She Catfished Him With My Face, So This Time He Is Mine novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: Onions and Regret

Brooke covers for herself in front of the brunch crowd; Miles follows Leah into the alley, makes her say a line only the real writer would know and hands her his boatyard key. Brooke has already posted the video she swore she deleted.

"Miles, honey," Brooke said, and slid her arm through his. "You remember I told you about my friend Leah."

"You told me about a woman who posts photos of her hands on a boat," Miles said.

He was still looking at my thumb.

Brooke laughed, bright and fast. "Those were Leah's hands. She took them for me. I said that."

"You said they were yours."

"I said they were from me. I meant, for me. You know how I talk."

Dean had stood up behind her. "She's always mixing up her words, man. Sit down, have a mimosa."

The woman at the next table had her phone up now.

Nobody on that patio was eating.

I could have said it all there.

I could have said that every photo was mine, and every joke.

I could have said she had borrowed my dress and my dock and my life.

But I had no proof in my hand, and Brooke had a sobbing face ready.

In my first life I had never even known to look for the proof.

"I have to get to work," I said. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Radford."

I walked out through the side gate, past the herb planters and the dumpster.

Footsteps came after me.

"Wait," Miles said.

I turned around in the alley.

He was out of breath, with his key still in his fist.

This close he was bigger than I remembered.

His grey eyes had a little brown in them.

In my first life I had met him once, at Brooke's wedding, and he had barely spoken.

I had not known then that he'd spent two years writing to my words.

"Did you write the line about the ferry?" he said. "The one about the coffee. 'It tastes like onions and regret.'"

My throat closed.

I had typed that line to my dad on the morning of my first shift as a line cook.

Brooke had screenshotted it for the group chat.

"Yes," I said.

"Say it again. The way you said it to your father."

I stared at him.

"It tastes like onions and regret," I said. "And the deckhand puts it in a thermos and tells us it's sailing weather."

He closed his eyes for a second.

When he opened them, he looked straight at me and did not look away.

"I need you to listen," he said. "Don't say anything to her about this," he said. "Not today."

"Why not?"

"Because I want to see what she does when she thinks I'm still easy."

Behind us, the side gate banged.

Dean stood there with his hands in his pockets and his smile gone.

"Miles. Brooke's crying in there."

"I'll bet she is," Miles said.

He pushed his key into my hand. It was warm from his fist.

"That's the gate key to my boatyard on Pier Nine. Be there at six tomorrow. Come alone."

"Miles," Dean said.

"Go back inside, Dean."

Dean looked at me then, and for one second his face wasn't easy at all.

It was worried.

He didn't know why yet, and neither did I.

He turned and went in.

I stood in the alley holding a key to a stranger's boatyard.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

It was a notification from Brooke's account. It was a video, posted six minutes ago.

I opened it.

It was me, standing up at the brunch table with my fist around my bag strap, my face red and my voice loud.

"I'm not going out with you tonight or any night."

Over it she had written: When your best friend has a breakdown and you love her anyway. Pray for Leah.

It already had four hundred likes.

She had said she'd deleted it.

She had held up the phone and pressed the screen and told me it was gone.

Under the video, the first comment came in from a stranger.

Poor thing. Her friend is a saint.

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