8
Isla
Me, Isla Evans, was dating Slate Donahue. In what crazy universe did someone like me date a guy like him? The craziness of it all was twofold. One, he was gorgeous, like pinch-me cliché gorgeous. Two, he was a womanizer, like had slept with so many people he couldn’t even count that high.
But it was all fake. F-A-K-E, fake. I shouldn’t be wasting another second on stressing about it all. Yeah, that was easier said than done. I mean, it was Slate so-sexy-you-can’t-help-but-drool Donahue. And I was going to be getting all close and cozy with him. I was going to have to kiss him, probably even have to makeout with him at some point.
I know, woe is me, but it was freaking me out. It wasn’t smart to make out with a good guy friend. It had a history of messing up friendships, sometimes even hurting people. And I was worried that someone was going to be me. Slate’s heart was so closed off that when all this was over, he would be fine.
I didn’t have any romantic feelings for Slate—though I did have some pretty lustful feelings toward him—but would I be able to not fall for him when we already got along so well and were about to add a physical element to our relationship? I wish I could say no way, but it just wasn’t true. I’d need to defend my heart against himandmy hormones. We would be acting, and that would need to be my mantra on repeat.
My bedroom door flew open, making me drop the book I had been attempting to read.
“Is it true?” my roommate, Harper, asked. She stood in my doorway, her dark hair looking windblown.
Sitting on my bed, I tucked my legs underneath me. We rarely talked, only exchanging a few words when necessary. She treated me more like an inconvenience than a roommate, so I was surprised and confused by her sudden appearance.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said, hoping she would explain.
“Are you really dating Slate Donahue?” She sounded breathless, like she had run home just to ask me this question.
How did she even know about us dating already? We’d gotten home late last night from the wedding, and I hadn’t left the apartment today, hadn’t even seen Slate.
“Um, yes.” Shoot, that sounded like a question.
“The whole dining hall is buzzing about it,” she said, her hands on her hips. “When people found out I was your roommate, they started asking me a lot of questions. I told them I didn’t know anything, and they acted like I was trying to hide something.”
Why did she seem upset at me? It’s not like we were close friends who told each other everything and I’d kept this from her.
“It’s new,” I said, not wanting to give her any more information.
“It’s new? That’s all you’re going to tell me?” she accused.
Annoyed at her, I asked, “What do you care?”
Instead of answering my question she said, “I heard you two went to a wedding and had sex in the backseat of his Jeep.”
Josh. I should have known he’d be blabbing it to everyone.
Fury built inside me. How dare he go around telling people about my sex life? Or at least what he thought was my sex life. I’d only implied that Slate and I had sex, Josh was the one who had put his own ideas out there.
My fury quickly turned to humiliation. How many people were now talking about me? My name would be slandered, while Slate’s would retain its laudable reputation. I just had to hope this fake-dating thing would work. I’d originally been upset about the idea, but maybe Slate’s moment of protectiveness had been a blessing in disguise. This would all be so much worse if he’d only been my date that night instead of claiming to be my boyfriend.
Gosh, this whole thing sucked.
I put on a look of indifference. “Is a girl not allowed to sleep with her boyfriend?” Like I’d told Slate, people would believe whatever they wanted no matter what I said. Might as well try to act like I didn’t care.
“So you don’t deny it?” Her eyes looked at me like she was starved and waiting for me to feed her information.
“I’m not going to talk about my sex life with you.” I picked up my book, hoping to show that I was dismissing her and this conversation.
“Oh, my gosh,” she practically screamed, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “You are so freakin’ lucky. I cannot believe you get to sleep with Slate. Is he as good as they say?” She was acting like Slate was a celebrity, but I guess in a way he was at Waterford.
I should have told her again that I wasn’t going to talk to her about my sex life and that it was private, but I didn’t.
“Oh, he’s not just as good as you’ve heard,” I said, letting the words easily fall from my mouth. “He’s way better.”
Her jaw dropped, and a beat of silence passed before she said, “I need details.”
