Chapter 11: The Fake Zone: Chapter 11

“You don’t mention Grey very often,” Briggs says, looking up at me from the notes resting on his folded legs. He slides his glasses up the bridge of his nose as I recount my trip to Florida and my triggered moment that led me to Grey’s room.

I try not to roll my eyes. “For good reason.”

“What’s the good reason?” Briggs is a master of turning my words around on me without sounding accusatory or flippant.

I pause, knowing now is not the time to mention how obnoxious Grey is or how my best friend chose the grumpiest, most difficult-to-read person who tolerates me on his best days and ignores me every other day. “We’re just acquaintances.” I shrug, ignoring the way those thoughts feel like lies after Florida.

“

acquaintances? But you trusted him enough to seek him out and stay overnight with him…” He raises his graying eyebrows at me.

“He’s Hudson’s best friend on the team. I know he’s trustworthy. We’re just not friends.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because he doesn’t like me.”

Briggs leans back in his chair, studying me for a moment as he does every time he finds access to an anthill in our discussions and rushes to scribble down notes. “Why do you think he doesn’t like you?”

I started seeing my therapist, Briggs, five years ago after my maternal uncle contacted me, and I didn’t know how to process the storm of emotions that an unsuspecting letter brought. He was the fourth therapist my parents helped me find and the first I felt comfortable with since I was young. For the first six months, we talked about surface topics, and though it didn’t make a lot of sense to me, I didn’t complain because I was a sophomore in high school with a guy best friend and sometimes talking about gossip and bullies with someone else felt surprisingly good.

Little did I know that during those months of me rambling about things I found funny, annoying, or destructive to society, Briggs was studying me, learning my cues, moods, and fears without me ever vocalizing them. I was resentful and confused initially, but I’d already grown used to our meetings and telling him things I didn’t trust with others, things I needed to get off my chest and out of my thoughts that weren’t always important but somehow managed to take real estate in my head.

Over time, we began dissecting my life, looking at it like a pointillism painting. Examining small bits and pieces that were sometimes significant and other times benign until more dots were uncovered.

I want to tell him Grey isn’t even a full dot, but I know that will lead to more questions, so I try my best to answer him honestly—as I do most times with Briggs.

“He just … avoids me. I think he assumes I’m just a spoiled rich kid who doesn’t care about anything.”

Briggs rubs a thumb over his tongue, working to turn the page in his notebook before looking at me with lowered eyebrows that portray his offense on my behalf. I both hate and love when he does this because it makes me feel validated, and all too often, it makes my eyes burn and my throat grow tight. “Why would he think that about you?”

“I can just tell by the way he looks at me.”

Briggs holds his pen, working to read the situation and me. “I can see that it bothers you that he thinks this about you.”

Impulsively I want to say , but a part of me wants to say it does and have Briggs verify for me that I care about more than just superficial things and have experienced more than just a princess’s life. But doing so entails us visiting dots in the painting of my life that I don’t care to look at or discuss today.

“I think he’s had a hard life, and he struggles to trust people. I get it.”

“Sometimes, when someone has their guard up, we have to share a secret to earn their trust.”

“I don’t really need his trust. Grey cares about football, and that’s about it.”

Briggs’s pen races across the paper. I used to worry about what he wrote about me and if he thought I was a terrible person for some of my thoughts and views or small-minded for my opinions, but now I take the seconds as a reprieve to gather my thoughts and think of a safer subject to discuss.

“I took myself on a date as you suggested.”

I swear he smirks, though he doesn’t show it. He knows how much I hated the idea. “How did it go?”

“Terrible.”

He chuckles. “We discussed that it would feel awkward the first time. Where did you take yourself?”

“To the Italian restaurant downtown, .”

Briggs raises his eyebrows. “I’ve heard they’re good.”

“It was delicious, but that didn’t make it any less weird. Everyone stared at me like I’d been stood up. I endured constant looks of sympathy and assumption.”

More laughter bubbles out of Briggs. “You were out taking care of yourself, reminding yourself what you deserve and want, and enjoying your own company.” He points at me. When Briggs isn’t scribbling down my innermost secrets, he’s often making gestures with his hands that include lots of pointing.

“I can’t say I’d be inclined to accept a second date with myself.”

“Things aren’t always going to come easy. That doesn’t mean we give up. Maybe you dove a little too deep on the first try. Maybe a trip to a bookstore by yourself or to get coffee.”

“But you said I can’t read.”

“You’re supposed to be with your thoughts, not lost in someone else’s story.”

“I’m with my thoughts all the time.” Though the words are authentic, I’m goading him, hoping we can stretch this topic until the end of our session.

He gives me a leveling stare. “We’ve talked about this, Mila.”

“I’m kidding,” I say before he can start in on the importance of these dates again. “I’ll try it again—just not to a nice restaurant again.”

“It wasn’t a bad choice. Remember, you’re deciding how you deserve to be treated.” I don’t know if his words or the long stare he delivers them with is more unsettling.

I glance at my watch to see it’s a couple of minutes shy of our hour being complete, acceptable as an ending point. I lean down to gather my purse. “It’s supposed to get cold this week.”

Briggs grins a genuine smile that flashes his white teeth. “I’m hoping it snows.” He moved here from New York, and though he claims to be happy to have left the city and cold, his entire being lights up at the mention of snow every year. It’s one of our shared loves.

I slip my arms into my coat, pulling it closed with a fist. “I could use a snow day.”

He chuckles, knowing how the city closes down the moment snow appears in the forecast. “I’ll see you next Wednesday, Mila.”

I smile at him. Some days I leave here so emotionally drained, I’m physically exhausted, but today isn’t one of those times. Our conversation was easy, our uncovered dots mostly colorful and bright. “Bye, Briggs.”

The wind burns my cheeks as I step outside of the large brick building, working to recall where I parked. His office is on the outskirts of downtown, not far from where Hadley and Nolan live, situated among a dozen more professional buildings that make parking sometimes a sport. The wind slices across my cheek, so cold I flinch and turn my head away.

My heart catches and stops at the sight of an old white Ford truck with a rusted fender, the exhaust a plume of white smoke that distorts the license plate. The maintenance man at my old apartment drove the same make and model. Recognition has me turning to measure how far I am from Briggs’s office and my car to see which I can reach faster.

I hurry to my car and slip into the cold interior, nearly hitting myself with the door in my rush to get it shut and locked.

My heart pounds so loud it’s hard to think, harder to move.

I press the ignition button and reach for my phone as I turn to look at the truck again, but it’s gone. Fear digs its claws into my spine.

I drive home, checking my mirrors for the same white truck as I chase the memory of Briggs’s words,

until arriving at our apartment. I remain in the car for a couple of extra minutes, waiting another minute to ensure no one followed me.

Gates. I remind myself.

We have gates at the entrance with an armed guard who’s there all day. It’s one of the reasons this complex was so high on my list.

I repeat the words half a dozen times, recalling all the assurances Briggs helped me construct until my muscles slowly comply and relax enough that I can unbuckle my seat belt and head for the front door of our apartment.

“It’s freezing,” I announce to Evelyn as I rush to close the front door behind me. “You might get your first snowfall!” Knowing her aversion to the cold, I say the words with enthusiasm and the promise of fun.

“I literally can’t get warm,” Evelyn says, from where she’s sitting on the couch wrapped in multiple blankets. “I don’t want to insult our fortress because this place is insanely nice, but it’s drafty. I don’t think it was made to withstand this cold of temperatures.” She snuggles back further into the confines of her blanket fort.

“Maybe we should check your iron levels?”

“My iron’s fine. It’s just freezing. Literally.”

I kick off my shoes and pad into the living room, forcing myself into her blanket cave. “You were made for California. It never gets too hot or too cold.”

“Fires and floods kind of freak me out, too. Maybe we should aim for Arizona?”

“Not New Mexico?”

Evelyn lifts a shoulder. “I don’t know. The longer I’m here, the less Albuquerque feels like home.”

“Does Oleander Springs feel like home?”

Evelyn releases a breath. “I’m slowly realizing home isn’t really a place but a feeling.”

“Orgasmic feelings?” I tease.

Evelyn hits me in the chest with a throw pillow. “You’re included. Living here, moving in with you, I’m so grateful that things worked out this way rather than how I’d planned.”

I grin as I pull my knees to my chest, huddling closer to Evelyn and her nest of blankets.

“Oh! I almost forgot that the neighbor in building C stopped by to return our immersion blender and looked particularly disappointed when I told him you weren’t here.”

“Sounds like I dodged a bullet.”

Evelyn grins. “He’s actually kind of cute.”

“He’s so smiley.”

Laughter belts out of her. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. Those dimples definitely aren’t a bad thing. Plus, he fills out a suit pretty damn well…”

“Should I warn Hudson he might have competition?”

She rolls her eyes, but they turn sympathetic with her next breath. “You haven’t dated anyone since stupid Will.”

Will was a cute senior I met in September with a flashy smile and a penchant for a good time. We had the perfect meet-cute, meeting in line at a bistro near campus. He had pretended to be able to read my palm and told me I’d fall for a cute guy with brown eyes very soon—referring, of course, to himself. And I did. Or I wanted to. It took four weeks before I realized all he wanted to do was to party and have sex—the same things most guys want—without the labels of a relationship.

“He was the first guy I really wanted to like in over a year,” I admit with a sigh. The same level of honesty I’ve established with Briggs was born with Evelyn. I don’t know if it’s her willingness to look ridiculous with me or the fact she’s never judged me or treated me like an outsider, even when I first moved here and was steeped in the feeling.

“He was a jerk who didn’t deserve you.” Evelyn shakes her head. She read the warning signs that I happily overlooked and bet me that he wouldn’t ask about my family, try to meet our friends, or invite me on a date that didn’t include a keg. Unable to refuse a bet, I accepted with the stipulation I couldn’t sleep with him until he did one of those three challenges.

Evelyn won, and Will lost interest.

“I don’t know if I’m relationship material,” I admit.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m afraid of my own shadow, and I have a complex fear of abandonment paired with serious trust issues.” I wave a hand over my face. “I’m every guy’s nightmare.”

Every ounce of humor leaves her as her eyes turn solemn. “A nightmare? Mila, you’re hilarious, gorgeous, smart, independent, and the best damn friend a person could have. Don’t let Will or any other undeserving jerkwad let you believe anything different.”

The lock clicks open, and Griffin, Hudson’s younger brother, yells out a greeting.

Evelyn holds my gaze for another second. “Will didn’t deserve you, and that doesn’t mean you should date hot neighbor, but don’t think for a second that Will’s idiocy is a reflection of you.”

Griffin bounds toward us with his backpack in hand and a permanent smile on his face. “Hi, Mila! Hi, Evelyn!”

I’m barely able to stand before Griffin wraps me in a hug and smacks a cold, wet kiss on my cheek. He releases me to do the same to Evelyn.

Growing up next door to Hudson and Griffin had me seeing the brothers nearly every day of my childhood. We became integral parts of each other’s lives. They offered me consistency, acceptance, and reliability that I’d only ever experienced in short bouts. It also gave me a sense of pride and purpose when I became one of Griffin’s most trusted and favorite individuals, titles I never take advantage of. Being autistic, people often focus on all his differences, overlooking the many amazing gifts and joys he brings to every situation.

Hudson kicks off his shoes and hangs his coat in the closet.

“I learned a new chess move,” Griffin says, shrugging out of his coat and straightening both sleeves before hanging it beside Hudson’s and launching into the details of the offensive maneuver like a war tactic.

“Want to set up the chessboard?” I ask him. “I thought we could either make grilled cheese sandwiches and soup or order pizza for dinner.”

“Grilled cheese,” he says, walking farther into the living room where our chessboard awaits him.

Hudson winks at me as Evelyn slides her arm around his waist. “We’ll make dinner,” he says.

My phone vibrates with a message as I sit across from Griff.

I read the text twice, unsure how to respond. We don’t text, hence why I didn’t text him while at the hotel.

Once again, I’m rereading the message several times, searching for meaning or sense in the words. Grey doesn’t randomly stop by. We don’t hang out. In fact, I’m a little surprised he even remembers my address because, apart from helping us move in along with ten other teammates, it’s the only time I recall him having come over.

Pride stirs in my chest as I debate a response. I’m still reeling from the weekend, knowing I should have told Briggs about how a stranger’s words stripped my confidence and self-worth so easily and completely, but I’d focused on how I’d been triggered, fearing for my safety because someone jiggled the doorhandle because it felt like a much safer topic than admitting the hurtful words.

I tuck my phone between the couch and the cushion and sit forward in my seat, prepared to make my first move as Griff reminds me that he’s waiting.

I should be a chess champion for how many games I’ve played, but Griffin cleans the floor with me every single game without fail, and as we move our pieces across the board, I’m already preparing for my loss when the doorbell rings.

Hudson wipes his hands and goes to answer the door as Griffin explains the plays I should have considered with my last move.

“Hey,” Hudson says. “Come on in.”

I look up as Grey steps into our apartment, one eyebrow raised with question as our gazes clash, and I’m reminded this is definitely not how things go in the movies.