My heart started to pound. He was talking about me, but what stuff? What wouldn’t matter?

“I never said you lied,” Simon said, his voice sharp. “But you did pretend to be something you’re not. And Lane deserves to know what’s really you and what isn’t. Think about it this way. The concert tickets. The poetry. Talking about books. That’s the Jamie Lane is used to. It’s what she expects because that’s what you’ve shown her. But I’m not going to be around to funnel information to you forever. What happens when you’re on your own and Lane is disappointed when she figures out you don’t actually know who Billy Collins is? It’s time to start being you, man. And you need to come clean about what’s happened so far.”

I sank to the steps, the reality of Simon’s words buzzing like angry bees in my brain.

The concert tickets.

The poetry.

The books.

None of it had really been Jamie.

The most frustrating part? Everything suddenly made so much sense.

I’d said I felt like I was dating two different versions of the same man, and I was right. Jamie on his own, and Jamie listening to Simon. All those things that came out of left field—it was Simon all the time.

“I need to go,” I heard Simon say. “Just think about it, all right?”

I stayed there, sitting on the stairs. Thinking. Processing. Anger building as each second passed. They’d lied to me. Both of them. Like it was all some sort of game.

“Oh, hey.” Simon stopped at the foot of the stairs. “What are you . . .”

I wiped a tear off my face and shook my head. I wasn’t ready for words.

“Oh no,” Simon said. He cursed under his breath and turned around, pushing his head into his hands. He came back to the stairs, almost frantic. “Lane, please let me explain.”

“So.” I swallowed. “Was this weekend like field research? Jamie couldn’t make it so he sent his research guy to dig up some dirt, maybe get some ideas for Christmas presents?”

“No. Of course not.” He sat down a few steps below me.

“I feel so stupid,” I said, more to myself than to Simon. “Like I’ve fallen for one giant prank.”

“It was never meant to be a prank,” Simon said. “Jamie wanted to impress you. He wanted you to think he was the kind of guy you could connect with.”

“But it wasn’t real. Was it? Was anything he did or said ever just him?”

“Of course it was. He’s a good man, Lane. You know the real Jamie. The competitive, impetuous, dynamic, charming Jamie. That’s him.” I did know that Jamie. And he was adorable and talented and fun to be around. But the Jamie who kept me hanging on, who kept me pushing my doubts aside wasn’t that Jamie. It was the thoughtful, observant Jamie who would talk to me about books and poetry and notice things like what kind of hot chocolate I liked. That Jamie? It was Simon. Which made the sting of betrayal even worse. All the time Simon had spent with me, the interest he’d shown, the easy way he’d talked to me. Not even that could feel real anymore. Our entire friendship felt counterfeit—like I was nothing but a project.