Chapter 6 #2
When she only laughed in reply, I ground my teeth together. “It’s practically your bedtime already, Grandma. I’m hanging up now.”
“Wait!” She finally composed herself, her voice light with suppressed amusement. “I promise I won’t do anything to mess up your cover, okay? But I’ll miss you.”
I sobered, any annoyance I had melting away. “I’ll miss you, too.”
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, okay?”
I eyed the box beside me. Would faking pregnancy for the greater good be something Dekker would do? Before today, I didn’t even know it was something I would do. As it was, I’d been fighting zealously to ignore the pang of guilt at the thought of faking what so many hoped and prayed for every year.
Trying to lighten the mood and the weight settling in my chest, I teased, “That doesn’t exactly rule out a whole lot, you know. Besides staying out past eight.”
And navigating crowds. And talking to strangers on the phone. But still.
“Hey!” she protested, but I drowned it out with my goodbye.
Left to sit in the silence of my apartment, the reality of my situation turned my bones to lead.
I still had to pack. I had to hide my real IDs.
I had to memorize my cover until I could recite it in my sleep.
I had to dig up all the buried dance jargon and moves I hadn’t regularly used since college so I could sell my cover.
My to-do list was a mile long. But, since the deadline wasn’t staring me in the face quite yet, I gave in to temptation and browsed social media. I’d even made it past three whole posts before I couldn’t handle not knowing anymore and searched for Colt’s profile.
Self-control, thy name is Lex.
Sure enough, Colt Dixon popped up immediately.
Four mutual friends. Instead of a photo of himself for the profile pic, he had a scene of a sunrise by a lighthouse on a lake.
It was a little odd that he wouldn’t flaunt his looks, but he could’ve just changed his profile pic in preparation for the assignment.
Heaven knows he was proactive enough. What was really odd was the fact that he’d selected a lighthouse instead of a stapler or box of paperclips. You know, his true idols.
I clicked on his profile, which was set to private. Unsurprising, since mine was the same way, but it was frustrating. And now I could see that the lighthouse had been his profile pic for months, which meant it wasn’t a recent change. Which also meant…
I switched apps, my thumbs flying furiously over the screen as I texted the very person I’d just finished talking to.
Me: You friend requested him??
The reply came seconds later, after a wave of crying-laughing emojis. It was one of her favorites—which was saying something considering how much she liked emojis—because, and I quote, “The laughing face without the tears looks passive-aggressive.”
Dekker: How long did you wait to look him up—one minute or two?
Me: That’s not the point. Have you no loyalty?
Dekker: Who says it wasn’t my loyalty that made me do it? I had to research this guy my little sister wouldn’t stop talking about.
Me: I haven’t mentioned his name in months. How did you even find him? And how long have you been Facebook friends?
She sent a tongue-sticking-out emoji.
Dekker: Is that jealousy I hear?
Me: Ha. Ha. You’re hilarious.
She sent another wave of crying-laughing emojis.
Dekker: You’re not the only one who can investigate people, you know.
Me: I’m not sure having someone accept a friend request so you can look at their profile counts as investigating, but sure.
Dekker: Hey, I still had to find him in the first place. All I had to do was search for “hot guy named Colt” and BOOM. There he was.
I rolled my eyes and sent an emoji doing the same just so the message was clear.
Me: His profile pic is a lighthouse, so unless you’ve got a thing for those…
Dekker: They’re both tall and lean, right?
A pair of winky face emojis came next, followed by a kissy face.
Me: Last I checked, lighthouses weren’t insufferably annoying, so I think I’ll take my chances with them.
Dekker: Too bad. You get the hot, model-like FBI agent with puppy dog eyes instead. Poor you.
I scowled at my phone, nearly ready to toss it in with Gill-bert as if it had been the one committing blasphemy. It’s not like I’d need it for the next two months, anyway.
She’d already sent a GIF of a dog begging by the time I typed out my reply.
Me: That’s an insult to puppies everywhere.
Dekker: And yet, you don’t dispute the hotness.
Me: GOODNIGHT, DEKKER.
A string of crying-laughing emojis entered the chat before I tossed my phone to the far end of the couch. It needed a time-out. Or maybe a cooling off period where it could cleanse itself of the Colt propaganda it just had to witness.
For that matter, I needed one of those, too.
Instead, without the distraction it had provided, I was left to face the daunting reality in front of me.
The belly peeking out from the box taunted me.
The ring on my finger practically jeered.
The packing and preparing that I had to do over the weekend was only a series of doable tasks, the setup for the main event: I, a woman who would never have kids of her own, would have to pretend to be pregnant like my life depended on it.
And the worst thing was, that would be the easiest part.