No way.
I shake my head, avoiding his eyes. “I have a headache and my stomach kind of hurts, but that doesn’t mean you guys can’t have fun.”
With a sigh, Ethan pulls away, and I’m almost certain I catch him rolling his eyes before he turns back to his friends with forced enthusiasm as he claps his hands and says, “Well, if Tate doesn’t want to be any fun, looks like I’ll have to pick up the slack.”
I bristle at the sound of my name rolling off his lips. Only one person calls me Tate.
Clearing his throat, Brady glances between us, clearly picking up on the tension. “Actually, most the places are within walking distance. We can just go by foot if you want. That way, if Tatum changes her mind, it’s all good.”
“That sounds great.” I smile, more because of his thoughtfulness than anything. I still have zero plans to drink, and if I were going to imbibe, it would be to drown my sorrows in the fact that I’ll never know how many more views my post would’ve gotten or how many more followers I would’ve gained.
We start walking, the four of us in an awkward formation with Ethan and his friends leading the way while I trail slightly behind. My phone feels like an anchor in my pocket. I’ve already deleted the video—did it right there in the courtyard while Ethan introduced me to his friends. I couldn’t bear the way he looked at me, like I’d disappointed him somehow.
What will I tell the girls? They were ecstatic, celebrating as if it were their own victory. How do I explain that I threw away my one shot at BookTok fame because my boyfriend didn’t like my outfit?
Ethan falls back beside me, draping his arm across my shoulders. “You okay?” he asks, his voice softer now that we’re away from his friends.
“Yeah,” I lie, trying to force a smile. “Just tired.”
I lean into him slightly, finding some comfort in his familiar warmth despite still feeling the sting of disappointment.
“You did the right thing,” he murmurs into my hair as we walk, knowing exactly why I’m feeling off. “It shows how much you care about us.”
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I wasn’t thinking about how it might look to others—to him. I tell myself I went viral once, I can go viral again. Next time I’ll be more careful with my outfit choice, more mindful of how I present myself. What matters most is maintaining a healthy relationship with Ethan. I wouldn’t want to leave a video up that makes him uncomfortable, even if it means sacrificing my moment in the spotlight.
“Besides,” he continues, “you’re too smart to be doing that kind of content. You don’t need to show off your body to get attention.”
The words are meant to be a compliment, I think, but they land like tiny daggers. I wasn’t showing off my body—I was showing off my mind, my thoughts, my passion for literature. The outfit was just what I felt confident in that day.
Brandon would get it—hedidget it. I cut him from my life, and yet here he is, still celebrating me and cheering me on.
The thought hits me like a crack in the chest, sharp and undeniable—Ethan wants me smaller, quieter, safer. Brandon wants me louder. Brighter. More.
I tighten my arms around myself as Ethan laughs at something Mike says up ahead, his hand still heavy on my shoulder. I wonder which version of me will survive this relationship—the one Ethan approves of, or the one Brandon still believes in.
Even from the dingy bathroom, the bass from bar number five—Whiskey Sour, according to the neon sign above the door—thrums through my chest as I peel off my boot and inspect my foot.
A nasty blister glares up at me, red and angry on the right side. Unused to standing and walking so much in these boots, my feet are positively screaming, and after hours of followingEthan and his buddies from bar to bar and watching them get progressively drunker has long since worn off.
I pull the boot back on, wincing at the slicing pain when I take the few steps out of the bathroom and back toward the bar where they’re waiting.
“Another round!” Mike shouts over the music, sloshing his beer as he gestures wildly to the bartender.
His eyes are unfocused, his words slurring together, and Brady’s no better.
He stumbles back from the bathroom, nearly knocking over a barstool. “This place is lit!” he announces to no one in particular, high-fiving a stranger who looks thoroughly confused.
Ethan drapes his arm around my shoulders, his weight heavy against me. His breath reeks of tequila shots—four of them in the last hour alone. I have no idea how the three of them are still standing, let alone still drinking, but I hope like hell our night is coming to a close. I don’t even want to think about where Brady and Mike are staying tonight, seeing as they were meant to be driving back to MSU.
I groan as Mike passes them each another drink. “Ethan, can we please go?” I ask, like I’ve been doing for the last hour.
“Babe, it’s early yet. We still have plenty of time.”
“But my feet are killing me, and I’m tired,” I say, motioning toward the heels of my boots and trying my best not to whine.
Ethan shrugs. “Next time, don’t wear hooker boots, then.”
The blood drains from my face as I register his words.
