a special place in my heart because it was where I’d finally conquered my fear of the ocean.

  The first time I’d tried to swim out on my own, a stingray took me down before I’d made it past the shallows. But when Trey had held my hand, I felt safe, even beyond the breaking waves.

  There was no Trey now, though. There was only me.

  And I was perfectly capable of doing this on my own.

  The sun would be setting soon. I locked the bike up at the lifeguard station and wandered down the ramp toward the sand. All I brought with me were the clothes on my back: shorts and T-shirt on top, bikini underneath. At the shoreline, I stripped off the top layer and waded slowly, carefully into the waves. Shuffling my feet, bracing my body.

  Keep moving forward.

  Trey said there was no need to fear the ocean. Merely to respect it, to understand it. To go with the flow.

  One foot in front of the other, one step at a time. I was knee-deep, thigh-deep, waist-deep.

  Keep moving forward.

  The waves were at my breasts, at my shoulders. Then all at once, I was floating in the unknown. Nothing out here but me, the ocean, the endless sky.

  But I wasn’t afraid.

  I stayed there for a while, treading water, my legs strong as they kicked out below me, my arms satisfyingly fatigued. Eye level with the horizon, I watched the sun slowly slip from sight.

  Then I saw it. It was kind of like spotting a unicorn or a mermaid. A magical, mystical vision, indisputably real yet impossible to believe. Right before the sun disappeared, it momentarily changed color from bright yellow to deep green. For the first time in my life, I witnessed the green flash.

  I didn’t know if I believed in the concept of universal energy, and I was sure an expensive rock wouldn’t solve all my problems. But I couldn’t deny there were other, intangible forces at work on the beach that day. Because the moment I emerged from the ocean, salt water dripping from my skin, he was there.

  Trey, looking every bit as gorgeous as the first time I’d laid eyes on him.

  “You were great out there,” he said, handing me a towel. Because, of course, I had forgotten one.

  “Thanks.” I wrapped the towel around my chest, feeling very exposed all of a sudden. “I’m sorry I bailed on our surf lesson. I really did want to get back in the water with you.”

  His gaze was like the thinnest drizzle of warm syrup: sweet, delicious, making me hungry for more. “I saw you now, though. You were so confident in those waves. You don’t need my help. You could handle it all on your own.”

  “You’re right, I probably could. I probably don’t need you. But I want you.”

  I took a tentative step closer to him, wet sand sticking to my feet. He didn’t make a move to meet me halfway.

  “I really hope you believe me. I wasn’t using you for clout.” With a gesture to my flaw-ridden, not Instagram-model-worthy body, I added, “I’m obviously not Shayla.”

  Trey finally stepped forward and reached for my hand, then lifted it to his lips. His gentle kiss sent sparks up my arm, straight to my heart. “Obviously not.”

  “Does that mean you forgive me?”

  He took a deep breath. “Look, I know things are rarely black-and-white. Situations aren’t always what they appear to be, especially online, and the truth can get twisted pretty easily. Of all people, I should understand this. My reputation was ruined because of a tweet.

  “But I also realized that I shouldn’t be so hung up about what people say on the internet, anyway. Who cares if I’m tagged in an Instagram post? That’s not the real world. The real world is right here. Right in front of me.”

  Another kiss to my hand, and my knees nearly buckled.

  “I saw the green flash tonight,” I said.

  His eyes crinkled as he smiled. It felt like the sun had risen all over again. “See? It’s real. We’re not just fooling ourselves.”

  “Maybe we aren’t. But if we are, I’m not sure I care.”

  I dropped my towel and leaned into Trey’s body, feeling his skin against mine, his hands on my waist, the sand between my toes. His kiss was warm and slow, fulfilling my hunger. It was the abundance.

  My life didn’t look anything like an aspirational vision board, and chances are it never would. I was too messy, too flawed. I couldn’t erase my mistakes with a swipe of a finger. I couldn’t put a filter on reality.

  But in that moment, on that beach, in the arms of a man who believed in me, my life seemed better than any vision board I could ever create.

  It wasn’t curated, and it certainly wasn’t Instagram-worthy. But it was real.

  And it was extraordinary.

  * * *

  Acknowledgments

  This book was hard to write. I thought by now it would get easier, but I was wrong. Maybe it never gets easier. Either way, I am beyond grateful for my editor, Brittany Lavery, who took my initial trash fire of a manuscript, saw right to the heart of the story and helped me shape it into something worth reading. Thank you for your insight, your guidance, and your kindness.

  Everyone at Graydon House Books has always been delightful to work with. Thank you so much to the entire team, from the art department to the copy editors to publicity.

  I’d be nowhere without my super-agent, Jessica Watterson, who is equal parts sweetheart and BAMF. Thank you for constantly talking me down off various ledges, and for being an all-around amazing advocate and business partner (and friend).

  This story highlights some of the more horrifying aspects of Instagram, but there are some wonderful parts, too—like the fabulous #bookstagram community. Thank you to all the bookstagrammers who fill my feed with gorgeous photos of my favorite things—books!—and a special shout-out to those of you who’ve championed my work. Your support means the world to me.

  Thank you to my sisters, Christine and Jennifer, and to my almost-sisters, Marci and Jessica, for your unconditional love and enthusiastic cheerleading.

  Thank you to Diffy, my rescue dog, who keeps me company during my writing marathons, and forces me to get up out of my chair for our daily afternoon walks.

  Finally, thank you to Emilio and Andrew, for being you, and for loving me.
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  ISBN-13: 9781488056376

  She’s Faking It

  Copyright © 2020 by Allison Amini

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

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