Chapter Nine

When the Ellie story comes out, it confirms Christopher was right: it doesn't say my name anywhere in the article, and it doesn't say Ellie's either. One small blip of light in an otherwise dark, dismal situation. Because while it doesn't name either of us, the article does name our building, and word of mouth takes care of the rest.

I spend days fielding questions from everyone who recognizes me. If I knew Ellie was dealing the whole time, if it was only coke, Molly, and Adderall, or if she had a bigger stash, if I knew who was buying from her. This includes a contributor for Two Minute News, who hounds me for a comment outside my dorm building one afternoon until I threaten to call campus security.

It's exhausting. Worse than the porn ban thing. At least with that, I could say it was a mistake and move on. But this is the cold, hard truth. The news, babe.

The worst part isn't the questions or the whispers or the way everyone in my dorm suddenly wants to get stuck in the elevator with me, just for five minutes of gossip.

It's that Three is being treated like Anderson fucking Cooper around the newsroom now. Even Christopher, who normally avoids the grunt desk like we're diseased, stops by a few times this week to chat with Three about some story ideas.

I can feel myself losing ground on the Campus Life spot. The Buckeye Crossing story was good, albeit stolen, and the porn ban story blew up, but for all the wrong reasons. Even I have to admit Three has good instincts. He didn't only write about Ellie—he called out the administration for answers. His piece is both informative and thought-provoking. It puts more eyes on the situation than just ours. Now the whole school is watching.

As Three soaks up the glory, I stew in the seat beside him, wondering if I'll ever write something that outshines what he's produced so far, or what he has under his belt for later. I've seen his ideas. I know they're good.

What if I've been wrong all this time? What if he is actually a better reporter than I am?

I'm so caught up in my newly discovered inferiority complex that I've hit a wall on my own stories. I'm floundering in a sea of mediocrity.

But while I don't have any groundbreaking ideas, I do have Hayes. He's the best salve to Three's burn. Whenever Three riles my life up, it's Hayes who brings me back down. Which is why this is how I traverse campus 90 percent of the time now: head down, phone in hand, either typing out a message to Hayes or reading one from him. If one of the only friends I'm going to make at college is through a dating app, then I may as well lean into it. And it's no chore talking to Hayes. Most of the time, he follows what I'm saying even when I have trouble putting words to it, or when I change subjects without warning.

Like now, when we're in the middle of a conversation about which campus dining hall is best.

hayes6834:but the STIR FRY

pomerene1765:do you feel like you caught imposter syndrome when you got to college?

hayes6834:oh I had it way before I got to college

pomerene1765:seriously? I thought I was so smart in high school. like easily the smartest person in my class

pomerene1765:I realize that sounds very………

pomerene1765:hold on, I'd like that stricken from the record, your honor.

hayes6834:consider it stricken

hayes6834:but I'd believe you were

pomerene1765:flattery will get you far in life

hayes6834:but will it get me

hayes6834:wait I hit send too fast

hayes6834: on second thought I don't want to make the joke

hayes6834:is this what it feels like to give your jokes thought before you say them out loud?

I pause at a stoplight, waiting for the walk sign, and smile. This is what I love about talking to Hayes. His friends might think his sense of humor is bad, but he always makes me laugh. And better, he always takes my mind off whatever stressors are causing my recently discovered, university-stamped eye twitch to flare up.

pomerene1765:it's a whole brand new world out there now, huh?

hayes6834:but imagine all the long, uncomfortable silences I'll miss out on

pomerene1765:yeah you would be depriving yourself of those little moments of self reflection.

hayes6834:very important for growth

hayes6834:but we were talking about you. so imposter syndrome?

pomerene1765:right. so it's not that I was the SMARTEST. I wasn't valedictorian or anything. but I thought I was the best at what I do. you know what I mean?

hayes6834:I'm pretty sure that's part of the traditional college experience. getting here and realizing the competition wasn't all that steep in high school. but that doesn't mean you aren't smart or good at what you do. it just means college is a bigger challenge. wouldn't it be boring if college was as easy as high school?

pomerene1765:I've never complained when something came easily to me. I don't think I'd mind if college was one of those things. especially the things I WANT to be good at.

hayes6834:that's fair. I might be better off if I didn't look at everything that was a little hard as a challenge.

pomerene1765:are you one of those super competitive people who ruin game night?

hayes6834:I can't even LOOK at a monopoly board

hayes6834:I've been told I take things way too seriously. it does tend to drive people away.

pomerene1765:I think people could stand to take a few things more seriously.

hayes6834:now who's flattering who?

pomerene1765:gotta see if it'll get me anywhere.

hayes6834:pretty bold for someone who doesn't want to meet

He's right—I did say I think we're better off not meeting. It's come up once more since Halloween, though I can't tell if Hayes wants to or not. He's never said it straight, and I'm always the one to draw the line. Maybe that's what he's looking for, though—my line in the sand, setting a boundary I don't want him to cross.

But the longer we talk, the hazier that line gets. It feels like we're friends now, but Buckonnect is still a dating app. I don't know if this is a precursor to dating, per se, but my experience is pretty limited. If Dara were interacting with someone on Buckonnect this long, she'd probably say they were "talking." More than friends, less than dating.

It's possible we've been building expectations. After all, it's not like Hayes and I don't flirt, in our own way. (It's a relief, really, to find that he's not all that great at it either.)

But I don't know what I'd do if he found out what I look like and ghosted me. I like to think he wouldn't, but how well do I know someone I've talked to for only a few weeks, and anonymously at that? What would I do if he got angry at me when he found out? Some people's fatphobia is that bad, where he might feel tricked and embarrassed, and lash out as a result.

I know the deeper I delve in, the higher I build this rickety tower. One wrong move—one wrong word—and I'll topple the whole thing. And the longer I talk to Hayes, the more I like him, which means I could be setting myself up for some serious damage. But rather than slowing down, I keep picking up speed, liking him a little more with every conversation, even knowing everything I'm risking as I do.

I turn the corner and freeze, backing up a step. Lincoln stands outside our building, head tilted down to his phone.

I haven't spoken to him since we ran into each other in the lobby over a week ago. I did dodge him once, mostly because I'm still embarrassed. And I'm frustrated that Lincoln naming me somehow led to Three writing the article that's the talk of campus now. I don't care about being inconvenienced by the police, but if I hadn't mentioned Three, he might never have known to write his article in the first place.

And truthfully, I'm worried Lincoln will try to apologize again the next time he sees me, prolonging my humiliation. I just want to pretend it never happened and let time heal the wounds.

Lincoln finishes typing and glances up as he turns, starting in the opposite direction as me. At the same time, my phone buzzes with an incoming message from Hayes.

hayes6834:so you haven't acknowledged that the stir fry is the best dining hall option which is the deciding factor in the best dining hall

I glance up from my phone, staring after Lincoln.

A coincidence, right? A total coincidence. I could probably find half a dozen people in the vicinity who are on their phones right now. He could have been looking up directions or the hours for a store downtown, or even been on Buckonnect talking to someone else!

But something pulls at a string in my brain, and I remember that first conversation I had with Lincoln, when I told him I'm the only one at the Torch who wasn't editor-in-chief in high school. He mentioned imposter syndrome then—what did he say exactly? That imposter syndrome is the first freshman-year souvenir you get, and that he's already had it and dealt with it.

I blink at his retreating back, my mind whirring as my phone buzzes with new messages.

hayes6834:I probably shouldn't have said that about meeting. I was joking, not giving you a hard time. but you know me. I'm naturally good at saying the wrong thing.

hayes6834:seriously I could win olympic gold in a foot in mouth event

pomerene1765:sounds like you're pretty flexible

hayes6834:I've definitely never heard that before. usually everyone says how rigid I am.

hayes6834:okay I realize that could

hayes6834:you know what

pomerene1765:it's so impressive to see an olympic athlete in action.

hayes6834:ha. thanks.

I stare in the direction Lincoln went. The puzzle fits, albeit loosely. After the stuff with Ellie, I can confidently say he takes things seriously, the same as Hayes. And when I think back to fall break, when Hayes and I first started talking, I don't remember seeing Lincoln around the building. Hayes wasn't on campus either.

I'm getting ahead of myself, as usual. My imagination is running wild with possibilities that, simply put, are astronomically unlikely. I might be nearly failing statistics, but even I can see the probability is low. Lower than low, even.

Still, my stupid, romance-webcomic-reading heart wants to believe it could be possible.

"So, what'd you think of my article?" Three angles toward me, leaning his elbow beside his laptop. We've been working in silence at the grunt desk for at least an hour now—Three on some research for Christopher, and me on my next story. I'm covering the university's spending on new VR training equipment for the football team, which is nearly double the budget they denied the nursing school for similar equipment only a year ago. I emailed the pitch to Mel yesterday and got the green light in minutes. It soothed a bit of the sting that's lingered in the wake of Three's success with his story on Ellie. If he's going to beat me, it won't be because I didn't try.

Beside me, Three has been blessedly quiet, immersed in his task. But now I know it was all a ruse, luring me into a false sense of security so I wouldn't see it coming when he finally decided to strike.

"You've been awfully calm," he says when I don't respond. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him slide off his reading glasses and set them beside his computer, a sign he's settling in for a nice, long battle. "I figured it'd be on as soon as I walked in today. Especially after you tried to kill me last week."

I don't rise to his bait. Instead, I reach for my coffee and take a slow sip.

Three leans closer, sliding his arm along the edge of the desk. His fingers tap out a slow, steady beat an inch from my wrist.

I tuck my hair behind my ear and tap lightly at my earbud. Truthfully, I'm not listening to anything, because I don't want to risk missing something happening in the newsroom. But Three doesn't have to know that.

"Ah." His fingers brush my cheek as he plucks the earbud from my ear and whispers, "Can you hear me now?"

I freeze, feeling that whisper down to my toes. Which makes me furious, because why does he have this effect on me? I should be disgusted by him! I should not feel hot all the way to the bone.

"Keep your salt-and-vinegar breath on your side of the desk," I say, jerking to face him. But he's leaning closer than I anticipated, and we end up nose to nose.

I flinch, but Three doesn't react. Which means he wins by default.

He smiles as he relaxes back in his chair.

I make a grab for my earbud. "Give it back." Each word comes out bitten off.

Three closes his fist around it. "Admit you tried to kill me first."

I pry at his fingers. "You are such a child."

He grins, tightening his grip. "Just say that last week was attempted murder by shoe."

I would rather die than give him what he wants, even if it's ridiculous.

"Or you can keep trying to hold my hand," he says, one corner of his smile hitching higher.

I dig my fingers into the shell of his fist. It occurs to me that I'm playing right into his hand like this, but my next best bet is to ignore him until he caves, which would be hard to pull off now. Plus, I wouldn't put it past him to simply leave with one of my earbuds.

No, he'll have to be bested. And to do that, I have to match his energy.

"Is that what this is about?" I ask, putting on an oh poor you face. "Can't get anyone to hold your hand naturally, and so touch-starved you're this desperate? I'm happy to take on a charity case, Three." I close my hand over his fist, flattening my palm against his fingers. "You don't have to trick me into holding your hand. You just have to ask. Very nicely." I lean in, brushing my thumb over the underside of his wrist. "Wyn, I'd do anything for you to hold my hand for a minute. I'm so, so lonely."

To my dismay, Three smirks. "You know, Evans, you might be going into the wrong major. I think you could do great in a creative writing course. You're incredibly good at making stuff up in your head." His expression shifts, and it's like someone put him in italics. Everything turns suddenly pointed. "Unless you're projecting a little. ‘I'm so, so lonely' sounded kind of like a confession."

Three opens his hand under mine, his fingers closing around my wrist. I feel my earbud press right against my thudding pulse. My breathing turns shallow.

Three lowers his voice to a murmur. "Does that feel better?" He strokes his finger over my forearm for good measure.

My toes curl. Because the sad, pathetic truth of it is yes, it does feel better. It feels incredible. It feels almost as good as last week, when he had his hand on my calf in the pool, or when he looped his arm around my thighs. I am acutely aware of how warm he is, and after this, after the pool, after Halloween, I can perfectly imagine what it would feel like to curl into him and be held.

Three reaches up, pressing the backs of two fingers to the spot right between my eyes. My synapses start firing at hyper-speed. I imagine the inside of my head looks something like the finale of a fireworks show.

Three gives me a rueful smile. "Never go to Vegas, Evans. They'll clean you out."

"What the hell are you two doing?"

I flinch, and Three's hand falls from my brow. His other releases me slowly, like he's barely fazed by the fact that our managing editor is standing over us now, staring like he's caught us doing something salacious.

Three shakes my earbud in his palm like he's about to do a dice roll, then drops it unceremoniously on my side of the desk. "Wyn's a little feverish. I was just suggesting she go to the clinic. I mean, look at her." He jerks his chin in my direction, shooting me a sly look Christopher can't see. "She's all red."

My heartbeat ramps up, my blood boiling. "You know, he might be right," I say, my gaze never leaving Three's face. "I am feeling sick all of a sudden. Like I could throw up at any moment."

Christopher makes a grossed-out sound. "Okay, well, if that's the case, go home. I don't have anything else for you today."

"I can't—I have a story."

"Not anymore," Christopher says. "You got scooped."

Time slows as Christopher flips his phone around to show me his screen. Two Minute News is pulled up, a fast-talking girl with red hair relaying my own story to me, with about a hundred holes. She even gets the cost of the equipment wrong.

"But—but she didn't even get it right! I can still finish this. I can work on the nursing school angle—"

Christopher cuts me off. "It's old. Time to move on." As he pockets his phone again, his attention shifts. "Three, I want to talk to you about what you've been working on." He nods toward his own desk, which is on the other side of the room.

Three takes his time getting up, letting Christopher stalk a few feet away. I watch him go, speechless with blindsided shock, until Three leans a hand on the grunt desk and angles his face toward me. "Left your diary lying around, huh, Evans? Tough break."

My gaze flicks up, settling on his smug expression. "This was you."

He puts a hand to his chest, brows raised in silent question.

"Yes, you." I stand, because I can't let him look down at me another second. "You gave my story to Two Minute News!"

"Now, why would I do that?" He leans closer, lowering his voice. "And how would I even know what you're working on?"

That I don't know. But the look on his face says it all—this was him. And he wants me to know it. "I don't know why you'd do it. My guess is you're worried."

He snorts. "Worried? About your hard-hitting VR equipment story?"

"It was hard-hitting!"

"Come on, Evans, if you're going to try to beat me, at least make it fun." He motions to my bag. "I guess it's good Christopher's giving you the afternoon off. You'll have time to come up with a better story. Something worth writing that you didn't have to steal from me first." He taps a finger against his computer with a smile. "You can try breaking into this again if you want, but you'll never get the password this time."

That's what this is about. The Buckeye Crossing story. After the success of his Ellie story, I thought he was over it, but it's clear Three has the patience to pull a long con. He distracted me with these stupid daily battles that fill our ledgers in increments as small as a grain of rice. It's the big hits that truly tip the scales, and they're moving in Three's favor.

As he strolls away, my fury starts catching like dry kindling. He thinks he's so superior. So much better. At least make it fun?

I seethe as I pack my things. I'm sick of losing to him. I want to see him so turned inside out, so upside down, he can't even function. I want to see him panicked.

And I know for a fact he has an exam this afternoon, because I heard him mention it to Christopher earlier.

So I do something truly diabolical. Something I know crosses some very serious lines. Something that, were I feeling just one iota less like my anger could propel me into space, I might hesitate over for at least a moment.

But I'm too furious to second-guess myself.

I grab Three's glasses from beside his computer and swiftly head for the door.

It doesn't take long for regret to set in, but by the time it does, I'm in too deep. There's no going back to the Torch office to return the glasses now—not when he could easily catch me. I have to see it through.

I don't go far. There's an elevated walkway between two buildings that overlooks the street, which I know Three passes on his way to class. I'll have a perfect view of him heading off at his usual easy pace and then, if I'm lucky, sprinting back to the Torch office in a panic once he realizes he's missing his readers.

As soon as I see him pass by, I'll sneak to the office to slip his glasses back where I found them. He'll assume it was me, but he'll never be able to prove it. Just like I can't prove he gave my story to Two Minute News.

However, I've overlooked one small potential snag in my master plan. I realize it when my phone buzzes in my hand, and a message from a number I've always had but never used pops up on my screen.

THREE:

Give them back.

I glance up the road toward the building the Torch office is in, and then quickly in the other direction. He hasn't passed by, which can only mean he hasn't left yet.

I contemplate his message, deciding how to respond.

THREE:

I swear to god Evans

ME:

This feels a little bit like a threat. Maybe I should talk to my adviser. I feel distinctly unsafe.

I smirk as I send off the message, imagining his face turning redder with every passing second. Any lingering regret evaporates in a wisp of steam. He's playing right into my hands.

It's especially gratifying when his next text comes through.

THREE:

You should.

A thrill travels all the way to my toes. I've got him. I've got him. Oh, if only I could see his face—

I suck in a breath.

Because when I glance up from my phone, Three is standing down on the sidewalk. He isn't rushing by in a panic or frantically texting me. He's staring straight up at me, not moving, his expression stony.

I hiccup in surprise and slap my hand over my mouth. My heart picks up speed as I stare down at him. A cold sweat starts between my shoulder blades.

Three's expression is deceptively calm as he watches me. When he finally moves, it's a subtle shift. He angles to his right, never taking his eyes off me. I instinctively lean in the opposite direction.

His eyes narrow, and he moves the other way.

I change directions.

Three stops again. Then he seems to make up his mind, shifts to his right, and takes off.

I stumble in the opposite direction, scrambling into the best sprint I can manage. I know Three is in shape, but I hope he's not as fast on his feet as he is in the water.

I tear down the stairs, heart pounding, and shove open the door at the bottom. I don't know what my plan is—to keep running, to hide. But it doesn't matter either way, because when I bolt out the door, it's straight into Three's waiting hold.

As soon as we collide, his arms close around me, tight as a vise.

"Give them back," he says in my ear.

"I don't know what you're talking about." My voice comes out shaky and breathless. I try to push away from him. "Let go."

"Give them back first, and I will." He pulls his head back to look at my face. We're so close, I can see every individual eyelash, faint freckles I've never noticed before, and the dip in his lower lip.

"I don't have—hey—!" He has a hand around the strap of my bag, but my protest grabs the attention of a few people passing by. Three and I both notice at the same time, and he blanches.

He releases my bag, stepping back to put some distance between us. Red creeps up his neck in the most delicious way.

I consider running, but now that I have all the leverage—and knowing he'd catch me anyway—I stay put.

"Well, this is a nice change of pace," I murmur, giving the passersby a reassuring smile. "Is this how it feels to be you? Always having the upper hand?"

"I have an exam." He bites the words out through clenched teeth. "Give me my glasses."

"Hmm." I tighten my hold on the strap of my bag. "Maybe if you say ‘please' very nicely, I'll think about helping you look for your… glasses, was it? At the very least, I'll check my bag. Maybe I picked them up by accident."

His nostrils flare. His jaw clenches so hard, something twitches in his cheek.

I sweeten my smile. "Or I can just go…" I move to leave, but Three catches my wrist. Despite the way his body has gone so tense, he might snap at the slightest pressure, his hold on me is gentle.

He takes in a slow breath, then lets it out through his nose. "Please, Wyn, can you give me my glasses back?"

I don't know what delights me more—the use of my first name, or the tremor in his voice when he says "please."

I smile. "I would be happy to check if I have your glasses." I swing my bag around and pop it open. I make a surprised sound as I pluck his glasses from where I've stashed them safely in a side pocket. "Oh, look! I did have them. So weird. I have no idea how those got in there."

I hold up the glasses, and Three snatches them, his expression positively murderous.

"Sorry about that," I say, putting all the sugar I can muster into my voice. As he turns away, white-knuckling the strap of his backpack, I add one final blow. "But you know, I could get used to hearing you beg a little."

Three stops, turning slowly back to face me. "You'll never hear that again," he says, his voice nearly a growl.

I shrug, trying not to betray the wild, giddy pace of my heartbeat. "We'll see about that."

Three steps toward me, and I force myself to stay rooted in place, not letting the surprise get the best of me. If we're playing a game of chicken, I won't be the one to blink first.

His gaze is cutting. I feel like he can see all the way into the deepest recesses of my brain—the very secret places where him standing this close to me inspires a lot of mental images I don't want to acknowledge.

I hope I look placid rather than lobotomized as I try to keep those thoughts from my face. If he's as good at reading me as he says—or if I'm as bad at hiding my feelings as he's suggested—then it might be a useless effort. Especially when he gets so close that I have to grab onto the front of his jacket or risk being thrown off balance. At least this way, if I go, he's going with me. But the space between us narrows to an inch, maybe less.

He's so warm. Especially now, off the rush of his anger. If there's one thing I've observed about Three, it's that his emotions may not show on his face, but they burn hot under his skin. Which is why I know he's not nearly as calm as he wants me to believe right now, because I can feel the heat of him straight through his sweatshirt.

"I thought you had an exam to get to." I tug lightly at his jacket, batting my eyes at him. "Now you've really set yourself up. Because you're on a time constraint, and the only way you're getting away from this is to knock me over or pull away first."

His expression scrunches in faux confusion. "Is that the only way?" He leans closer, ducking his head until we're eye level. I've never been so hyperaware of the inches he has on me.

My fists tighten on his jacket as he dips closer, gaze dropping to my mouth. I am barely breathing, my eyelids fluttering wildly. Three's lips are so close to mine, I can almost feel the brush of them. I squeeze my eyes shut, every muscle in my body coiled in anticipation.

Then he says, "I thought you hated my salt-and-vinegar breath."

My eyes fly open, and I stumble back a step. My fingers slip from his jacket.

Three smirks, straightening. He tucks his glasses into the collar of his sweatshirt, every inch of him smug, from his half-lidded gaze to the slope of his shoulders to the light kick of his feet as he half turns away. Over his shoulder, he tosses me a lazy "I win."

Then he walks away, leaving me standing here to catch my breath, swallow my stupid pride, and slink toward home to lick my wounds, feeling dumber than I ever have. Because now I've shown my hand—that I would have let him kiss me, like the worst kind of fool—and he'll have that knowledge forever, to use whenever he wants. All those snide, joking comments he makes about my wanting him have weight now. Because he knows it's at least a quarter true, and that's a quarter too much to give someone like Three.

I thought I crossed a line stealing his glasses, but I didn't even come close. In fact, I don't think I could find the line if I tried.