If this was a catfish, they weren’t even trying.
But if it was real . . .
“There’s no way,” I whispered again, thumb hovering over the screen, unsure whether to click or scroll.
Why would Skyler Shaw message me? This didn’t make sense.
We’d talked a few times at the bar, but I talked to a million guys at Barbacks. That didn’t make us friends.
It barely made us acquaintances who’d exchanged pleasantries over sliders.
Unless . . .
“No fucking way,” I shouted into the screen as realization dawned.
Benji was fucking with me.
That little glitter-covered goblin had access to my phone pretty much every day. He knew my Instagram password because I’d stupidly asked him topost something for me once. He had the technological capability and the chaotic evil energy to create a fake verified account to watch me lose my mind.
I flipped back to the group chat.
Me: Benji, I swear to God, if this is you.
Benji: If what is me?
Benji: I’m innocent of all crimes.
Benji: What am I being accused of?
Me: Did you make a fake Skyler Shaw account to DM me?
Benji: What?
Benji: No.
Benji: Why would I do that?
The dots danced, stopped, then somehow danced even faster. Clearly, Benji’s energy was infecting my cellphone.
Benji: Wait! Did someone named Skyler Shaw DM you?
Benji: Jacks?
Benji: ANSWER ME, JACKS! I WILL NOT BE IGNORED!
I muted the chat before Benji could spiral further.
Okay.
So this wasn’t Benji.
His shock seemed genuine, and also, Benji couldn’t keep a secret to save his life. If he’d orchestrated this, he would have cracked within thirty seconds.
Which left two options.
One: Some random internet stranger with too much time and an inexplicably well-crafted fake account had sent the DM.
Or.
