Chapter 6
By the time I walk into the campus coffee shop, every table is occupied and there’s a ten-person line snaking out the door.
Hunter is already inside, having claimed a two-top by the window and a pastry display’s worth of scones.
He’s texting with both hands, grinning at the screen, one leg propped on the opposite chair like he owns the place.
He spots me instantly, waving me over with a dramatic arm swoop. “Montgomery!” he shouts, making at least three people in line look up. “You’re late, but I forgive you. Coffee?”
I shake my head and slide into the seat, pushing his foot off with a nudge. “You seem chipper.”
Hunter slides his phone across the table. The screen shows Aaron’s Instagram story—today’s episode in the never-ending saga. “I mean, wouldn’t you be? We’re living in a sitcom right now.”
In the video, Aaron holds up a blurry flyer: HAVE YOU SEEN THIS WOMAN? Beneath is a photoshopped rendering of Jessica Rabbit with my approximate jawline. “Legend has it,” Aaron says into the camera, “she roams campus to this very day.”
I groan and slide the phone back. “You’re loving this, aren’t you?”
Hunter grins, teeth even and white. “I’m loving that you finally got some attention, Monty. And that it’s killing the golden boy of Pi Omega.” He gestures at the phone. “He’s gone full Pepe Silvia about you.”
I try to hide my face in my hands, but it’s too late. “I didn’t want this to be a thing. I thought it would die off within a week.”
“Dude, viral infamy doesn’t have an expiration date,” Hunter says, picking up his drink—a venti Frankenstein’s monster of espresso, whipped cream, and crushed cookies. He sips it, leaving a white mustache, and licks it off without shame. “This is the best prank ever. You should see the group chat.”
I drum my fingers on the table, then stop. “It’s not a prank anymore. He’s actually obsessed.”
Hunter leans in, eyes sparkling. “That’s the beauty of it. The guy who made fun of Natalie for, like, a semester straight is now writing poetry about you. In drag. It’s poetic justice.”
I hesitate, trying to formulate the words. “Maybe, but—”
He cuts me off. “No maybes. You’re a legend, Montgomery. There’s even a meme account now. You’ve gotta roll with it.”
I try again. “It’s not fun for me, Hunter. I can’t sleep, I can’t focus, and everyone keeps tagging me in this shit like I’m in on the joke.”
He scoffs, waving it away. “You just need to lighten up. No one’s going to find out it was you. Your secret’s safe unless you blow your own cover.”
I bite my lip, the inside already raw. “I don’t know, man. What if someone figures it out? What if—”
He laughs, interrupting. “What if what? Aaron gets his heart broken? He’ll live. Or maybe he’ll finally stop being an asshole.”
A student with purple hair and three nose rings glances over, smirks, and returns to her laptop. The espresso machine hisses behind the counter, drowning out my next words.
I try one more time. “It’s more complicated than that, Hunter.”
He raises an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. “Is it? Or do you just not like the attention?”
I go red, which I instantly regret. “That’s not it.”
He gives me a look—half smug, half genuine curiosity. “Then what is it, Spence? You caught a crush on Thompson or something?”
I laugh, but it sounds weird and brittle. “No, I just… don’t want to be the punchline. Not this time.”
Hunter’s face softens for a split second. “You’re not the punchline, dude. You’re the main character.”
The words land weirdly, like a compliment dipped in acid. “Not helping,” I mutter.
He shrugs, then crams half a scone into his mouth. “Just ride it out. Or own it. Honestly, you should be proud. Half the campus now thinks Jessica Rabbit is the second coming.”
A girl in an oversized Wilcox University sweatshirt shuffles past, casting a sidelong glance at our table. I keep my eyes down, fidgeting with the torn edge of a sugar packet.
Hunter polishes off his drink and stands, stretching like he’s about to run a marathon. “I gotta get to Marketing. You’ll be fine. Just don’t post anything dumb and you’re golden.” He slaps my shoulder, a little too hard, and heads for the door, leaving a trail of crumpled napkins in his wake.
I sit for a minute, watching the foam collapse in Hunter’s abandoned cup. The espresso machine hisses again, louder this time, as if mocking me for even thinking I could get ahead of this.
I don’t feel like the main character. I feel like the control group in an experiment gone wrong.
I check my phone: three new notifications, two from Hunter already (“lol just saw the post where Aaron is the dog chasing your wig”) and one from Sara (“Hang in there. You got this”).
I delete the memes but keep Sara’s message. It’s the only thing that feels real.
I toss the sugar packet into the trash and head for class, hoping that somewhere between now and the end of the semester, I’ll figure out how to get out of my own story.
—ΠΩ—
The quad is a wind tunnel. Every time I cross it, the breeze funnels through the science building’s brick canyons, sandblasting my face and making me squint like an idiot.
A cluster of girls in neon workout gear powerwalks in front of me, chattering about their Math 202 exam, and every third word is “curve” or “Ely” or “brutal.” I hang back, letting them set the pace, headphones in but nothing playing—just a decoy, camouflage.
I’m two steps from the side entrance to Porter Hall when I hear Aaron’s voice in the stairwell. It’s not the same tone he uses in class, not the confidence-engineered-for-public-consumption. This is low, frustrated, and weirdly exposed.
I freeze, almost slipping on a patch of wet leaves. I press myself into the alcove by the door, pretending to check my phone, trying to slow the rush of blood to my head.
“…I know it sounds crazy,” Aaron says, “but it’s like—fuck, I don’t even know her name. I don’t know anything about her, except…” He trails off, then laughs, the sound brittle. “Except that it felt different. Like, actually different. And now I just look like a complete psycho to everyone.”
One of his friends, probably Malik, mutters something. I can’t make it out over the sound of the HVAC unit rattling above, but it’s meant to be comforting. Aaron doesn’t sound comforted.
“It wasn’t just a hookup, man. I can’t explain it,” Aaron says. “I keep thinking I’ll just get over it, but every time I go out, I look for her. Like she’s just going to show up again.”
His other friend cackles, “You’re losing it, bro. You need to get laid.”
Aaron sighs. “Maybe. Or maybe I am just losing my mind.”
The friends start laughing again, the sound echoing up the stairwell. Aaron tries to laugh with them, but it’s not convincing.
I should leave. I should just turn around and go the long way to class.
But I can’t move. My fingers go numb around my phone, the air growing thick in my lungs.
A part of me—a huge, shameless part—wants to walk into that stairwell and say: Here I am.
It’s me. I’m the girl you’re looking for, minus the sequins and the makeup.
I want to see the look on his face. I want to see if he recognizes her in me.
But I also want to run until I can’t hear my own name anymore.
Someone shoves the door open behind me and I jump, almost dropping my phone. It’s a girl with a backpack bigger than her torso, earbuds jammed so deep I’m not sure she could hear a fire alarm. She doesn’t even see me, just pushes past and up the stairs, right into the middle of Aaron’s group.
They go quiet for a second, then start talking about basketball instead. The spell is broken, but my heart is still thumping against my ribs.
I slip inside, keeping to the wall, and take the back route to the basement lab. The corridors are nearly empty except for a lone custodian mopping near the bathrooms and the faint, mechanical drone of the vending machine. I slow my pace, trying to catch my breath, but it’s no use.
It’s not just that Aaron is still obsessed. It’s that he sounds wrecked over it. Like he’s been marked and can’t get un-marked.
I know the feeling, and I realize I can’t keep this up much longer.
I think of Sara’s words: Secrets have a half-life.
Mine is decaying faster than I thought.
—ΠΩ—
The chemistry lab is the only room on campus that feels like it belongs to me, and even here I can’t escape my own nervous system.
The air is cold and sharp, over-circulated to keep the fumes down, and the lights overhead are so intense they bleach all the shadows out of your face.
Every surface is scrubbed sterile, but it still smells like burnt ethanol and wet rubber gloves.
I’m the first one in, and I claim the best station—the one farthest from the windows, closest to the emergency shower—then line up my glassware in a neat little parade: Erlenmeyers, pipettes, burettes, all the fragile tools of the trade.
The experiment is standard: Synthesis of methyl benzoate, a lab I could do in my sleep if I hadn’t been awake since 4 a.m. replaying Aaron’s words in my head.
As I’m measuring out the sodium bicarbonate, Aaron walks in, backpack slung off one shoulder, hair still damp from the gym. He grins when he sees me, sliding into the stool at my right.
“Morning, Montgomery. Early as usual.”
I nod, not trusting my voice, and double-check the volumes on my graduated cylinder. “Just wanted to get the setup right,” I say, and even I can hear the tightness in it.
Aaron pulls on his lab gloves—blue, two sizes too small—and starts reading the procedure.
“I’m glad you’re my partner for this,” he says, not looking up. “You actually know what you’re doing. Unlike some people.” He jerks his chin at the table across from us, where two frat types are already arguing over the difference between a boiling chip and a boiling point.
The edges of my mouth twitch, but I hold it together. “It’s just following directions.”