Chapter 17
seventeen
The zipper on my duffel bag was fighting me, but I refused to let it win.
I tugged on the brass pull with both hands, my knees braced against the edge of my mattress, gritting my teeth as the zipper jammed against a thick fleece sweater I was fifty percent sure I wouldn’t even need.
“You’re packing like you’re being deployed to the tundra,” Imogen said from her perch on my desk chair.
She was leaning dangerously close to the mirror, my favorite berry-toned lip gloss in hand, carefully applying a second coat with practiced precision.
“Carling Beach in May isn’t the Arctic Circle, Ainsley.
It’s like twenty-five degrees and sunny. ”
“The weather app said it drops to ten at night near the water,” I grumbled, giving the zipper one last violent yank. It slid home with a satisfying thwack. “And I’ve heard cottage people like to leave windows open at night, and I’m not freezing to death for the sake of fresh air.”
Imogen turned on the stool, smacking her lips together to spread the gloss, her eyes sparkling with that familiar sisterly intuition that always made my pulse do a nervous little dance.
I hated lying to any of my siblings, but I hated lying to her the most. I still remembered how much it hurt when she admitted to me that she’d been seeing Dad behind my back for months.
Would she be as equally hurt when she found out that I’d been fake dating Rhys Montgomery behind her back?
In my own defense, I didn’t think hiding a fake relationship was all that terrible.
It wasn’t like I was hiding a real boyfriend from her.
But it didn’t stop the gnawing guilt every time I lied about where I was going or who I was with.
Case in point—telling her I’d decided at the last minute to accept Clementine’s invitation to visit her cottage this weekend, because it was the best lie I could come up with for where I’d be when I was actually at Rhys’s cottage.
“Still,” Imogen said, tossing the lip gloss back into my organizer and reaching straight for my high-end highlighter palette—the one I specifically hid behind my moisturizer because she was obsessed with it and never bought her own.
“It’s three days. You have like four sweaters, six bathing suits, and I’m pretty sure I saw you throw some winter boots in there.
Are you sure you’re just staying at Clementine’s, or are you secretly launching a survivalist compound? ”
My fingers twitched on the strap of my bag.
A familiar, uncomfortable lump settled right at the base of my throat—heavy, cold, and tasting distinctly like guilt.
The lie had seemed like a good one in theory.
Clementine was the only one of my friends who knew about Rhys—although she’d stuck to her promise and hadn’t asked me any questions about that car ride in the week since it happened—and she’d given us an open invitation to come to her cottage anytime this summer.
It even meant that I didn’t even have to hide my location from my friends’ phones because I would be in the exact town they thought I should be, just at a different cottage than they thought.
And Clementine had been more than happy to agree to cover for me, although I had a feeling I would need to give her some more answers about what was going on pretty soon.
“It’s just Clem’s,” I lied, the words coming out smooth and practiced, though my stomach turned a tight, unpleasant knot. “And I just want to be prepared! Everyone says this is the beginning of cottage season but that doesn’t mean it’s warm.”
“Fair point,” Imogen conceded, dusting a shimmering coat of champagne-colored highlighter over her cheekbones. She turned her head side-to-side, admiring the reflection. “I feel like a disco ball. But a cute one.”
I forced a small, easy laugh, tossing my duffel onto the floor by my bedroom door.
The guilt, however, refused to be tossed away so easily.
Lying to my family was nothing new over the last two weeks—I’d lied about where I went whenever I was out with Rhys, lied about why he talked to me in public, and lied about where I was going this weekend.
But lying to Imogen was different. We were twins.
We had spent fourteen years sharing a bedroom, and sixteen sharing clothes and sharing an unspoken language built on raised eyebrows and subtle scoffs.
“Hey,” Imogen said, snapping me out of my downward spiral. She was holding up a tiny, glittery tub of liquid eyeshadow I’d forgotten I even owned. “Can I borrow this? Cole said his aunt wants to take us all out to that fancy steakhouse on Saturday night.”
“Take it,” I said, leaning against my desk and crossing my arms. “Just don’t lose the cap like you did with my mascara last month.”
“I didn’t lose it, it fell behind the radiator,” she argued, tossing the shadow into her own canvas makeup pouch.
“I think that might be worse.”
She looked up at me, her expression softening into something warm and sweet. “I’m bummed we’re not hanging out this weekend, though. It feels like we haven’t had a proper sister night in weeks.”
The lump in my throat doubled in size.
“I know,” I murmured, staring down at the pattern of the rug beneath my socks. “Things have just been so busy lately.”
“Busy with what?” Imogen teased, hopping off the vanity stool and grabbing a stack of folded T-shirts off my chair, unprompted, to help me stuff them into the front pocket of my bag.
“You’re not secretly seeing someone, are you?
Because if you’re hiding a secret boyfriend from me, Ainsley, I will personally confiscate all your oversized sweaters. ”
I froze for a split second, my heart hammering a sudden, panicked cadence against my ribs.
“No,” I said, forcing my voice to stay light, airy, and completely unbothered. “Please. You know my life. It’s school and dance and just trying to make it to summer unscathed.”
“True,” Imogen sighed, shoving a ridiculous fur-lined bucket hat into my bag’s side pocket—a hat I hadn’t worn since eighth grade and that I would argue was less appropriate for the weather than half the stuff she’d been making fun of me for bringing.
“Still. You deserve a fun weekend. You’ve been so stressed lately.
Every time I look at you, you look like you’re holding your breath. ”
I stared at her, caught completely off guard by the accuracy of the statement.
I wished it could be different. I imagined standing in this exact bedroom, packing a bag for a weekend trip, and being able to tell Imogen the absolute truth.
‘I’m going to the lake with Rhys,’ I would say effortlessly.
‘We’re going to cook terribly and make s’mores by the fire.
’ No lies. No cover stories. No frantic text chains with Clementine to coordinate alibis.
It sounded so peaceful. So light.
And then, right on the heels of that peaceful thought, came the sharp, brutal slice of reality.
If the fake relationship ended... there would be no reason to tell Imogen about Rhys at all. Because there would be no Rhys.
When the lie stopped, we stopped.
A sudden, icy pang shot straight through the center of my chest, so sharp and unexpected that I actually took a half-step back, my hand instinctually coming up to rest against my collarbone.
It was ridiculous. It was completely, utterly absurd. Rhys wasn’t mine. He had never been mine.
So why did the thought of the game ending feel less like a relief and more like falling off a cliff?
“Ainsley?” Imogen’s voice broke through the fog. Her brow furrowed as she looked at my face. “Are you okay? You look like you just saw a ghost.”
I blinked rapidly, swallowing hard to force the tightness out of my throat, and plastering a bright, cheerful smile across my face.
“I’m fine!” I said, stepping forward and snatching an old bathrobe she’d just grabbed from my closet before she could attempt to stuff it in my bag. “I’m just realizing that you are trying to smuggle an atrocity from ten years ago into my weekend wardrobe.”
Imogen gasped in mock offense, clutching her hands to her chest. “Excuse you! I made you that bathrobe with my own two hands! You should be grateful for it.”
She’d made it at sewing club in the sixth grade and it really showed.
“I love it,” I promised her, then shoved it back into the deep recesses of my closet where it belonged. “But if you put one more unnecessary item in my bag, I’m going to tell Cole that you still sleep with that stuffed frog on your bed.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” she breathed, her eyes widening in horror. “Barnaby is an heirloom!”
“Try me, Imogen.”
She narrowed her eyes at me for a long, silent moment before breaking into a wide, reluctant grin, shaking her head as she backed toward my bedroom door.
“You’re evil,” she declared, leaning against the doorframe. “Pure evil. I hope Clementine makes you eat organic kale chips for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”
“I’ll survive,” I laughed softly. I glanced at the clock. “Anyway, I need to get ready for ballet class.”
“And Clem’s picking you up straight from there?” She tsked. I nodded. “Call me when you get to her cottage, okay? Just so I know you didn’t drive into a ditch.”
Once I agreed, she flounced out of my room, leaving me alone with only my guilty thoughts to keep me company.
I pulled my sweatshirt tighter around myself, ducking my head as I jogged across the asphalt of the ballet studio parking lot to Rhys’s idling SUV.
My hair was still slicked back in a tight, neat bun, my legs felt like overstretched rubber bands after two hours at the barre, and my shoulders were aching under the strap of my duffel bag and ballet tote.
I pulled the passenger door open and climbed in, immediately enveloped by the familiar smell.
Rhys was sitting in the driver’s seat, one hand resting lazily on the top of the steering wheel.
He was wearing an oversized black hoodie with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows and his hair slightly damp from a shower.