Pressing charges…against me?
No, I obviously heard wrong. He meansI’mnot pressing charges. Wait…should Ibe pressing charges? The thought alone makes all the blood drain from my face. I couldn’t do that. It’s…Ezra.
Blake takes out his phone again. “Pic?”
“Huh?”
He turns so we’re both facing the same way, ducking his head a little so we’re almost at eye level, and takes a photo with his phone. Forever capturing my idiotic, puzzled frown, my frizzy hair, the mascara smudged at the corner of one eye.
Wow. I look drunker than I feel.
“Wait…Ezra’s pressing charges? Against me?” The last is an incredulous squeak.
Blake chuckles as he turns to lean on the railing with his arms. “I said hewasn’tpressing charges.”
I grab the railing. “But I didn’t do anything!”
He glances up at me with a frown. “I meant Kai. He’s not pressing charges against Kai.”
My mouth opens, and stays that way, because now I’m trying really hard to remember what the hell happened at the party.
“Who knows what’ll happen when he wakes up, right? No love lost between those two, that’s for sure. Ezra’s such a spiteful fuck, he might decide to make Kai’s life more of a living hell.”
Ezra’s in hospital? How did I not know this? Then again, Melissa’s been avoiding talking about the Rain Dance all day, even shooting the other sorority sisters a death glare if they went anywhere near the topic. It’s radio silence at the GAZ house, and it’s not like anyone else is going to tell me anything.
“What’s your handle? I’ll tag you in the pic.” Blake’s thumbs blur as he taps away on his screen.
Is he even speaking English?
All I could afford the past few years were cheap burner phones, and my only true friend stopped communicating with me when I was sixteen. To say I’m out of the tech loop is putting it mildly. I obviously underestimated my ability to pass as a normal college girl. By a long shot.
“It’s cool. Don’t stress,” he says. Guess my panic is starting to show.
He stares down at his phone again. “I’m at @margincallmemaybe. Hit me up in the comments.”
“Sure,” I mumble, wishing he’d take his phone and his incomprehensible conversation with him and just leave.
He smiles, takes another sip of his drink, and then looks down at his phone. Laughs.
Fucking rude.
“So, uh, which classes you taking this semester?” I mumble out, because fuck it if I’m just going to stand here like an idiot while he scrolls through his phone.
“Oh, uh, yeah. Some,” he mumbles, because he’s not even listening.
“Never mind,” I mutter, shaking my head.
Asshole.
He looks up, rolls his lips together in a miserable attempt at an apology. “Sorry, man, I gotta bounce. Nice meeting you, though.”
And then he’s gone. Because I don’t just suck at making friends, I’m actively bad at it.
I turn to stare into the garden, wishing the rain would turn into hail and demolish everything in sight. The pool, the pool house, the neat hedges, the fucking roses.
I can’t believe someone put videos of me online. Where would I even find something like that? Would I even want to see?
When did my college journey include being victimized by not just one bully, but two?
