“He was paying you to pretend he was in a relationship. So my family would get off his back?”

I press my lips together and nod. He swears softly.

“If it makes any difference, he wasn’t paying me to . . . Not that there would be anything bad with it, but we didn’t . . .” I flush under his eyes.

“Fuck?”

I flush harder and nod. I’m usually pretty matter-of-fact when it comes to sex. Not sure why Jack brings out the blushing adolescent in me. “It’s a . . . performance of sorts. I do it for lots of men. Like Austin—who, by the way, was by far my worst client. By parsecs. Greg’s the best, of course.” I glance away. I’m babbling, but it’s weird to talk about Faux with someone who’s not directly involved in some capacity. “And Greg and I . . . we became friends. I know it’s unbelievable, given that he paid me and that I made up an entire backstory for myself, but I would have done it for free. For him. If I could afford it. Except that . . .”

“Adjuncting doesn’t pay for shit?”

I laugh. “Pretty much.”

Jack sighs and leans against the back of the couch. “Why didn’t you tell me? When we met at the restaurant?”

“It wasn’t my thing to tell, you know? You were going to ask why he’d hired me. And I was going to have to waffle, and . . . We should probably stop talking about this. So you can have the conversation with him. Once he’s not so, um, focused on quinoa and nipples.”

He nods. And then he does something unexpected. Revolutionary. Gobsmacking. Universe rocking.

He says, “I’m sorry, Elsie.”

It takes me by surprise. So much so that I blurt out a “For what?”

“For accusing you of lying to my brother. Over and over.”

“You did, didn’t you?” I cock my head and observe him for a moment. His strong, handsome face looks pained. “Does it hurt?”

“What?”

“This apology.” He glares at me, and I laugh. “Was it your first? Did I pop your apology cherry?”

“Apology retracted.” His expression shifts into something inward. Like he’s finally processing an important, crucial, weighty piece of information. Like something’s shifting in his worldview, and the universe around him needs to be adjusted for it. I wonder what that might be till he focuses back on me and says, “You and Greg never dated. He doesn’t . . .” There is something hesitant to it, like he needs to hear me confirm it. To make sure it’s true, sculpted into stone.

“Nope. He’s not into me, never has been.” I nearly roll my eyes. “You happy?”

“Yes.” His tone is dead serious, and I snort, standing up. Time to leave.

“Shall we Grubhub champagne and cupcakes? Celebrate that I won’t be polluting the shades of the Smith estate?”

He gives me an odd, long look. “You think that’s the reason I’m happy?”

“What else?”

He shakes his head but doesn’t elaborate. Instead he stands, too, following me to the coatrack by the entrance. “Did Greg ever tell you I was a physicist?”

“Nope. Well, yes, but it didn’t register, because projectile vomiting was involved—don’t ask. He also didn’t know I was a physicist, because we’re usually stingy with personal details. Fake last names, fake professions. An extra layer of protection, you know?”

“We?”

“There are several of us. Fake daters, that is. We work for this app, Faux. Available for Apple and Android—Android version’s so buggy, though.” I need to stop babbling. Jack’s looking at me like I’m a Higgs boson about to give him a lap dance.

“Is that how Austin found you?”

“Sadly, yeah.” I bite my lower lip. “Do you think he told Monica about my alternative academic career yet?”

“He won’t.”

“How can you be sure?”

“After you left, I . . . followed up with him.” Jack’s features are a bland mask. Unreadable as ever. “You’ll be fine.”

“How do you know?”

“Trust me.”

I have no idea what that means. I want to ask, but his tone sounds final, and anyway . . . “Shouldn’t you want Austin to tell Monica? So George will get the job? And you guys can bro out in the MIT restroom? Do aromatherapy together and discuss who has the biggest Hadron Collider?”

“George will get the job anyway. And we won’t be doing that.” A wild dimple appears.

“Everyone knows yours is larger, anyway.” His eyebrow cocks and I turn to the coatrack. Shit, did I say that out loud? “I can’t believe your mom refused to pick Greg up for a mani. What a jerk.”

“She’s not.”

“She totally is a jerk. Come on, who—”

“I meant, she’s not my mother. And she wouldn’t appreciate you saying otherwise.”

“Okay, edgelord. That’s a bit dramatic. We all have issues with our parents, but—”

“Caroline is not my mother. Not biologically, nor in any other way.”

I turn back to him. “What?”

“My mother is dead. Greg is my half brother.”

I stare at him for a long stretch. Then I close my eyes. “Fuck.”

“Fuck?”

“Fuck.” I scratch my head. “I just hate it when I act like an asshole without even wanting to.”

He laughs. “Don’t worry. Like you said, she’s a jerk. Dad’s no better.”

“Still, I’m sorry about your mom. I didn’t know.”

“I’m not surprised.” He shrugs in his impossibly tight Suffolk hoodie. “No one talks about her.”

“That explains it, though.”

“Explains what?”

“Why Greg’s such a sweetheart and you . . .”

Dimple: on. “And me?”

I look away, flushing. “Nothing. Anyway.” I rummage in my coat pockets for my phone. “Greg’s settled down, so I’m going to call an Uber—”

“So,” Jack asks conversationally, “what came first?”

I look up. “Uh?”

“The fake-girlfriend enterprise?” He sounds genuinely curious. “Or the myriad of different Elsies you impersonate? Was it on-the-job training, or had you been . . . modifying yourself before?”

“I don’t—” Oh, there’s no point in arguing with him. Not when he’s not even wrong. “Listen, now that we’ve ascertained that I’m not some gold digger threatening the Smith gene pool, could you stop?”

“Stop . . . ?”

“This weird”—I gesticulate between us—“anthropological character study of me. Fine, you got me. I want people to like me, and I give them the me they want. I enjoy getting along with others. Gasp. Report me to the authenticity police for aiding and abetting.”

“It’s easier like that, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“Never showing anyone who you really are.” He watches me calmly. Patiently. In the soft light of the apartment, his eyes are dark all around. Sometimes I hear a car running, but the traffic here is not nearly as loud as at my own apartment. “That way if something goes wrong, if someone rejects you, then it’s not about you, is it? When you’re yourself, that’s when you’re exposed. Vulnerable. But if you hold back . . . Losing a game’s always painful, but knowing that you haven’t played your best hand makes it bearable.”

I hide my fist behind my back, clenching it tight at the unsolicited psychoanalysis. My nails bite into my palm. “Bold of you to assume that the real me is my best hand.”

That stupid, crooked half smile is back. “Foolish of you to think it isn’t.”

“Come, now.” I force myself to smile sweetly. “We both know you’re only mad because I’ve never been the Elsie you wanted.”

“Is that so?” He looks like he was put on this stringed plane of reality as an omniscient entity. I’m angry, and he needs to stop talking like he understands.

“It’s your own damn fault, Jack.”

“Why?”

“Because you”—I point my finger in his face—“don’t give me anything. Everyone else does. Something to latch on to, something I can use to be the person they want. But you’re not putting out signals. And that’s why you’re not getting the VIP treatment like everyone else. So quit whining, please.”

“I see.” His hand, warm and calloused, closes around my wrist and pulls my index finger from his face down to his chest. He covers the back of my hand with his palm, and what the hell is he—?