Campus at noon was a stage dressed in California sunshine: palms, bikes, stone paths, perfect people pretending not to watch while absolutely watching. Drew kept my hand in his, swinging it lightly between us like we had been doing this for months. Every few steps someone called his name. He answered some. Ignored others. Never dropped my hand.
Halfway across the quad, my phone buzzed.
Lana had sent me a screenshot.
@StanfordSideEyehad posted a photo of us from lunch.
Drew Travers and Isa Calloway coming out of the closet real fast
I stopped walking. “Shit.”
Drew looked over my shoulder. “That’s a good picture.”
“That is your takeaway?”
“My jawline looks strong.”
“You are impossible.”
“And photogenic.” He tugged me gently back into motion. “Post something a reply…”
“No.”
“Rule one.”
“I posted dinner.”
“I posted dinner. You reposted. Doesn’t count.”
“It absolutely counts.”
“Bare minimum girlfriend behavior.”
“Fake girlfriend.”
“Still fine details involved.”
I stopped near the fountain and faced him. “You are going to be exhausting about this, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“At least you’re honest.”
“It’s one of my best qualities.”
“It is not.”
“What is?”
I should have said shoulders.
I should have said dimples.
I should have said nothing and kept walking.
Instead, because my brain had apparently suffered a sports-related injury without notifying me, I said, “You notice things.”
Drew went still.
