Page 6 of The Fake Out

More eye-rolling. “You need to get a life.”

“I need to get some sleep, which I can’t do if I’m worried about you,” I said.

“I need to get some sleep,” she mimicked, and then yawned.

“Shut up.” I smacked her on the arm.

“You’re just jealous because I’m the cool one in this family.” She reached over and pulled my hair.

But it was late and neither of us was really giving it much effort. Instead, she settled her head on my shoulder and I kissed the top of her head, which we would pretend never happened. We were, of course, mortal enemies. Mortal enemies did not cuddle.

“You’re a brat, you know that?” I said. “I don’t know why I put up with you. I should have sold you at that garage sale when I had the chance. But no, I had to have a conscience.”

I shrugged to get her attention, but she didn’t respond. Her eyes were closed and judging from the open-mouth breathing, she was asleep. Another of Iris’s talents, falling asleep anytime, anywhere.

“Alright then,” I muttered. But I stood up and, as gently as I could, laid her head on one end of the sofa, slipped off her shoes and swung her feet onto the couch.

She immediately curled up into a ball. It reminded me of when we were younger and I’d wake up in the middle of the night with her curled like that in bed with me. My heart squeezed at the memory.

I wasn’t sure what Iris planned on doing with her life. If I took a guess right now, I’d say she planned to run for president of the local witches’ coven. (Did covens have presidents? Head Witch in Charge, maybe?) But I knew she had dreams, and I wanted to make sure she had every chance to reach them.

I tucked a blanket around her and clicked off the light. Just as I walked away, I heard her mumble, “Love you, Maebell.”

THREE

Is that a mirror in your pocket? Because I can see myself in your pants.

—CHRISTINE K. H.

The Sit-n-Eat Café was a Two Harts’ institution. It had been around forever and, like a lot of places here, it had been passed down through the family. Its current owner, Ollie Holder, had never married or had any kids of his own. He was roughly three hundred years old, and no one quite knew what would happen to the Sit-n-Eat when he passed.

“How’s the meatloaf?” I asked, hopping onto a stool at the counter. It was Friday. Friday’s special was meatloaf. Monday was fried chicken, Wednesday was brisket, and so on. If you tried to order anything else, you still got the daily special and a dirty look from Ollie.

“Good.” Ollie was a man of few words; I liked that about him.

“Do you ever think about changing things up sometimes, Ollie? What about Sushi Saturday?” I asked, to mess with him. Behind me, someone chuckled. Probably one of the handful of old men who spent their afternoons in the café.

The Sit-n-Eat opened every day from precisely ten to two. Breakfast wasn’t served. Neither was brunch or dinner. You came here for lunch. And the friendly service, of course. Despite all that, the café seemed to have a steady stream of customers such that a HELP WANTED sign hung permanently in the window.

Ollie ignored me. “One or two?”

“Two, please.”

“I expect that other one is coming, then?”

See? Isn’t he charming? He wasn’t a very tall man and with his shiny bald head, dark bushy eyebrows, and friendly disposition, he gave off very strong “get off my lawn” energy.

I grinned. “You know her name is Ali—she worked for you two summers in college, and she comes in at least three times a week.”

He shrugged and shuffled behind the partition that separated the front counter from the kitchen.

My best friend, Ali Ramos, was usually late. Although she made her own schedule as a virtual assistant, she often was last seen falling down some internet rabbit hole. Or dreaming up her latest revenge fantasy. Three months ago, after four years together, Ali’s boyfriend Alec dumped her, claiming he was tired of their long-distance relationship.

You’d think he would have known his tech-savvy ex-girlfriend could stalk him online and find out he was dating again—seventy-two hours after they broke up.

It should be noted that Ali had not taken that lying down. I bet Alec was still trying to get the smell of rotten fish out of his car and figure out how his profile and email address showed up on a “Furries Looking for Love” website.

“I love meatloaf day,” Ali said when she arrived in her “work” clothes—yoga pants, an oversized Star Trek t-shirt, her dark hair piled atop her head haphazardly—a bit sweaty from her walk.