Don’t Go Faking My Heart (Sweet as Sugar Maple #4)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

ASH

Y ou know that feeling when you work on a big project and pull an all-nighter but rather than being exhausted from it, you have so much energy, it's practically bursting out of you?

I love that feeling. I'm addicted to it.

Not in a dangerous, chase-that-fix kind of way, mind you. I don't need to go to "All-Nighters Anonymous" or anything.

You know what? Let's start over.

I pulled an all-nighter working on a big project last night.

My friend, Rusty, and I have been working on a Maple Street revitalization project to increase tourism for the town of Sugar Maple, South Carolina, and we killed it, if I do say so myself. We'll present it to the town council and chamber of commerce later this morning, and I can't wait to see all their excited faces. I halfway expect future generations to erect statues in our honor.

Rusty ran home to shower and get changed, and I've done the same. I didn't wash my hair — my long, thick curls would take too long to dry — but I spritz some water, use a little product, go all Curly Girl method, and voilà.

I draw a perfect cat eye, put on my new sky blue glasses that match the new sky blue streak of hair in my otherwise long cinnamon brown curls, and smile at my reflection.

Fabulous.

Time to go meet Rusty at the diner.

I walk out of my bathroom and through my bedroom, rubbing my thumb against a fingernail, when I notice a hangnail.

This thing is annoying.

I head right back into the bathroom to find my nail clippers when I spot my electric toothbrush light flashing low battery.

I plug in my electric toothbrush then trip over the running shoes I left in the middle of the bathroom last night to remind me to work out. I kick them to the side.

Wait, why did I come back in here?

I frown, looking around my bathroom at makeup palettes spread over my white granite counter among the hair products, lotions, face serums …

This is overwhelming.

I should really clean this up. But the idea of where to start makes me feel like my life force is pushing from the middle of my brain out my ears.

No. Nope. Not happening.

My watch buzzes, and I spot a text from Rusty.

RUSTY

On my way.

Whoops!

I march out of my room and through the house to find Lou, one of my best friends, in the sitting room. She’s singing to herself and scribbling in a notebook. She drops it when she sees me .

"Hey! You look great. Are y'all ready for the presentation?" Lou asks. She's wearing wide leg linen trousers, and a white crop top that skims the top of the pants. Her light blonde hair falls down her back in pretty waves.

"You know it," I tell her. "What about you?"

"I'm supposed to audition guitar players for the 'band,' but I'm going to come to the meeting first. I figure local politics should harden me for all the no's I plan to give today."

"You only need one yes," I say, standing in front of my friend. Lou may be a contract lawyer for our marketing firm by day, but she’s a musician with a huge YouTube following by night. She has a real life secret identity. "You have all that sweet, sweet music to make for Third Street records now."

"And all that sweet, sweet cash," she adds with a snort. "I'll let someone play on tour, but in the studio, no one's touching my instruments."

"You know that's right," I say. My watch vibrates with a message. I look down.

And my stomach drops.

"What is it?" Lou asks.

I drop my wrist and tuck my hand behind my back. “Nothing.” Lou will flip if she knows who it is. All our friends will flip. I'm flipping.

"Ash,” Lou repeats. “You okay?”

I wrinkle my nose. “It’s him. ”

Lou growls like a guy in a romance novel. Except, you know, without the flirty connotations. "Ashley Jane Moore, you said you blocked his number!"

"He messaged me on LinkedIn and asked if I'd blocked him," I tell her, red-faced with embarrassment. "It felt rude."

"He's a narcissistic weasel who gaslit you for a year!" Lou says. "You want to talk about rude?"

"I know," I say.

"So?" Lou asks. “Why don’t you block him? "

I hold my wrist. I don't know why I won't keep his number blocked for longer than a couple of months. My ex was every bit as manipulative as Lou is saying. I felt terrible about myself with him. But he knew how to turn the charm on, and when he did, I also felt amazing about myself, like the luckiest girl in the world. I couldn't be dysfunctional if someone like him loved me. If he liked me, maybe I was okay. Maybe I was normal.

We broke up a couple of years ago, but I still get texts from him on occasion. And every time, it throws me back into the two contradicting feelings that were the hallmark of our relationship: feeling like I must be special and yet not feeling special — or even accepted — at all.

Lou sighs. "Are you going to respond to him?"

“I don’t want to.”

“Can I help?”

“Yes, please.”

My hand moves like there's an external resistance to it, like it’s passing through water as I get my phone from my back pocket. I hold it extra tight for a split second. Lou tugs it gently from my grip, holds it up to my face to bypass the password, and then blocks him on both my socials and my phone. Every movement of her fingers is like a small tear in my gut.

But when it's done, it’s like those tears were clearing away an infection. I move more freely.

"Thanks," I say.

"I got your back." Lou hands me my phone with a smile. "How are you and Rusty feeling about the presentation?"

Just thinking about Rusty is a palate cleanser. "Good," I say confidently, because our presentation is awesome. "We have the graphics and the numbers, and I'll figure out the words."

"The words?" Lou asks.

"Yeah, you know, the words. To say. When I'm up there."

Lou gives me a half smile. “I can’t wait. You give the best presentations. ”

Our friend group—the Janes, so named because we all share the name—gave a lot of presentations together in college, and I was always a bit of a wild card, but it worked in our favor. My friends are master logicians and debaters, calm and confident. But I'm great off the cuff. I'm everyone's favorite person on a panel or in a Q&A because I'm spontaneous and funny and, frankly, clever. I feed off the audience and can adjust to their energy. I love being in front of a crowd.

Presentations are just persuasive crowd control.

Kind of.

But this stupid text from my ex is messing with my head. “Do I need a script? Should I make cue cards?” I ask Lou.

“Ash, you got this. Don’t let him get into your head. You are smart and prepared and you know this stuff backward and forward.”

I nod, but my thumbnail starts scanning my other nails for snags. “You’re right. It’s gonna be fine.” I smile. “I got this.”

“That’s my girl.”

My watch dings with a reminder.

"One sec," I say. I dart into the kitchen and grab a pill bottle from the medicine cabinet. I take my ADHD medication and a couple of supplements my psychiatrist recommended when I got my diagnosis.

I live by reminders and timers. Medication is life-changing, but it’s not a perfect cure-all. My old therapist helped me create a system that makes it all easier. She also helped me understand that I have a tendency to blur the lines between my diagnosis and my personality. Hyperfocus, distraction, and a need for stimulation are symptoms of my ADHD. Having awesome hair, nerdy interests, and being a quirky delight is all me.

My phone buzzes again.

RUSTY

I lied. I wasn't on my way, but I am now. Let's pretend that was a 5 minute warning. Did it work?

And then, for no reason at all, he sends a GIF of Steve Carrell dressed as Brick from Anchorman eating a banana.

I laugh, because it's the perfect text and GIF. Rusty gets me better than pretty much anyone, and this text is his way of acknowledging how much I hate being early. Yet, he doesn't come across as judgmental or pushy. Waiting makes me feel like my skin is crawling. Rusty, on the other hand, likes waiting. He finds it calming . So he knows whatever time he gives me, I'll be late, and he'll be fine.

He's the perfect friend for me.

ASH

What am I, a dog? No it didn't work. I don't come on command.

Neither does my actual dog. Prairie needs someone to train her.

Not it!

*gif of sad dog howling*

JK. I love your dog. Also, her name is Pookie.

PRAIRIE wishes she belonged to you. She vastly prefers you to me.

No creature could prefer me to you. You're the literal sweetest.

:) I'm on my way.

Wait, are you driving? Do not drive and text!

No. Mrs. Beaty and Lola Nina are parked in the intersection fighting about something that happened at canasta.

Yikes. My money's on Mrs. Beaty.

Are you joking? Lola Nina is terrifying.

Lola Nina? Tia's cute little grandmother?

Yes. She may be a sweet granny now, but you should have seen her when I was in high school. She threatened to tan my hide more times than I can count.

That sounds dirty.

It's not dirty. But believe me, you haven't been threatened until you've been threatened in Tagalog.

What did she threaten you about?

Something about college. I'm gonna see if I can help. Let me know when you get in the car and I'll put in your order.

Put in my order when you get there. Leaving now!

I pull my keys from my bag and come back to the sitting room smiling.

"Off to meet Rusty. Wish us luck!"

"Good luck," Lou says. "You'll crush it."

“Thanks. See you in a bit!”

I smile and walk out of the mini mansion my friends and I rent. Last year, my four best friends and I moved from Chicago to Sugar Maple, South Carolina, when our CEO—the Boss Jane of Jane & Co.—rebranded the famous Sugar Maple Farms here in this very town. She and the grumpy owner met and fell in love, and because he's richer than dark chocolate, he offered to let us rent this house for cheap while he and Jane live in the main house on the farm.

I've grown to love South Carolina. I'm from Colorado, so I'm used to green, but the South is a different shade. Even if we had mountains here, it'd be impossible to see them through the foliage.

Moisture coats my skin like a blanket. It is unnaturally humid today, and as much as my military-grade deodorant and mascara can take it, my hair is in a constant battle with this accursed humidity.

What is it the Southerners say? The higher the hair, the closer to God.

Saint Ashley, at your service.

I walk up to my forest green Subaru Outback and press the key fob to get in. My room may be a mess, but my ten-year old car is pristine. I don't let anyone eat in here — not even me — and I wash and vacuum it weekly. Don't ask me why. It's my sanctuary.

But even my sanctuary isn’t enough to keep my thoughts from straying to places they shouldn’t go.

I didn’t get diagnosed with ADHD until I was in college, and while my friends and family were beyond cool about it, it took me a long time to work up the nerve to tell my ex, Philip. I finally brought it up after we'd been dating for four months, and he said, "That explains a lot. I’ll just have to love you in spite of it."

Isn't that gross?

What's even grosser is that I was so grateful he felt that way. I felt so insanely fortunate to have someone as suave and handsome and put together as him dating me , when I so often felt like an outsider growing up. He had a way of making me feel like a trainwreck, but one he alone could fix.

Ugh.

I rub my thumb over my nails. Why does he always wait until I've gone dark to find me? Why can't he let me go when he clearly doesn't want me?

Why do I care?

I realize something as I drive the gorgeous tree-lined roads into Sugar Maple, and once it's in my head, I'm more tempted than ever to unblock Philip.

I don't know what his text said.

And it's killing me.

Even worse?

I forgot to clip my hangnail.