The Fake Out: An utterly hilarious and totally heart-warming romantic comedy
The Fake Out: Chapter 22

Someone spelled fruit right. ’Cause they put U and I together.

—AARON Q.

The next morning, Mama was already up, dressed, and a breakfast of piping-hot apple cinnamon oatmeal (my favorite) was waiting for me. She sat across from me at the table, sipping her coffee and watching me over the top of her mug with a smile.

“What?” I asked. “Is there something on my face?”

“No, honey. You look adorable. Is that a new t-shirt?”

I glanced down and frowned. It was not a new t-shirt. It was a t-shirt I wore all the time. My Librarians are Just Like Regular People, But Cooler t-shirt. “No, it’s not new.”

She hummed.

I took a cautious bite of my oatmeal.

Mama set her mug down and propped her elbows on the table, chin in her hands. “So how was your date? How was that goodnight kiss? Do I get any details?”

“Mama! I thought that was Iris peeking?”

She grinned. “Afraid not. All me.”

“Seriously? I can’t have a single secret?”

She tilted her head, her eyes narrowing. “Maebell, I suspect you have more secrets than I can even begin to know.”

Without looking her in the eye, I stood. Was I finished with my oatmeal? No. Was I finished with this conversation? Yes. It was time to leave before she started to get those secrets out of me.

For a good reason. It’s for a good reason, Mae, don’t you forget.

I leaned down and gave Mama a kiss on the top of her head. “Have a good day. Not sure if I’m doing anything after work. I’ll call. Is Sue coming over?”

“Of course, honey.” I’d almost made it out of the kitchen when she stopped me, the teasing note gone from her voice. “Have you called your father yet?”

The knot in my stomach tightened. “No.”

“Please, Mae. Please just call him.”

With a sigh, I nodded and left for work.

“You want me to call him?” Ali asked. “See if he answers? I could ask about his car’s extended warranty.”

“Ha. Ha.” I dropped my forehead to the table. We were eating lunch in the backroom of the library today. “This is serious.”

Ali squeezed my arm. “I know. I’m sorry for joking about it. And car warranties? Such low-hanging fruit. I need better jokes.”

I took a bite of my PB and J. “I don’t want to see him or talk to him. Ever. But then I don’t want Iris to be hurt if he doesn’t show.”

And maybe that was the worst part, knowing that at the end of all this, Iris would be crushed. I hated my father and that he put us in situations like this over and over. For years, Mama and I had hidden Dad’s screw-ups, his broken promises. We’d made excuses and tried to make up for his absences. Maybe that had been the wrong strategy but it’s hard to look at a six-year-old and tell her that her father didn’t show up like he promised because he got arrested for his involvement in a fake lottery ticket scheme.

I rubbed my chest, the pressure there heavy. It never really left. I’d learned to live with the constant worry. Most of the time, it was manageable. Other times, it grew so extreme, it felt like a physical thing. I’d never talked to Ali directly about my anxiety, but she’d known me a long time and she knew the signs. Like always, she made it her mission to make me feel better.

Ali stood and bounced back and forth on the balls of her feet in a fighter’s stance. “You got this.” She hopped behind me and rubbed my shoulders. “You call that number and you give it your all. Because who are you?”

“Mae,” I muttered, holding back a smile.

“Louder. Really put your heart into it.”

“Mae Sampson.”

“That’s what I’m talking about.” She danced back in front of me, throwing a few imaginary jabs with each word. “And. What. Are. You?”

“I’m a librarian?”

“With confidence!”

“I’m a librarian,” I yelled, full-on laughing now.

“Not just any librarian. You’re the badass librarian of Two Harts, Texas. Books are your superpower. Children want to be you when they grow up. You will not be intimidated by some stupid phone call.”

“You are so weird. I love you.”

“I know.” Ali grinned. She picked up my cell phone and held it out. “Now call the man.”

With a sigh, I pulled up his number and dialed. It rang. I bit my lip, heart pounding. But then it rang again and again and again before a generic voicemail recording kicked on.

I didn’t leave a message.

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