19
LILY
I’m proud to say that I never resorted to looking up Hector Cross until today, but I cave as I drink my coffee.
A quick search confirms that he’s the son of Vincent and Brittany Cross, nee Lawson. Brittany had an elder sister who married a Devar. Half an hour into my non-creepy internet stalking session, I’ve confirmed his claim. I even find a picture from a couple of years ago where he was on a yacht, having drinks with a bunch of pretty people, including my idol.
Life’s so unfair.
Given how tired I am, I’m not attempting to get any work done this Saturday morning. I started on my next costume last night but I’m too exhausted to give it a go today—bedsides, I’d rather not piss off my new roommate again. God, I miss Claire. Henrietta’s the worst; a wannabe legacy without the right surname. She turns up her nose at me, other than to make demands about our shared space—one of them being no chemicals. Which is bullshit from someone who uses so much nail polish I get lightheaded on the stuff.
But rather than risk another confrontation, I scroll on my phone, letting myself fall further down the rabbit hole. Doomscrolling is as good an activity as any.
I find Cross’s socials, set to public, and start to scroll through pictures, mostly group selfies. I’m sad to report he didn’t go through an acne-plagued, awkward teen phase. He’s muscular and athletic in all of his pictures, including those dating back to high school.
I notice very few women in his pictures, and most of them show up only once, except for a beautiful blonde I’ve seen around campus, though we never interact.
I ask myself why I’m noticing the girls in his pictures, and shake my head. It’s a normal observation under the circumstances. I owe a kiss and blowjobs to the dick. Of course I’d wonder if he has a girlfriend.
His status says single.
I frown at myself for noticing.
It doesn’t matter if he’s single. What matters is, I will get my prize when he loses our ridiculous bet. The man has zero chance of winning.
Then I find an old site, without any update in the last year, recording Cross’s travels around the world. It makes no sense to me, but to all appearances, he went backpacking. With an actual large, overstuffed pack, not a Louis Vuitton suitcase.
He wrote little updates and posted tons of pictures—a far cry from photojournalism, but definitely fascinating.
I’m ashamed to admit I’m still on my phone when Olivia knocks hours later.
“Come in!”
Her entrance is accompanied by the delicious scent of Chinese food.
“I picked up takeout!” she announces unnecessarily. “Jack’s on his way.”
I completely forgot we’d planned on meeting in my room before heading to the Shark House.
Fuck. I can’t believe I let Dez talk me into this party.
My stomach grumbles at the mouth-watering aroma. “I’m so beat, I’d planned on surviving on cereal. How much do I owe you?”
“Don’t worry about it. You’ll get it next time. Besides,” she adds, “I seriously owe you for standing up to Carmichael yesterday. I want to snap at him, tell him to leave me alone, but when he’s right in front of me, I lose the ability to speak.”
My best friend pouts, visibly frustrated with herself. I don’t miss the tear running down her cheek, and I yet again feel the need to punch someone.
“I got you,” I assure her. “Always.”
Secretly, I think she should learn to tell them to back off. They’re infuriating, sure, but in my experience, none of the guys actually follow through on their bullshit. They just have an idea of social interactions that stunted at age sixteen. I am also fairly certain Carmichael’s invitation was genuine. In his thick head, he thought that blowing him was a fun opportunity Olivia might enjoy. If she could simply say “no,” he’ll go away.
But the one time I’d been tipsy enough to suggest she should stand up to the guys, Liv cried so hard, I swore to never bring it up again.
“I don’t deserve you,” she says, handing me disposable chopsticks and my favorite, mu shu pork.
Then Olivia gasps. I assume she burned herself, as she usually gets some wonton soup, but when I look up, I see that she’s staring at my phone, face up on my bed next to me.
The screen’s zoomed in on Hector Cross’s annoyingly perfect face.