Chapter 7 #2
I take a sip of coffee and immediately regret it. My hand shaking, I spill a thin line of espresso down my sleeve. I set the cup down, focus on the stain, and pretend I’m calm. “Okay. Hit me.”
Hunter drops his voice. “I got Natalie Greene to pretend she’s Jessica.”
The words hit like a dry-ice bomb. For a second I think I’ve misheard him, but no—he’s got that wild light in his eyes, the one that means this is real and already in motion.
“You what?” I croak.
He raises both hands, palms out, like he’s surrendering to his own genius. “She’s perfect for it. Blonde, petite, totally unthreatening. She already knows Aaron from Psych, and she hates his guts after he called her ‘nerd bait’ in front of half the class. So I pitched it as, like, cosmic justice.”
My pulse jackhammers against my neck. I stare at the surface of the table, watching the spill bead up and spread. “And she just… agreed?”
Hunter shrugs, basking. “I told her it’d be hilarious. She gets to make him sweat, plus it’s a free latte and a story for her next group chat. She’s not even nervous. The two of them are meeting tomorrow at The Grind.”
He’s so pleased with himself he’s practically vibrating.
I try to breathe, slow and deep. “Does she know what to say?”
“Dude, we spent an hour last night rehearsing the story.” Hunter ticks off on his fingers: “Red dress, auburn wig, exact sequence of the drinking game, even the part where you—” he glances up at me, “—where she kissed him in the closet. Every detail. She’s a better actor than half the Theater department, I swear. ”
He’s waiting for me to congratulate him. Instead, I go cold.
“What if he figures it out?” I ask, voice thin. “Or, I don’t know, what if he actually likes her and this turns into something real?”
Hunter laughs, a quick bark. “Bro, that’s the best part! Even if he figures it out, he looks like a tool for believing it. It’s win-win. Either he gets pranked, or he moves on, or both.” He picks up my coffee, sips it, and makes a face. “Damn, you drink it blacker than my soul.”
I slide my cup away from him, just to have something to do with my hands. “Don’t you think this is kind of… mean?”
Hunter raises an eyebrow. “You think he doesn’t deserve it? After the shit he’s pulled with, like, every girl on campus? You’re just lucky he didn’t take a selfie with your wig as proof. Besides, it’s not like you’re stepping up to claim the title.”
There’s a sick logic to it, and I hate that he’s right. I’ve spent a week avoiding the fallout, letting the story outpace me at every turn. But the idea of using Natalie as a decoy makes my skin crawl.
I glance up. “She’s okay with it? Really?”
“She’s more than okay. She’s hyped. She even borrowed Sara’s lipstick to match the party pics.” Hunter lowers his voice, a conspirator again. “All you gotta do is lay low for a few more days. Once it goes public, the legend of Jessica dies with dignity.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “And what if Aaron finds out it’s fake? Or worse, finds out about me?”
Hunter grins, unrepentant. “Then you got yourself a new legend. Either way, you’re free. Just enjoy the show for once, will you?”
He stands, stretching, and claps me on the shoulder. “Relax, Monty. Sometimes the only way out is through.”
He leaves before I can argue, swept back into the tide of bodies at the counter.
I sit there, staring at the surface of my coffee, feeling the churn in my stomach as the story spins further out of my control.
Across the room, the fake fireplace flickers, orange light trapped in a loop. I wonder what it would feel like to be someone who didn’t mind playing with fire.
I drink the last inch of espresso, bitter as regret, and wait for the next disaster to ignite.
—ΠΩ—
The next day, I can’t bring myself to go near The Grind.
Every time I think about the plan—about Natalie showing up in a red dress, about Aaron’s face when he recognizes her—I get this acid reflux spike in the back of my throat.
I lurk two blocks away at the science library, headphones in but nothing playing, clicking reload on Hunter’s group chat like it’s an EKG.
He’s live-texting the disaster, minute by minute.
10:05: He’s early. Hair actually combed for once. Looks like he’s gonna hurl.
10:08: She’s here. Lipstick on point. They just did the awkward hug.
10:09: Dude he bought her a muffin. Blueberry. Is that symbolic or am I broken?
10:12: Talking. Can’t hear but she’s laughing a lot, like, A LOT. His face is ???
10:14: Oh shit. She’s pulling out the Big Lie.
10:16: Wait—he’s not buying it.
10:17: He looks… sad? Like, not mad, just crumpled.
10:18: He’s leaving. She’s sitting alone now.
Hunter’s commentary freezes me in my chair. There’s a photo attached to the last message: Aaron, backpack slung over one shoulder, pushing out through the coffee shop’s double doors. His face is weirdly blank, like he’s had the wind knocked out of him but doesn’t want to show it.
Sara sends me a single text: Are you okay?
I don’t answer right away. Instead, I scroll up and reread the play-by-play, picturing the scene: Natalie in the red dress, posture perfect, running lines in her head. Aaron across from her, every cell in his body tuned to disappointment.
I cycle through the versions in my head: what if Natalie had pulled it off, what if Aaron believed her, what if the legend ended neatly with a handshake and a blueberry muffin. None of it lands right. I know, deep down, that the only ending that fits is the one where everyone loses.
My phone buzzes with a new message—this time from Natalie herself. It’s a selfie, her in the dress, holding up a peace sign, the caption: “#GotHim.” There’s a link underneath, a campus account already running with the story.
I click it, and there’s a video—just a few seconds long, but enough. Natalie, sitting at the table, talking too loud on purpose. “I just felt such a connection with you in that closet, you know?” She over-enunciates every word, eyes darting to the camera as if she can see herself reflected there.
Aaron’s reply is so quiet the mic barely picks it up: “You aren’t her.”
Natalie laughs, fake and brittle. “Guess I should have gone heavier on the perfume.”
Aaron’s voice again, lower. “I know what Jessica felt like. Smelled like. This isn’t funny.”
He stands up. The video cuts to a photo of him outside, hands in his pockets, staring into space like he’s waiting for the rest of his life to start.
I close the window, nausea rising.
But the story isn’t finished. That night, the campus social feeds blow up, every post more savage than the last. There’s a side-by-side of Aaron and the fake Jessica: “When you order your soulmate on Wish dot com.” There’s a hashtag, #GotHim, trending in three group chats by midnight.
Someone makes a meme of Aaron’s face on a milk carton: MISSING—LAST SEEN IN THE CLOSET.
I try to ignore it, but the posts multiply faster than I can delete them.
Sara texts: He didn’t deserve that.
Sara again, a minute later: Neither did you.
By midnight, I’m in my room, lights off, staring at the ceiling while my phone flickers with notifications. I picture Aaron alone, scrolling through the carnage, replaying every second in high-def. I wonder if he’s angry or just numb.
I wonder what it would feel like to be the one to make it right.
I pick up my phone, thumb hovering over Aaron’s contact. I start to type: “I’m sorry.” I delete it. I try again: “You don’t know me, but—” Delete. My hands sweat and shake. The cursor blinks at me, judgmental.
Finally, I set the phone on my chest and close my eyes.
The last thing I see is Aaron’s blank face, stuck behind the glass, waiting for someone to let him out.
—ΠΩ—
Hunter’s in the lounge when I get back, propped on the ancient futon with his feet on the coffee table and his phone at maximum brightness. There’s a box of knockoff Oreos on the cushion beside him, already half-empty. The TV’s on mute, rerunning highlights from a game nobody watched.
He doesn’t look up when I walk in, just starts narrating over the soundtrack of his own scrolling.
“Dude, you gotta see this one. Someone cropped Aaron’s head onto the Titanic, only the iceberg is, like, a giant lipstick tube.
” He wheezes, shoves an Oreo in his mouth, and keeps going.
“Oh, and here’s the one where he’s holding a ‘lost dog’ poster but the missing pet is you. Classic.”
I drop my bag at the end of the couch and try to look amused, but it’s a bad impression. I can’t stop seeing Aaron’s face in the grainy screenshot from earlier—how blank it was, like he’d been hollowed out and left running on auto.
Hunter nudges my knee with his socked foot. “Lighten up, Montgomery. Dude’s got an ego the size of Pluto, he’ll bounce back.”
I pick at the seam on the couch, lips pressed together. “He looked wrecked.”
Hunter shrugs, sliding his phone onto the table. “That’s how it works. Survival of the memeable.” He pours out three more cookies and lines them up in a row. “Honestly, he deserved it. Remember what he said about Natalie? If you ask me, he got off light.”
I can’t argue, not really. But there’s something about the look on Aaron’s face in that photo—some unfinished edge that feels more familiar than I want to admit.
Hunter’s already moved on, watching a TikTok of a dog playing Jenga. “You wanna hit the rec center after dinner? I heard they’re doing a dodgeball thing.”
I shake my head, watching the light flicker on the TV. “Nah. Think I’ll chill here tonight.”
He doesn’t press. Hunter never cares enough to press.
I sit there for a while after he leaves, staring at the crumbs on the table, the muted game running endless replays.
The air in the lounge is stale, heavy with the ghost of microwave popcorn and burned pizza rolls.
The longer I sit, the louder the memory gets—the low thrum of Aaron’s voice in the closet, the way his hands fit so perfectly around my waist.
Eventually, I go to my room. I shut the door and turn off the overhead light, letting the blue of my laptop screen paint the walls.
I open my phone, scroll past the images and the endless commentary, and stop at Aaron’s post from yesterday.
It’s still there, unsolved, already buried by the next wave of drama.
I start to type. “Hey.” Delete. “You don’t know me, but—” Delete. “It was me.” Delete.
Every time I get close, my chest locks up. I see his face in my head, waiting, hopeful, then see it again after today—flattened, arms out, bracing for the punchline. My stomach twists.
I close my phone, then open it, then close it again.
It’s easier to do nothing. To let the story fade, to pretend I’m not a part of it.
I lie down, hands folded over my chest, and stare at the black spot on the ceiling where the paint bubbled after a pipe burst last semester. I listen to the low hum of the vending machine in the hallway, the distant echo of someone laughing in the stairwell.
It’s a long time before I fall asleep. When I do, I dream I’m back in the closet—locked in the dark with someone else’s heartbeat, waiting for the light to find me.