“How’s Greg?” he asks.

“He’s over there, with your cousin,” I say absentmindedly, watching him place more stones. His hands are stupidly large. But also graceful, and it makes no sense. Also makes no sense? There are two chairs, but we’re not sitting.

“But how is he?”

In my humble experience, siblings at best tolerate each other, and at worst spit gum in one another’s hair. (Mine. My hair.) Jack and Greg, though, are close—for undivinable reasons, given that Greg’s a likable human disaster full of Sturm und Drang, while Jack . . . I’m not sure what Jack’s deal is. There’s a dash of bad boy there, a hint of mystery, a dollop of smoothness. And yet a touch of hunger, a raw, unrefined air. Mostly, he looks cool. Too cool to even be cool. Like maybe in high school he skipped the school dance for a Guggenheim fellow’s art exhibition and somehow still managed to get elected prom king.

Jack looks distant. Uninterested. Effortlessly confident. Charismatic in an intriguingly opaque, inaccessible way.

But he does care for Greg. And Greg cares for him. I heard him say, with my own two ears, that Jack is his “best friend,” someone he “can trust.” And I listened without pointing out that he can’t really trust his best friend Jack that much, or he’d be honest with him about the fake dating—because I’m a supportive fake girlfriend.

“Greg’s good. Why do you ask?”

“When we talked the other day he sounded stressed about Woodacre.”

About . . . what? Is this something Greg’s girlfriend should know? “Ah, yes,” I fib. “A little.”

“A little?”

I busy myself with the stones. I’m not winning as easily as I expected. “It’s getting better.” Everything does with time, right?

“Is it?”

“Very much.” I nod enthusiastically.

He nods, too. Less enthusiastically. “Really?”

Jack’s actually not bad at Go. How have I not wiped the floor with him yet? “Really.”

“I thought Woodacre was in a couple of days. I figured Greg’d be upset.”

I tense. Maybe I should have asked Greg for talking points. “Oh, yeah, true. Now that you mention it—”

“Remind me, Elsie.” He takes a tiny step closer to the board, towering over me like a towering tower. But I’m not short. I refuse to feel short. “What’s Woodacre, again?”

Crap. “It’s”—I try for an amused expression—“Woodacre, of course.”

Jack gives me a Don’t bullshit me look. “That’s not an answer, is it?”

“It’s . . .” I clear my throat. “A thing Greg’s working on.” The extent of what I’ve been told about Greg’s job? That he’s a data scientist. “I don’t know the details. It’s complicated science stuff.” I smile airily, as though I don’t spend my life building complex mathematical models to uncover the origins of the universe. My heart hurts.

“Complicated science stuff.” Jack studies me like he’s peeling off my skin and expects to find a banana rotting inside.

“Yeah. People like you and I wouldn’t understand.”

He frowns. “People like you and I.”

“Yeah. I mean.” I hold his eyes and put down another stone. “What even are numbers—”

I snap my mouth shut. We must have reached for the same square. My fingers brush against Jack’s, and something electric and unidentifiable licks up my arm. I wait for him to pull away, but he doesn’t. Even though it was my turn. Wasn’t it my turn? I’m pretty sure—

“Well, if it isn’t a draw.”

I yank back my hand. Millicent is next to me, staring at the board. I follow her gaze and nearly gasp, because . . . she’s right.

I just not-thrashed Jack Freaking Smith at Go.

“It’s been a long time since Jack hasn’t won a game,” Millicent says with a pleased smile.

It’s been a long time since I haven’t won a game. What the hell? I look up at Jack—still staring, still furrowing his brow, still judging me silently. My brain blanks. I panic and blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “There are more legal board positions in Go than the atoms in the known universe.”

A snort. “Someone’s been telling me since he was barely out of diapers.” Millicent glances shrewdly at Jack, who is still. Staring. At. Me. “You and Elsie make for a very good couple. Although, Jack, my dear, she should still sign a prenup.”

I don’t immediately understand what she’s saying. Then I do and turn crimson all over. “Oh, no. Mrs. Smith, I’m—I’m dating Greg. Your other grandson.”

“Are you sure?”

What? “I—yes. Of course.”

“Didn’t seem like it.” She shrugs. “But what do I know? I’m a ninety-year-old bat who frolics in mud.” I watch her shuffle toward the canapé table. Then I turn to Jack with a nervous laugh.

“Wow. That was—”

He’s still staring. At me. Stone faced. Intent. Sectoral heterochromic. Like I’m interesting, very interesting, very, very interesting. I open my mouth to ask him what’s going on. To demand a rematch to the death. To beg him to quit counting the pores in my nose. And that’s when—

“Smile, guys!”

I whip my head around, and the flash of Izzy’s Polaroid instantly blinds me.

•   •   •

“My parents’ anniversary next month should be the last time I need to take you along.” Greg signals right and pulls into my building’s parking lot. “After, I’ll tell Mom you broke up with me. I begged you not to. Serenaded you. Bought you my weight in plushies—all in vain.”

I nod sympathetically. “You’re heartbroken. Too inconsolable to date someone else.”

“I might need to find solace in a Spotify playlist.”

“Or frost your tips.”

He grimaces. I laugh, and once the car stops I lean against the passenger door to study his handsome profile in the yellow lights. “Tell her that I cheated on you with the Grubhub delivery guy. It’ll buy you longer moping rights.”

“Brilliant.”

We’re silent while I think about Greg’s situation. The reason he even needs a fake girlfriend. What he felt comfortable telling me, a stranger, and not his own family. How similar we are. “After this is done, if you need . . . if you want someone to talk to. A friend. I’d love to . . .”

His smile is genuine. “Thanks, Elsie.”

I’m barely out of the car. Ice crinkles under the heel of my boot as I turn around. “Oh, Greg?”

“Yes?”

“What’s the Woodacre thing?”

He groans. His neck tips back against the headrest. “It’s a silent meditation retreat our boss is forcing us to do. We’re leaving tomorrow—four days of no contact with the outside world. No email, no Twitter. He got the idea from a Goop newsletter.”

Oh. “So it has nothing to do with . . . complicated science?”

He gives me a desperate look. “The opposite. Why?”

“Ah . . .” I close my eyes. Let mortification sink its fangs into my brain. “No reason. Have a good night, Greg.”

I close the passenger door, wave half-heartedly, and let the frigid air pop into my lungs. The North Star blinks at me from the sky, and I remember tomorrow’s job interview.

It doesn’t matter if tonight I made a fool of myself with Greg’s punch-worthy brother. Because with just a sprinkle of luck, I might never have to see Jack Smith again.

OceanofPDF.com

From: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Re: Re: My chinchilla

Hey Doctor H.,

I understand you don’t care about Chewie McChewerton’s gluten allergy, but what about the fact that last night I got a DUI? Does that get me out of the Physics 101 midterm?

Sincerely,

Chad

From: [email protected]

Subject: can’t come to class

pls find attached a pic of my vomit this morning