Chapter 12
Molly
Look—I’m not usually a bold or brave person. Which might be hard to believe since to many people, acting or even putting yourself out there on social media is brave. Not to mention grabbing a guy I thought was a stranger to be my pretend boyfriend.
What I just suggested to Collin is also very bold.
But each of these examples is a situation or circumstance where I feel safe.
Acting has never required bravery because I’m not being me up on a stage. I’m pretending to be someone else, which feels like wearing a layer of protective armor.
It’s similar with social media. Before I even shared my first post, I heard a podcast talking about creating your online persona—not a fake personality but just a sliver of who you are so you’re not putting your whole self or whole life out there.
It’s an intentional choosing of what to share and what not to share. Best advice I ever got.
My posts are carefully curated and don’t stray outside the lines I drew for myself. People might think they know me, but they only know a tiny piece. They see the real Molly—but not all of Molly.
To put myself out there in a real, personal way makes me sweat. Literally. Armpits, the backs of my knees, my neck and lower back—everywhere. Chase says this sweating thing happens to him too, so maybe it’s genetic. For me to make myself vulnerable, I need a good reason.
Sheer desperation to avoid going home gave me the ammunition to approach Collin at the fair. But now, I have a different motivation—one having little to do with me and everything to do with Collin Graham.
I did not mean to eavesdrop.
Not at first, anyway.
The guy behind the bar told me I could find Collin out back, giving me nothing more than a vague wave toward the outdoor patio.
It's more on the side of the building and I didn’t see Collin, so I walked through the crowd drinking and eating, past the food trucks, until I got to what had to be the back of the building.
The string of lights and potted plants were a dead giveaway.
But it was dark back there, and no one heard me approaching. I had every intention of announcing my presence before interrupting what sounded like a few people talking, but then Collin launched into what I’ll call the Tale of the Terrible Ex.
I was hooked. Frozen just out of sight, I could not resist listening. I didn’t mean to listen to all of it. But he just kept going. And going. This Liza person really did a number on Collin, and I totally matched Winnie’s angry energy when he was done.
Poor Collin.
The same man who stepped up when I needed a totally ridiculous favor even when he knew me and knew I’d forgotten him. The man who carried me out of Wolf’s bar, tended to my feet, and made sure I didn’t wake up with a splitting headache.
He’s a good, decent guy. A handsome one. A funny one. From what I understand, also a wealthy one. Not that I care so much about that, other than the security attached to it.
My point is—this Liza person must be a real piece of work to ignore all that in order to treat Collin so very badly. Stealing from him? Slandering him on social media?
Call me president of the Liza Sucks Club. Or since I’d rather not even say her name, I’ll be the president of the Collin Graham Fan Club.
Who am I kidding—he probably already has one of those.
All I know for sure is that by the time I marched around those potted plants to interrupt the conversation, I came armed with a boldness stemming from an almost visceral desire to help the man who had already done so much for me.
Is there a tiny smidge of self-serving in there? Yes. Being the pretend girlfriend of Collin has so far proved to be really fun and helped me land a job. But I’m not doing this because of the job or because I really like being around Collin. Those are like bonuses.
They are the tiniest of pieces in a pie mostly made up of wanting to do something good for the man who did so much for me.
So, ignoring the uncomfortable sweating—is my scalp even sweating?—I made my bold statement as soon as Winnie and James left. Well. As soon as James’s screams over the raccoons stopped.
And now I’m second-guessing the whole thing.
Because Collin hasn’t said a word in response.
I know time can do funny things in significant moments.
In one of my early drama classes, the teacher had us each stand up on stage and try to guess when two minutes was up.
Though she obviously couldn’t track this, she told us we couldn’t silently count.
Every single person called for time before even a minute had passed.
I’m sure this silence only feels long.
Interminable, really. I have half a mind to take my offer back, jump up, and run down the alley to team up with the trash pandas.
But I’ve already taken too many risks to back down from this one. Even if humiliation is growing like an ache in my belly. There’s a healthy dose of self-consciousness too because … am I really so bad that being my pretend boyfriend sounds like such an awful idea?
Finally, when I’m about two seconds shy of bolting, Collin clears his throat and shifts in his chair. His eyes, almost navy in the low light, meet mine briefly, then flit away.
“You think this is a good idea?” Collin’s tone is carefully neutral, making it impossible to know what he’s feeling.
I give a short laugh. “Good? No. That’s not the word I’d use.”
A tiny smile tugs at his lips. He appears to be fighting it. “Then how would you describe it, Molly-girl?”
My heart is beating wildly in my chest, a panicked bird behind the cage of my ribs. I’m more nervous now than I was when I could tell I was bombing my interview.
Somehow, more is on the line here. Like, for example, my heart.
Even as I tell myself it’s dumb and my heart should in no way be involved. The center of my emotions would beg to differ with every rapid beat in my chest.
“I think I’d have to go with …”
I search my mind for a word that doesn’t reveal my actual feelings. Or that I want to do this for Collin as much as for myself. Somehow, I just know he wouldn’t like the idea of me feeling sorry for his situation. It’s not the same as pitying him, but I don’t think he’d see it that way.
I also don’t need him knowing how I listened in on a whole conversation not meant for my ears.
Leaning forward, I infuse a confidence I don’t feel into my voice. “I think I’d say it’s mutually beneficial.”
“You think?”
I try to remember exactly what Thayden said at breakfast versus what knowledge I unlawfully—or at least unethically—gained just now. But it’s all jumbled up, so I try to keep my answer vague. “Thayden made it sound like this would help you in some way. Would it?”
But Collin is too sharp. “How much did you overhear?”
I guess I need to amend my earlier list of his attributes and add smart to them.
“Me? I—what?”
“Molly Douglas, for an actress, you make a terrible liar.”
I sag back into the folding chair and cross my arms. “Fine. I overheard a lot. Enough to know this would be helpful to us both.”
Collin goes quiet again but jumps when the bug zapper claims another victim with a loud snap. He places a hand over his chest and glares at the thing before standing.
He holds out a hand to me. “Wanna go for a drive, Molly-girl?”
I place my hand in his big palm, nodding so I don’t say what I’m thinking, which is that I’d go anywhere he asked.
Which probably makes all of this the worst idea I’ve ever had. Or, depending on how this all shakes out, possibly the best.
The drive ends up taking us out of Sheet Cake and out into the surrounding countryside.
Collin rolls the windows down and keeps the music on low, some kind of very chill Americana.
Not quite country, but a little more acoustic folk with banjos and mandolins.
He hums along, and I’d go out on a limb and guess he’s got a really nice singing voice.
I have yet to find a negative about him. If I want to be nitpicky, I’d say that his truck is too clean. Immaculate, really, which I didn’t notice when I rode with him before. I was too caught up being nervous about the lunch with Brightmark.
“Are you some kind of minimalist?” I accuse, and he chokes out a laugh, giving me a sideways glance.
“What now?”
I gesture to the dashboard, which doesn’t have the layer of dust my car back in Kansas does.
Side note: I’m going to have to consider what to do about a car now that I’m staying in Texas. I can’t go back for it, or my father would find some way of sabotaging me leaving again.
“Your car,” I tell him. “It’s too clean. And your room—the one I stayed in at the loft—had almost nothing in it. I’m just wondering if you’re a minimalist or just a total neat freak.”
“You say both of those like they’re bad things. First of all, the loft is my dad’s. I just stay in the guest room when I’m in town, like this week.”
“Mm-hm.” I lean forward and open the glove box. I pull out the only thing inside and hold it up. “I just don’t know how I can trust a person who only keeps the car manual in their glove box.”
“What do you keep in your glove compartment?”
“That’s a very personal question, Collin Graham.”
“That’s Mr. Biceps to you.”
With a groan, I toss the manual back in the glove box and slam it closed. “Can we pretend I never said that?”
“No, we cannot. And don’t avoid the question. What’s in your glove compartment, Molly?”
“I don’t know if I should tell you. Also, it’s weird you call it a compartment. It’s a glove box.”
“I think it can be both. Don’t try to change the subject. Should I be scared of what you keep in your glove box?”
“Maybe.”
“I think if we’re going to consider this whole fake relationship thing, we’d need to know personal things about each other. Like what you keep in there.”
I feel a flush creeping up my neck, and I’m glad the darkness hides it. Because … he’s actually thinking about it? I sort of assumed this drive was a way for him to let me down easy.