The Fake Zone: A Fake Dating Sports Romance (Oleander Springs Series Book 3)

“How are you today?” Briggs asks, sitting across from me. “How was the beach?”

“Briggs, do you think my attachment style could change?” Multiple professionals and studies confirm they won’t, that the traumas and inconsistencies I faced as a child will shape the rest of my life, making me always suspicious, distant, anxious, and painfully independent.

“Do you want them to?”

I hate when he answers my questions with another question, and I remind him of that with a silent glare. “Yes.”

“I believe you can do anything you put your mind to. The mind is a powerful muscle. Like your workouts with Grey, practice will make you stronger. You know what you want, and I’m here to help you achieve those goals and overcome every hurdle you’re ready to face. But, Mila, you’re already a formidable force. Don’t lose sight of your accomplishments.”

Silence sits between us. Classes began yesterday, and despite my anticipation for the new term to start just a couple of weeks ago, I’ve found ways to fill my schedule, so I don’t miss the routine of classes. I don’t want to talk about this, though, or about my parents leaving and my uncertainty about when they’ll return. Instead, I turn to a subject that takes the microscope off me. My heart thumps, and my nerves crackle. “I saw Julian Holloway.”

Briggs blinks, visibly surprised. “When?”

“Last Sunday.”

He blinks faster, and I know he’s wondering why I didn’t bring it up. It was because what transpired between Grey and me felt far more urgent, or because I needed more time to digest the situation, or because staying home with my parents made me feel safe and protected, regardless of the potential threat. “What happened?”

I trace a line over my chin. “He said something strange.”

Briggs waits with rapt attention.

“He said I’ve been ignoring him for years.”

Briggs leans forward, eyes stretched round. “Was there any more context?”

I shake my head. “Do you think he meant it metaphorically, as if society had ignored him for years, and I represent society?”

The chair creaks as Briggs leans back while shaking his head. “It’s not a good idea for us to try and speculate what he meant. Did you tell anyone? The police? Your parents?”

“He said he wants to talk to me.”

Briggs shakes his head again, faster and more determined. “No. It sounds like he might be mentally unstable. Engaging with him would not be safe.” He stares at me.

“Nothing about it makes sense. I haven’t heard a word or seen him in months.” Nine months, nearly to the day.

“You, of all people, know things rarely make sense.” He jots something down on his notepad. “Where did you see him? What happened?”

I tell him about the incident, how I felt his presence before seeing him, how he gave Evelyn water, and my error in insulting him.

“You need to contact the police,” Briggs instructs, running a hand down his face as he does before launching into an avalanche of advice. We talk for the next forty-five minutes about what I need to do to remain safe.

“I haven’t seen him since. What if it was just fate testing me?”

“Testing you?”

“To see if I’m over my fears.”

Briggs shakes his head. “Don’t mistake coincidences for fate. He was there because he was working. You were there because you were jogging, and Evelyn needed to sit down.”

“I was running,” I correct him. “Grey snaps at me if I jog.”

Briggs doesn’t crack a smile. I knew he wouldn’t.

“You need to tell your apartment manager, the university, your friends, and the police. And you need to change your route.” He’s already told me all of this. Twice. But I nod again.

“I will.”

“Mila,” he says in a stern voice. His eyes are determined and intense, but that edge of gentleness and care that prods at my emotions is visible. “You deserve to be and feel safe. You deserve happiness and peace. What you don’t deserve it suffering.”

Briggs has repeated these words to me a hundred times. More. Over the years, Briggs has pointed out numerous times how I’ve constructed and clung to emotional patterns and destructive limiting beliefs that convince me I deserve pain—deserve to suffer. It’s common for people who’ve experienced trauma, he’s assured me.

He stares at me, pleading with me to do more than just hear the words this time.

Tears form in my eyes, pleading with him to understand how much I wish I could and how badly I try.

This was not the therapy session I was expecting. I planned to discuss my fake date with Grey at Topgolf and how difficult of a time I’m having with the ruse being over. How I don’t know where we stand because, apart from my jokes about him seeing me naked, we still haven’t talked about what transpired. Julian Holloway has been a bubble in my thoughts, though, and I knew it would eventually pop.

I pull in a deep breath. “I’ll contact the university and the police,” I promise him since I can’t say the words he wants me to.

Briggs nods. “If you need anything, reach out. Continue your positive affirmations, and remember, you can do this. You can do anything you put your mind to.”

I nod as I stand, pulling on my coat.

“I’ll see you next week,” he says.

I nod again.

The skies are darkening when I leave, the air cold and damp. This morning we had sleet, the closest thing we’ve seen to snow since last March.

“Mila,” the sound of my name interrupts my thoughts. Before I can look up, my blood turns cold, and my heart races.

Julian Holloway stands beside my car, less than ten feet in front of me. Nausea hits me like a blow to the stomach, and I freeze.

He raises both hands just as he had when I saw him last week, gaze beseeching rather than angry as he takes the position of innocence. “I just want to talk to you.”

“Are you following me?”

I’ve been seeing Briggs every Thursday since September. It’s the most stagnant and dependable part of my schedule.

Julian takes a step forward, lowering his brow as though he’s offended by my question. “Why didn’t you respond to any of my letters?”

I somehow find enough self-preservation to step back, widening the gap between us. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He laughs, a cruel and sardonic sound that I know will live in my brain and haunt me for years to come. “You could have helped me. You could have changed everything. I had to miss my mother’s funeral because of you.”

Fear feels like a weight on my shoulders, holding me in place and defying Briggs’s claim that I deserve safety and peace. He’s clearly crazy, and I should already be inside the office, yelling for help. “Stop following me.”

His eyes narrow on me, and he takes a step forward.

I counter him with a step back and then another.

“Do you know how many years of my life I lost because of you?” He shakes his head.

“I found you. I will always find you.”

A man wearing a thick wool coat steps outside, a cell phone pressed to his ear, and I move to him, fast as lightning. “I need your help. This guy’s following me.” I point at Julian.

The stranger looks at me with stricken eyes and turns to look at Julian. “I’ve got to go,” he says to whoever he’s talking to. “I need to call the cops.”

Julian’s gaze turns panicked and then frenzied. For a second, I think he’s preparing to rush us. My training with Grey has not prepared me for this. Bile burns my throat.

The man beside me starts talking into his phone, and Julian gives me one final look before retreating to his truck, the same white truck with a rusted fender and Phillies’ bumper sticker. Relief tickles my senses that it’s the same truck he drove before. I was terrified I might have been looking for the wrong vehicle for the past nine months.

Julian accelerates as soon as he turns out of the office building and drives out of sight as the stranger recounts what happened twice before nodding and hanging up. He turns to me. “The police said you can call or stop by and file a police report if you want.”

If I want? As if this is an option.

“Thanks for stopping.”

He doesn’t reply, his ashen face confirming he didn’t do it out of choice.

I hurry to my car, slip inside, and lock the doors. Briggs and I have discussed emotional responses at great length. The amygdala is the part of our brain responsible for keeping us safe from real and perceived dangers. He and other professionals refer to this as the guard dog and opossum portion of the brain because people will either react to the adrenaline by fighting back like a guard dog or freezing like a opossum.

I always thought I’d be a guard dog, but it turns out I am one-hundred-percent opossum.

My muscles are tense and unmoving.

I wasn’t prepared. I didn’t react. I wasn’t even watching for him despite having just talked about him.

I force a slow breath in through my nose and out through my lips three times before realizing how painfully cold I am. I start my car.

The clock on the dash confirms Grey and Hudson are at practice and Evelyn’s in class.

Despite my precaution and preparation, I feel woefully lost and uncertain about what to do.

Is Julian waiting for me? Will he follow me right now?

I search for the nearest police station.

With jerky, tight muscles, I arrive at the station ten minutes later and wait for another two to ensure Julian hasn’t followed me before darting inside.

A receptionist asks me to wait, and before I’ve managed to regulate my breathing, an officer in his forties with thinning hair invites me to follow him to the back of the station. We stop at his desk that’s cluttered with papers, half-drunk coffee cups, and a dozen bobbleheads. I stare at them as I clear my throat and gloss over the details of why I’m here. When I tell him Julian broke in last year, the officer pulls up the file and cuts me off so he can read the notes.

I skip ahead to last Sunday, when Julian approached Evelyn, and how he was there today, waiting for me.

“Did he threaten you?”

I blink. “Yes! He’s following me. I think he might be stalking me.”

The officer taps his pen, retracting it a dozen times before he shakes his head. “Did he say he wanted to hurt you, that he would hurt you…?”

“He might be stalking me,” I say again.

“It’s not illegal for him to talk to you. You were both in a public space.”

“What about following me?”

“Can you prove he’s following you?”

My piqued anxiety has caused a rush of adrenaline and cortisol that has me forgetting half the conversation. “He said he found me, that he’ll always find me. And he broke into my apartment last year.”

“And he was charged.”

“For trespassing.”

“Listen, I see this has you shaken. But this comes down to burden of proof.” He sighs. “Unless you can prove he wants to hurt you, he’s not doing anything illegal, and our hands are tied.” He presses his wrists together as though pretending he’s cuffed.

I stare at him for a long moment, feeling a sense of déjà vu that sours my stomach.

“Listen. We tend to see this most often after a bad breakup. Did you two date? Sleep together? Did you lead him on?”

His words are a slap in the face. “I barely knew him. He worked at the apartment building I lived in.”

His stare is judgmental. He doesn’t believe me.

“I wasn’t dating him. I didn’t know him.”

“You said you haven’t seen him in months. If he’s really stalking you, he’s doing a pretty lousy job, if you ask me…”

I thank the heavens that Jon and Alex aren’t here. Tables would be flipped.

Resentment nests in my thoughts, poking at my fears and questioning whether he’s right.

“Do I leave the same way I came in?”

He climbs to his feet, looking relieved I’m willing to leave. He escorts me outside, where the cold licks at my skin. My heart is beating faster now than when I arrived, my chest tighter from the lack of answers or help.

I drive around town for forty minutes, going through neighborhoods and taking random roads to see if I’m being followed. Two hours later, I arrive at my parents’ house. It feels so different—so empty—without them. Julian’s words replay in my head over and over again. I’d rather be at the apartment, fixing dinner with Evelyn, talking about our days, and discussing what book to choose for February’s book club, but the very last thing I want to do is lead Julian straight to those I care about most.

I lock the door and set the alarm before meticulously checking that every window and door is secured. Then I flip on all the lights, trying to create a faux warmth.

My parents keep the utilities on when they’re gone in case I ever want to come by, but I know without looking that the fridge is cleared and the pantry empty to prevent the multitude of bugs they’d draw.

I text Hudson and Evelyn, so they don’t worry.

Me: Trying an experiment for Briggs tonight, so I’m staying at my parents’ house. Don’t forget to set the alarm.

Guilt spears me. I pride myself for being honest. Sure, I have my secrets—who doesn’t—but this is the first lie I’ve told my two best friends in all the years I’ve known them.

Hudson will be furious I didn’t contact him right away, and Evelyn will give me a look of disappointment that will fester in my thoughts like a stain, impossible to forget or ignore.

Evelyn texts me back almost immediately.

Evelyn: Is everything okay?

It’s not. Not even a little. The park was a coincidence. I’m fairly sure of that. The lawnmower and uniform attest to the fact, but today wasn’t. I had looked up the nearest park while waiting to speak with the police, and it was ten minutes away. Julian didn’t notice me and wander over. He’d followed me or knew how to find me.

I don’t know which alternative is more disturbing.

I glance back at Evelyn’s message, uncertain if I’m keeping them safe by staying away or putting them at risk by not telling them.

Distance is safer.

Me: Yeah. I’m going to eat my weight in pizza, and I’ll be home tomorrow. Be sure to lock the doors.

I warm up a frozen pizza I find in the chest freezer. Stupidly, it makes me feel a little better that not everything I shared was a lie. I even plan to host a self-date and do the positive affirmations Briggs asked to stave off my guilty conscience. Though, justifying my actions only deepens my guilt.

I lock the door leading down to the basement and my bedroom door. A nightlight glows in the corner. I couldn’t sleep without it for years, but now, light is a nuisance when I sleep. When Evelyn and I moved into our apartment, I used three layers of painter’s tape to fully conceal the tiny green light that flashes on the smoke detector in my room. I welcome all the lights tonight as I hold on to a very thin idea that might be even worse than staying here alone.