Scrolling through the comments is like being confronted with every jealous ex your lover has ever had, all in the same moment. The possessive tone of the comments and the venom aimed at Oakley for daring to be in what is clearly a personal conversation with the four men is actually a little horrifying.
Has she seen this? If yes, why hasn’t she mentioned it? If no, do I tell her? Surely, she has been having creepy interactions with some of the students on campus.
We should at least have a chat about this, right? See if she is okay or if she needs me to come clean to the forums to get everyone off her back. After everything she has done for me in our less-than-a-month—wait.
When did she sign me up to SugarLife? That’s the day I’m counting as the start of our friendship. The days before that, where we were two people who barely spoke while coexisting in the same dorm, don’t count. She kept to her space and I kept to mine, right up until she all but force-fed me food and signed me up to the app without really giving me a chance to decline.
The girl was a hurricane, but I was really growing to love her.
With my braced wrist cradled to my chest, I reach over to my bedside table and grab my phone, swiping and tapping at the screen until I’m logged in to my account.
It’d be the date the message thread started with Brat4Us, right? When I accepted the invite?
As I scroll through the thread, I’m still amazed by how many messages were sent between us in the twelvish hours that we texted that Friday. I don’t let myself stop to read over the messages, like I have done more times I’d care to count in the last couple of weeks. Even the few words I can’t help but catch cause my heart to twist painfully in my chest.
But that’s over now.
Finally, I hit the top and see the date. Swapping over to my calendar app, I double-check my mental math and, yep, our one-month friendaversary is this Friday. Okay, that’s something I can deal with tomorrow. But right now, I need to show the forums to Oakley so we can come up with a game plan.
I scoot to the edge of my bed and stand, slowly. The weird vertigo feeling has been hitting me less and less, but I’m stilltrying to go slow with it. Even a half second of feeling the room spin has been wiping me out for hours. When I’m not hit with any dizziness, I swap my phone for my laptop and awkwardly carry it to my door, balancing it on the brace as I reach for the handle.
“Oaks, have you seen this?” I call out as I make my way out into the living room, but pull up short when I spot Xavier sitting at our little table, laptop open with a notebook to the side and basic black-rimmed, squarish glasses perched on his nose.
We get stuck in a staring competition, and my pulse starts to race, threatening to bring on the vertigo.
“You wear glasses,” I blurt out, unable to keep the words in, because how the fuck does he look hotter with glasses on? But then, I hold my palm up in astopgesture. “Actually, you know what? Never mind.”
I turn back to Oakley, who has a decapitated head thing going on with the way she’s sitting slumped down and sideways on the couch. She glances between Xavier and me while the local news station she likes plays on the TV behind her.
With all the willpower I can muster, I stalk past Xavier and go to the back of the couch, turning the laptop to face her. “Have you seen this?”
She scans the screen, then turns back to the TV, where the news anchor finishes with the weather report—it’s going to be cooler in the mornings and evenings but still warm during the day, apparently. “Yeah, I saw it.”
“Okay, well, what do you want to do about it? Are you being harassed on campus?” I ask, feeling the pinpricks of annoyance at her lack of interest in the topic.
Shrugging a shoulder, she continues to watch the TV. “It’s fine, nothing I can’t handle.”
I close the laptop and balance it on the cushion as I stare at her. “Oaks, you have a death threat on there.”
Oakley gives me the barest of glances before her gaze returns to the screen. “I’m not sure what you want me to say here. Have I been approached on campus about my relationship with The Monarchs? Yes, once or twice. Has anyone been a dick to my face? Nope. Do I think more needs to be done about the situation? No, not really. I can handle it. When someone asks me about the picture, I tell them I was giving them directions and that I don’t actually know them.”
“But what about him?” I hiss as I toss a thumb over my shoulder. “There are photos from multiple days of him coming and going from this building. That has to be making it all worse.”
She shrugs. Fucking shrugs. “I’m fine taking the heat on this. It’ll blow over soon, anyway.”
“…wrapped around a utility pole at three a.m. this morning, causing the car fire. Emergency services attended the scene, however the driver was unable to be revived due to severe burns and trauma.”
I glance up at the screen to see the charred and mangled remnants of a burgundy sedan with duct tape holding what’s left of the back bumper together. The vertigo I’ve been avoiding tickles the edges of my consciousness as everything around me fades away.
That’s Tray’s car.
Tray is dead?
“Ems, are you okay? Do you need to sit down?”
I can hear the concern in Oakley’s voice, but my entire being feels numb.
He’s gone?