Page 71 of Fake Crown

When I reach her door, it’s already open, and she’s on the couch. Her roommates are nowhere in sight, and I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not. I close the door, shed my coat and boots, and drop into the spot on the couch beside her.

She takes the latte from me, and she smells the top. “Mmm. You weren’t lying.”

“You thought I was lying? About a latte? Trust me. I know better.”

“You’re still supposed to be at practice.” She gives me a half smile. “You skipping out early for me?”

Not that I wouldn’t, but I didn’t need to. “Short practice. How was your bus trip back to campus?”

“It was okay,” she says, and she takes off the lid of her latte and blows on the hot liquid. “I’ve been thinking that maybe we should cool things a bit.”

Even though I realized her reaction was a possibility and I’ve prepared for it, my stomach sinks that she’s actually saying it. “Is this about the video?”

“You saw it?” Her gaze flies to mine.

I’m probably half of the views on the damn thing. Every time I could sneak a view in around Jaxon today, I did it. “You think there’s someone on campus who hasn’t?”

Color drains from her face, and I realize that was not the right thing to say. “I’ve been afraid to look. How many views does it have now? Did you see how many people tagged Val?”

I shake my head. Everyone knows you don’t read the comments, no matter how great or terrible a video looks. A cesspool of shitty people. “Good. Maybe now she’ll finally admit we’re done.”

“Brent—”

“It’ll die down. People will realize Val and I were done long before you and I got together, and it’ll die down.” Long before may only be a few hours, but it’s long enough. There was no cheating or whatever else people are implying. Checking or responding isn’t worth my time.

“What are we doing?” She scans my face.

In every situation I’ve seen Posey in, she’s been bold and brazen. She’s neither right now, and it makes me unsure how to answer her. We’re together. You’re my girlfriend. “One more week,” I say. “It’s almost the holidays. After this week, it’ll be clear to everyone Val and I are done for good.”

She takes a sip of her drink, and the vulnerability she’s showing makes me want to ramble, tell her whatever she wants to hear. But I don’t have a clue what the right response is.

“I don’t think this is going to go the way you think it is,” she says, and she takes a long drink of her latte.

My heart thuds in my chest. The video that I love so much seems to have sliced into the fabric of the easy routine we’ve developed. The cut is jagged, and I don’t know how to sew it back together, make us whole again. A touch of panic lights my chest on fire.

She rises from the couch to go to the kitchen, and I follow her. There’s only one thing that’s guaranteed to make us close again. A reminder that what she saw in the video, what other people are seeing and dissecting, isn’t something either of us can run from. We’re not fake, and I’m not sure we ever have been.

She finishes the last of the latte and opens the garbage can to drop it in. When she turns, I’m behind her. I stare down at her as I ease my hand along her hip to the small of her back. She arches into me, and I lean down to nuzzle underneath her ear.

“Everything is going to be fine, I promise.” Not a promise I should be making. While I’m sure time will quiet the social media crowd, I have no idea whether she and I will make it beyond next week. I want to. I really, really want to. “Get out of your head, Posey.”

“Because you’d rather I wrap myself around yours?” Her fingers dance along my back.

She’s not quite herself, but at least that comment hits a familiar note. “Can I stay?”

Her answer isn’t verbal, instead she takes my hand, and she leads me toward her bedroom. The sea might be choppy, but I think I can navigate this.

Posey

As long as I travel back and forth to class with my head down and my earphones in, things are indeed fine, as Brent predicted. But without my earbuds in, I hear the muttered comments from my peers. The ones that label me a slut or a boyfriend stealer or easy. Such a stupid label. It’s not like sex is hard.

I tug my winter jacket around me tighter and readjust my AirPods.

Brent has said to ignore them, but when I check my socials, a spike of anxiety strikes, and I hate my new reality. The shares haven’t stopped, and the mean comments have tripled. Val still hasn’t said anything. Her accounts are eerily silent, and I’m not sure what to think. She’s not going to take the high road, so it’s just a matter of waiting to see how low she goes.

The worst part, though, is that I’ve never been a social outcast before. I’ve had people dislike me; that’s normal. Not everyone can like everyone. But even people I’ve been friendly with in the past are avoiding me if they spot me on campus. Somehow by dating my dream guy and having the audacity to appear happy about it, I’ve become a social pariah.

I’ve tried to put myself in their shoes. If Brent had suddenly turned up splashed across social media with some other girl out of the blue, what would I have thought? Neither Brent nor Val confirmed a breakup to the world or even to campus. Maybe I would have assumed cheating happened too. A lesson in not jumping to conclusions or putting too much stock in the lives of people I don’t know. You can never really know anyone by what they post online.