“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.

“Jamie never read Fountainhead,” I said—a statement, not a question.

“No. He didn’t,” Simon said.

“He doesn’t know Billy Collins, and he didn’t pick out Ariana Franklin.”

Simon sighed and nodded.

“Nikki Giovanni. And the concert tickets. Both ideas that came from you.”

“Yes.”

“Is there more?”

“Those are the big things,” he said. “The rest were small. Observations. Stuff I noticed about what you like to drink and what kind of desserts you like. It wasn’t anything significant.”

I stood and walked into the basement. I needed movement. Distance. Space. “Everything is significant, Simon. Do you know how many times I doubted, wondered if my relationship with Jamie had the depth I wanted, when all of a sudden he would swoop in and do something or say something that pushed my doubts aside? That side of Jamie was the side that kept me hanging on. And it was never really him.” I thought of mine and Simon’s conversation in the car on the ride to Asheville four days before. “I . . . I even told you how I was feeling! In the car on the way here, I told you I felt like Jamie was two different people, and you didn’t say anything. You let me puzzle it out, knowing full well I actually was dating two men the entire time.”

“It wasn’t that blatant,” he said. “It was always Jamie. I gave him advice every once in a while. That’s it.”

“But you said it yourself. He was pretending to be something he wasn’t. To like stuff he didn’t like.”