Don’t even think about doing it.
…I’m gonna do it.
Against my will, my fingers typed in Noah’s handle:@noahhans.
Was it cool now to shorten last names?@MaceyMoncould be my new handle. No, that was lame. Maybe I could shorten my first name, but then I’d sound like a weapon.
Hating myself more with every passing minute, I Instagram-stalked Noah Hansley. I didn’t know him that well—we’d only ever had one civilized conversation—but he knew how to make a good feed of photos and videos.
Technically speaking, his photos could use some work. Theywere choppy and in need of color editing. But his followers cared more about the subject than the quality of the photos. I could see why. Noah was…hot. Unfairly so.
Toffee-colored hair complemented his green eyes, and the strands were short yet wavy. He had a sharp jawline, with sculpted cheekbones that drew your gaze all the way up to his dark eyebrows. In every photo, he looked comfortable. Cocky. Like he was the center of attention and he knew it. His build was athletic but more like a runner than a weightlifter.
I bet I could outrun him.
I froze on an old photo of him in front of Chicago’s most famous landmark, the Bean. There, in the background corner, was a younger me. My hair was a lot shorter back then—I’d let it grow to the longest it had ever been since, mid-back, and while it had been a pain to keep it dyed blonde, I loved it.
“Is that your boyfriend?” a middle-aged woman with a narrow nose, one she clearly was good at inserting into other people’s business, asked. She craned her neck to look closer at my phone. “He’s very handsome.”
“No,” I said, leaning away from her. “And he’s not that handsome.”
I accidentally bumped into the teenager next to me, and her glare sent me wheeling in the other direction. Back into the older woman. God, teenagers were terrifying.
The teen shamelessly looked at my phone. “No, he’s hot. I’d date him.”
“He is way too old for you,” I said. “Stick with the frat bros for now, okay? It’s a rite of passage.”
Noah was only three years older than me, but still.
“You’re not dating him, then?” The older woman seemed horrified by this reality.
“Nope.”
The last time I dated someone considered an influencer, itended in disaster. It was best to stay far, far away from men with a checkmark next to their names on social media.
My comment didn’t faze the teen queen, who pulled out her phone to ask, “What’s his handle? I’m going to follow him.”
The woman on the right did the same, except at a slower pace. “Oh, me too!”
I face-palmed. Gaining Noah followers was not part of my goal for today.
When the woman said, “Sorry, I can’t read that small font,” and reached for my phone, I tugged it back. She had a strong grip, but I grew up with a cell phone and had stronger fingers.
I told her his handle and pulled my phone out of her grasp. Only to accidentally double tap the photo on the screen.Shit.
I just liked Noah’s photo from a year ago. Permanent proof that I was online stalking him. What should I do? Let it be? Unlike it and hope the notification disappeared? Unlike it and like his most recent photo instead?
I let the like remain and prayed he got so many notifications he wouldn’t notice. We didn’t even follow each other on social media. He probably wouldn’t recognize my profile anyways.
Yep, it would be fine.
If things went my way, I’d never see Noah Hansley again.
2
NOAH
A special kind of existential dread set in when you realized everyone else had grabbed their bags, and you were still standing there like an abandoned puppy at the pound.
