An even more disturbing thought emerges.
What if Layla somehow got her hands on that poem journal?
No.
There’s no way.
That poem journal is in my childhood home, tossed in the attic, locked away in a box where it will never see the light of day.
But the anxiety won’t leave me alone.
I text Chris.
Riley: Has anyone tried to contact you or asked any weird questions about me and Nat?
Chris: Yeah, actually. Nat’s ex-girlfriend reached out to me. Apparently, he blocked her on everything.
Riley: Did you talk to her?
Chris: Nope. I’ve been down this rabbit hole before. I was there with Nat when he got drafted to the league, remember? I know how shifty reporters can be.
Riley: Did you tell her anything about me and Nat. Especially from before?
I hope my brother understands what ‘before’ means. I don’t want to spell out my crush on Nat in case my phone gets hacked. Now that Layla has blasted us on the internet, I feel especially paranoid.
Chris: Nope. Didn’t tell her a thing.
Relief surges through me.
So the leak didn’t come from my brother.
Which means that Layla is making up an elaborate story just to paint me in an awful light. And sure, some parts of that story hit the bulls-eye, but that’s not the point. She hasn’t verified anything and she’s accusing me of being a stalker. It’s infuriating.
“Hey, shrimp,” Nat says softly, “you look like you’re about to slice someone with a katana. Are you still upset about the podcast?”
“When was the last time you spoke to Layla?” I ask.
Nat shrugs. “Not since she left town. She tried to call me the night Chance and April got engaged, but I blocked her. Then she tried to message me and talk bad about you. That’s when I blocked her on everything.”
I sit straight up. “She texted something about me?”
Nat shrugs. “I saw it a couple days later. It was nonsense. I barely even remember what she said. I just glanced at it and blocked her right away. It’s not like she and I need to be having conversations.”
“Can I have your phone?”
Nat freely hands it over. “I changed the password to your birthday.”
His words stop the pounding, rock-style guitar solo thrumming through my head.
“When did you change your password?”
He glances up, thinking. “The night of April and Chance’s engagement, when you told me how those guys at your AMT school used to talk about women.”
“Are you serious?”
Nat nods to the phone, daring me to unlock it. “I want you to have access to every part of me.”
My heart beats double-time.
