STATEN
“Why did you call an emergency meeting?” Hassie asks, plopping down on my bed.
“I’m having a crisis,” I tell her, pacing frantically around the perimeter of my bedroom, probably close to creating a trench in the floorboards.
“A sex crisis?”
“What? No! Jesus. No—a regular crisis.”
Well, I don’tthinkit’s a sex crisis. God, I’d take that over the Knox rabbit hole that I seemed to have tumbled down. At least I’d be getting railed while confronting the life-ruining emotions that have made my heart their new stomping grounds.
Ever since Knox and I rejoiced over his essay grade, I’ve been second-guessing every interaction we’ve had. Dissecting. Digesting.
He’s getting worse at hiding his feelings, and I can’t believe I’ve been this stubborn to accept it, but he…he maylikelike me. His drunk confession, our not-so-platonic eye fucking session, all the little touches and compliments in between—they all point to something more. Something I’d hoped would stay at bay while I try to decide what to do about Leif.
Leif is the one I want, right? I mean, he’s the reason I agreed to this fake dating ruse with Knox. I’ve wanted Leif for years, but…fuck. Of course Knox Mulligan had to make my crush obsolete with his all-American appeal and those eyes of his that are bluer than a stovetop flame with too much oxygen. I can’t escape him—not when I’m sleeping, not when I’m working. I wonder if it’s a side effect of being touch-starved for so long, clinging to the first person who views me as more than a walking cheat sheet.
I don’t know how much longer I can convince myself that he’s not wedging himself under my skin like one hard-to-reach splinter. When I’m with Knox—whether we’re studying or getting food or simply just talking—I forget about our arrangement altogether. I forget that our relationship is a product of monetary gain rather than real, human connection. That’s a feat, you know—to have the ability to distract me, of all people, from my finances and the tedious routine of my work. Nothing mutes my brain quite like Knox does.
I dial my voice an octave lower. Ridiculous, seeing as there’s nobody trying to eavesdrop on our conversation. “I think Knox likes me.”
Admitting it out loud is the equivalent of hearing a gunshot go off in the middle of the woods, on the outskirts of suburbia, where it doesn’t belong. Insidiousness infecting innocence, marking a quiet, unproblematic town as the next hotspot for true crime.
Hassie’s eyebrows pique, and she gives me one of her famousseriously?looks. “Yeah, I would hope so.”
Shit. That’s right. I failed to mention to my best friend that my relationship with Knox is fake.
My feet skid to a halt, and I wring my hands together, my nerves going absolutely haywire at the prospect of spilling a secret that’s only half mine to share. My stomach somersaultsas my heart thunders like a hundred hooves slapping against fallow farmland.
I take a seat next to Hassie, internally prepare myself for the hell that’s about to ensue, and then utter the truth that’s had me playing tug-of-war with an immovable object. I.e., Knox.
“We’re not actually dating. It’s…it’s all fake. I just wanted to make Leif jealous,” I admit shamefully, plucking at an undone thread that’s eaten a hole through the kneecap of my aged jeans.
A minute elapses before either of us say anything, and Hassie occupies herself by staring at some exceptionally fascinating wood grain on the ground. I can practically see the blinking cursor above her head. I know my best friend is more understanding than most people in this world, but that doesn’t mean she won’t murder me for lying to her.
However, disappointment is a runner-up to confusion. “Wait a second, you like Leif?”
“It wasn’t obvious?”
Hassie mentally leafs through her filing cabinet of group memories before conceding with a prolonged “ohhh.”
She shakes her blonde hair, letting a few strands cascade down her small-framed shoulders. “So, you’re fake dating Knox to make Leif jealous?”
“Bingo.”
The humorless laugh that spews out of me sounds deranged at best, similar to a hose bursting with excessive water pressure. This whole ordeal has taken years off my life. I’m going crazy. Like, straight-jacket crazy.
“And you think Knox misunderstood the arrangement and actually has feelings for you?” she elaborates.
Oh, I don’t think, sweet Hassie. I know.
“Yep,” I eke out, my throat scratchy like a hangover-turned-cold just clocked in for work, the single syllable soaked in coldblooded fear.
“Is that such a bad thing?”
Is that such a bad thing?
Uh, yes, Hassie. Yes, it very much is. Knox Mulligan is so far out of my league that I constantly doubt his feelings toward me. Plus, it doesn’t help that Mustang Mania has already weighed in on our relationship and deemed it “highly improbable but cute.” Half of the female student population wants to see my head on a stick.
