“What…what are you doing here?” I manage, stepping to the side to let him in. I wrap my arms around myself, aware that I look like shit. I can feel my messy hair falling out of its bun, and I’m wearing my oldest, most worn out pair of sweatpants. Plus, there’s the fact that my eyes are so puffy from crying, it probably looks like I’m having an allergic reaction.
He closes the door and turns to face me, crossing his arms over his chest. “I ran into Quinn.”
"Oh.” I swallow. “Did she…”
“Tell me about the fucked-up shit online? Yeah.”
“Oh.”
His jaw clenches. “I’ll have it taken down. Don’t worry.”
Shifting on my feet, I debate his words. “It might be a bad idea for you to get involved.”
Wes adamantly shakes his head as though the idea of him not stepping in to help is unthinkable. "No one will know it’s me, Ivy. I promise. I’m just…I’m so sorry you have to go through this. Those comments. They make me fuckingsick.”
I wince, thinking about all the hateful things those girls said, picking apart my appearance, my weight, my body. “You read them?”
“Not all of them,” he admits. “I had to stop.”
My eyes drop to the floor, and I stare at my socked feet. “I didn’t want you to see them.”
He steps forward and folds my right hand in both of his. “Why not? Why didn’t you tell me that was what was upsetting you? I would have been here in a heartbeat.”
Slowly, my gaze travels back up to his. “I was trying to process, I guess. I didn’t think being friends with you would draw this much attention.”
When panic flickers across his face, I realize that I should have worded that differently. “Are you saying you don’t want to hang out anymore?”
“No!” I blurt, having already settled this debate in my head. His face relaxes a little, though his brow remains creased. “I just didn’t know it would get this bad. I’m used to being invisible.”
“You were never invisible to me,” he says seriously, and he steps closer, cradling my face in his hands. His thumbs graze my cheekbones, his eyes roaming over my face as his frown deepens. “I hate seeing you sad.”
“What am I going to do?” I whisper. “Those girls online?—”
“—need to get over themselves.” His hands fall to my shoulders, squeezing them gently. “Once the next scandal hits, this will die down. Trust me. And if anyone says anything to you, please tell me, Ivy. I know a lot of students and professors on this campus, and I can make things happen if I want them to.”
I don’t doubt that to be true. Nodding, I step back out of his grasp and gesture down the hall. I thought what I needed was to be alone—to process things by myself and shed a few (okay, more than a few) cathartic tears. But now that Wes is standing here in the flesh, I feel ten times better, and the uncomfortable knot in my chest eases. I don’t want him to leave. “Do you want to watch a movie or something in my room?”
His brow quirks. “I finally get to scope out your room?”
“I wasn’t hiding it from you. It’s just nothing special. I’ve hardly decorated it.”
He follows me and pauses in the doorway, taking in the twinkle lights strung up—about the only bit of effort I exerted—and the pink bedspread and matching rug. One of those cork board decorations they sell at Target hangs above my desk, but it’s just an eyesore with nothing tacked to it. No notes or pictures. There are no pictures anywhere in my room—only a poster above my desk listing the ten principles of good design.
“I had no idea you had a thing for pink,” Wes says, eyeing my comforter.
My nose wrinkles. “I don’t. My mom bought that hideous comforter on sale. And the rug.” Before I can say anything further, he kicks off his sneakers and hops onto the bed, stretching his legs out in front of him with his back against the pillow. I laugh at the sight. “You barely fit in the room, let alone the bed.”
He grins, back to his charming, easygoing self. “It’s definitely cozy.” He pats the spot next to him. “Come join me.”
“Is there even room?” I mutter, but I climb up beside him. He slinks down so he’s lying on his side with his arm bent, hand propping up his head. I mimic his position, only opposite, so we’re both facing each other. I should probably be freaking out about the fact that there’s a boy in my bed, but it’s not like there’s anywhere else he can go. I’m pretty sure he would break my flimsy plastic office chair if he tried to sit in it. “I’ve never had a guy in here before.”
“You mean we’re christening this bed right now?” he teases.
My response is dry. “Not the word I would use, but yes.”
“I’m honored to be your first male visitor, but I better getsomethingout of it. A commemorative plaque or a t-shirt, maybe.”
“Yeah. Sure. I’ll get right on that.”
