“Have you met these people? They’ll analyze every interaction we have for hidden meaning. We’ll sneeze in the same direction, and they’ll call it synchronized couple behavior.”
“Shit. You’re right.” He meets my gaze, his expression shifting from frustration to something softer, more vulnerable. “This is going to change everything, isn’t it?”
My heart sinks because he’s right. Our easy friendship, the casual touches, the inside jokes—it’s all going to be scrutinized now. Every lunch at The Brew will be a date in the court of public opinion. Every time we hang out will be proof of our “relationship.”
“We’ll figure it out,” I say, forcing a certainty into my voice that doesn’t reach my churning stomach. “It’s all a misunderstanding. People will move on to the next scandal soon enough.”
“Yeah.” He doesn’t sound convinced. “Hey, Jacky?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for having my back out there.”
“Always,” I say and mean it.
We finally part ways, and I head to my dorm with my phone buzzing nonstop. The universe has a sick sense of humor. I’ve spent months hiding my feelings for Drew, and now the entire campus thinks we’re together.
The irony would be funny if it didn’t hurt so much.
8
DREW
It’s almost noon, and here I am, barricaded in my room with the comforter pulled up to my chin like some kid who’s convinced there’s a monster in the closet. Except there is no boogeyman out to get me, just everyone’s batshit assumptions about my nonexistent relationship with Jackson Monroe.
My phone screen burns my retinas as I scroll through post after post.
Spotted: Drew Larney and Jackson Monroe holding hands outside The Brew! When’s the wedding???
“We weren’t holding hands, you delusional fucks. He was pulling me away from the crowd.”
Can confirm they’re together! Saw them spooning at the Polar Bear Plunge!
“Preventing hypothermia is not spooning!”
Drew hasn’t hooked up with anyone in weeks. Jackson Monroe must have a tight ass. Or a big dick. Or maybe even both!
“I hooked up with someone three days ago, but go off, I guess,” I grumble.
Each one makes my eyes twitch harder. Not because I hate the idea of dating Jackson—fuck, that’s the problem. I hate it because every single one of these posts describes exactly what I want but can’t have. They’re writing fanfiction about my deepest desires and calling it news.
My phone pings with another notification. Someone’s tagged me in a photo compilation titled “Drackson Through the Years.” It’s a slideshow of every moment when Jackson and I were within five feet of each other, set to “Thinking Out Loud” by Ed Sheeran.Kill me now.
The worst part? By studying these photos, I get why people think we’re together. There’s one from last year’s Halloween party where I’m sucking on his finger, and he has a boner beneath his toga. There’s another from a hockey game where he’s flushed—from yelling, obviously. One from last month shows us laughing at something. My hand is on his shoulder, except the way I’m touching him is lessbro patand moreI want to climb you like a tree.
My phone vibrates on the nightstand. The caller ID makes my stomach drop. Patrick. My baby brother.
Fuck.
I consider letting it go to voicemail, but he’ll keep calling. The kid’s more persistent than a finger on my prostate.
“What’s up, little man?” I answer, aiming for casual and probably overshooting into manic.
“Don’t ‘little man’ me, asshole.” Patrick’s voice cracks on ‘asshole’ because puberty’s still kicking his ass. “Is it true?”
“Is what true?”
“You know what! It’s all over the internet. My brother isallegedlydating Jackson Monroe, the quarterback at BSU.”
