Page 42 of Personal Foul
I was supposed to go to his apartment, clean, and leave. And pretending to be together in public shouldn’t include celebratory kisses. We could always say that we’re uncomfortable with PDA or that I don’t want to flaunt my relationship in front of my friend because it’s hurting her feelings—both of which are true! I’m not comfortable with PDA withhim, and it definitely hurt Isabelle’s feelings when we did that in front of her.
Dylan insists that we need to sell the relationship, though, and apparently that includes touching me, even when other people aren’t looking. And propositioning me when we’re alone.
Fortunately, my phone rings, distracting me from my thoughts.
Smiling, I tap the button to answer. “Hey, Mom!” Maybe I shouldn’t be so cheery about talking to her, but I haven’t gotten to talk to her as much since the investigation started. She’s been understandably busy and stressed, and I also think she wants to shield me from as much of that as possible.
“Hey, sweetie.” She sounds tired, which makes the smile fall from my face. “How’s school?”
We make small talk for a few minutes while I fill her in on how classes are going and the cute things Grace did the last time I was over. She chuckles at my stories, but it’s strained, which makes me sad. My mom is a look on the bright side, everything will work out in the end type. Sure, I’ve seen her tired or stressed from time to time over the years, but she always had a smile for me and a genuine laugh at the funny stories I told her to cheer her up. Afterward, she’d hug me and thank me for making her day brighter.
Somehow, I don’t think funny stories about her granddaughter are enough this time. When I come to the end of my material, I hear her sigh. “How about you? How are you holding up?”
“Well, sweetie, things are … rough. I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
I sit up, needing to be upright to brace myself properly for whatever’s coming next. Are they charging Dad? Ignoring the churning in my stomach, I force out, “What’s wrong?”
She sniffs, which is even more alarming. My mother rarely cries, and when she does it’s because someone’s died. Is Dad hurt? Or one of my grandparents? “Our accounts have been frozen,” she says at last. “As part of the investigation. Which means we won’t be able to help you with your living expenses right now. I’m so sorry, Charity. I don’t know how long this will last or what’s going to happen next.” The words come out in a rush, almost tripping over one another. “But because our names are on the account we put your money in, that account is frozen too. None of your cards will work. I hate dumping this on you like this, especially on a weekend when you can’t do anything about it, but we just found out yesterday and we spent last night discussing what to do and how to proceed. Our attorney thinks that if we remove our names from your account, we can get it unfrozen so you at least will have access to the money in there. But I don’t know if that’ll be good enough or how long it might take.”
She pauses, but when I don’t say anything, she keeps talking, like she needs to fill the space with words. Like those words will be enough currency to keep things going, and if she stops talking, we’ll all have to figure out how to pay our bills.
Finally, her words taper off. “Um, okay,” I say at last, my voice hoarse. What else is there to say?
“Charity? Sweetie? Are you alright?” She sounds like she’s crying.
“I’m, um, I don’t know.”
More crying. The words are all dried up, just like our money.
And now we have to figure out how to cope with this new reality.
At least I don’t have to face Dylan today.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Dylan
I spend the day alone. By choice. I get texts from a few different friends to hang out or go to a party, but none of that sounds appealing today. Besides, if I go to a party and don’t bring Charity, people will ask questions. And it’s not like I can hook up with someone else while I’m “dating” her either.
I guess that could be a good way to end our fake relationship …
But then what?
That’s the question that keeps circling. I know I should just release her from our agreement, tell her I won’t tell anyone anyway, that I never intended to, and she can go on her merry way and never see me again.
Except that makes my stomach fill with lead. I don’t like the thought of never seeing her again. I like spending time with her daily. I like the way she fusses and mutters when she’s angry, banters and teases me when I can get her to relax, laughs and smiles and falls asleep on my couch watching movies …
But I don’t like the thought that the only reason I see her as often as I do is because of blackmail.
It’s stupid. I’m stupid.I’mthe reason I’m in this predicament. Every last bit of it is my fault.
I didn’t have to push her about her dad, or about her keeping her history a secret from her friends. I could’ve told her when she first came over that I’d keep her secrets. That I have no reason to share them anyway. Besides, who would I even tell? It’s not like our social circles really overlap. Not until recently, anyway, and I have my doubts that would’ve lasted much longer if not for our intervention with the double date.
Which, again, is all my fault.
I’m the one who had her over here cleaning. I’m the one who picked out her “uniform.” And I’m the one who put us in the position where us dating is the only convincing reason for her to be in my apartment dressed like that.
And really, if the truth came out, I’d look worse than she does. WhileIdon’t particularly care about my reputation, with my dad’s political aspirations … I’d get my ass handed to me if my family found out.
