Page 43 of Pretender

And Halloween last year was even worse.

Henry gripped her arm so hard his fingers dug into her skin. I remember seeing it from where I sat and I rushed over to stop him. Even from a distance I saw Linnea’s posture was frozen while he fumed at her, shook her. It didn’t matter what she’d done—she could’ve set his hair on fire for all I cared—he was hurting her, and I needed it to stop.

That night, they both got to see a side of me very few do.

I pulled Henry away into the staff hallway. I yelled at him. And when I turned to Linnea standing behind me, she was visibly crying, and she didn’t seem able to look at me.

She buried her face in her hands and left the club without saying a word.

I located who she’d been there with that night: a small group from her work, who luckily hadn’t seen the drama unfold. Linnea’s designer, Olga-something, told me Linnea and Henry split up two months before, and that Linnea had just gone to speak with Henry about him showing up at The Orion with his mistress. A woman, once identified, I had promptly escorted out, and then banned. Easy decision.

Linnea was more distant than ever after that night. To everyone, but especially me. Not rude, just … inaccessible. Professional, but nothing more. The more I tried to charm my way through her walls, the more she seemed to retreat.

But this last week I’ve seen glimmers of the Linnea I noticed from the beginning, when she didn’t know I was watching. Moments of a smiling, joking, silly Linnea who laughs so hard at a gin shower she’s wheezing. She’s holding back, but she’s opened up somewhat.

Maybe this fake dating arrangement will be kind of fun. I’ll collect these moments like the treasures they are.

Mark’s voice makes its way through my thoughts, and I focus back on it.

“Isn’t it?” he asks, breathing hard as he pulls back on the rowing machine.

“Sorry, I missed that,” I answer, equally breathless. I’ve been rowing while letting my mind drift, and I’ve lost track of my kilometres. I’m far behind my regular level.

“All of it?”

“Yeah,” I breathe. “Mind elsewhere.”

“Fucking hell.”

“What did you say?”

“I said,” Mark pants. “The engagement party tonight will be fun.” He breathes out hard. “That’s the short version.”

I stop and get pulled through by the heavy flywheel. “Shit.”

“What’s the matter with you?”

“I’m fine.” I get back to my exercise, going harder and harder. Mum didn’t say Mark would be there, did she? She said ‘the Beckers’. Fuck. I assumed she meant the parents only. Mark knows me better than anyone. Will he see right through my fake date?

No, his first assumption wouldn’t be that it’s fake. Because why the hell would we do that? Worst case, he’ll find we’re awkward and give me shit about it. I can blame early-stage jitters.

It’ll be alright.

But fuck, the prospect of actively lying to his face wreaks havoc on my insides.

“Let’s drive together,” Mark says.

I do a double-take. “What? From here?”

“Yes.” He stops his rowing now, well over his thirty-kilometre goal. I’m lagging today, but I stop as well.

Drive? With him and Rey? That’s almost an hour in close proximity before we’ve even had a chance to show off our relationship in a safe party scene.

But it makes total sense to do so. Saying no would be more suspicious.

Mark stares at me, sweat trickling down the ridge of his nose. “Seriously, are you okay today?”

“Yes, of course. Always.”