My phone buzzes repeatedly. I fish it out of my pocket while Drew fields questions about our “first date” with increasing panic in his eyes.
Ryan
Jackson, why is social media exploding with photos of you and Drew?
Apparently, the entire university believes you’re dating.
This stems from yesterday’s Polar Bear Plunge. Multiple witnesses report seeing the two of you “canoodling” under a blanket.
Canoodling was their word, not mine.
“Oh, fuck,” I breathe, showing Drew the messages.
“Everyone thinks we’re together because we shared a blanket?” He turns to the crowd. “We were preventing hypothermia!”
“Sure you were,” someone calls out, and the crowd laughs.
“We’re friends!” I insist. “Best friends!Platonicfriends!”
“The lady doth protest too much,” some English major quotes smugly.
More phones appear. More photos. My phone won’t stop buzzing with notifications as people tag us.
“This is insane,” Drew says, running his hand through his hair, messing it up more than it already is from the wind. “We’re not dating! I literally just told Jackson about hooking up with?—”
“Denial issocute,” a girl sighs, her Valley accent thick.
Reaching for Drew’s arm, I grip the corded muscle beneath his clothes for dear life. “We need to get out of here.”
We try to push through the crowd, but they follow us like we’re the Pied Pipers of relationship goals. Someone’s live-streaming. Another person shouts questions about our “meet-cute.”
“There was no meet-cute!” Drew yells, his arm instantly coming around my shoulders in a protective gesture. “We met when our best friends started dating!”
“That’s such a sweet story!”
“It’s not a story! It’s what happened!”
“Let me get this straight,” I mutter to Drew as we finally manage to break free from the crowd. “Everyone saw us hugging for warmth at the Polar Bear Plunge and assumed?—”
“That we’re together,” he finishes, dazed and confused.
“This is insane.”
“Completely insane.”
We stand there for a moment, processing the absolute clusterfuck our lives have suddenly become. Drew’s still pressed against my side, though whether for warmth or much-needed moral support, I can’t tell. I’ll take him either way.
“What do we do?” I ask.
“Deny everything?”
“I tried that. They think we’re being cute.”
“Fuck.” He drags his palms down his face, fingers splayed wide enough to cover from hairline to jaw in one frustrated sweep. “This is going to be all over campus by dinner.”
“It already is.” I show him my phone, where the BSU social media pages are exploding with posts about us. Someone’s already made a ship name.Drackson.I want to die.
“We could just…let people think what they want?” Drew suggests weakly. “Eventually, they’ll realize we’re not together when we don’t, you know, act like a couple.”
