Chapter 7 #2
“Nah. Too busy thinking about hooking up with one of the cheerleaders.”
Shaking my head, I slide out of the booth, tossing money on the table for our food. Drew waves it away, but I insist. “I invited you—I’m paying.”
“Such a gentleman.” He stands too, stretching in a way that makes his sweatshirt ride up. I catch a glimpse of his hip bones and stare down at the floor. “This is why you’re my favorite, Jacky.”
The nickname makes my stomach flip. Nobody else calls me that. It’s his, like so many things about our friendship that are special and specific but also not enough.
We walk out together, and Drew huddles closer, using me as a windbreak. I let myself have this tiny pocket of time where he needs me, even if it’s solely for warmth.
“Thanks for lunch,” he says when we reach the corner where we have to part ways. “And for listening to me be an asshole about Trevor.”
“You’re always an asshole,” I point out. “It’s part of your charm.”
“Damn right it is.” He grins, the corners of his eyes crinkling as his gaze drops momentarily before finding mine again. “Seriously, though. Next year’s going to be your year. I know it.”
“You think?”
“Yeah. Because it’s high time that the rest of the world gets to know the name Jackson Monroe.”
He says it like a promise, and maybe that’s enough. Maybe having Drew Larney in my corner, even if only as a friend, is better than not having him at all.
“I’ll hold you to that,” I say.
“You better.”
The wind picks up again, and Drew makes this pathetic whimpering noise. “Fuck this wind,” he snarls, suddenly pressing himself against my side.
I’m about to make a joke about him being a baby when a sorority girl in a hot pink North Face jacket stops dead in her tracks. Her eyes go wide, darting between Drew and me.
“Oh my God, this is a-fucking-dorable!” she squeals, clutching her phone to her chest. “I can’t believe I’m witnessing this moment!”
Drew and I exchange confused glances. “Witnessing what?” I ask.
She gestures at us with perfectly manicured nails.
“You two! Though, shouldn’t you”—she points at Drew—“be protecting him from the wind? You have more muscles. Never mind. Doesn’t matter.
Can I please get a selfie with you guys?
My sisters are going to die when they see I ran into BSU’s newest power couple! ”
“Power couple?” My voice cracks.
“We’re not—” Drew starts, but she’s already squeezing between us, holding her phone up.
“Say cheese!”
We manage weak smiles as she snaps approximately seventeen photos. She’s barely walked away when two guys approach.
“Holy shit, it’s true!” one of them says. “Jackson Monroe bagged a hockey player!”
“Bagged?” I sputter. “Nobody bagged anyone!”
“Dude, respect,” the other guy adds, completely ignoring my protest. “Those hockey guys are impossible to lock down. I mean, look at Gerard—a complete virgin until he met Elliot. What’s your secret?”
“There’s no secret because we’re not—”
“Jackson! Drew!” A group of girls from one of my literature classes last semester descends on us. “We’re so happy for you! It’s about time you admitted what everyone already knew!”
“What everyone already knew?” Drew’s voice rises an octave.
“That you’re perfect for each other!” one girl gushes. “The way you smile at each other at The Brew, how you’re always finding excuses to touch—”
“We don’t touch,” I interject as more people keep appearing.
Where are they all coming from? Is there some sort of Bat-Signal for gossip?
Soon, we’re surrounded by half the campus, who all want photos with the “couple of the century,” according to one overly enthusiastic freshman. Drew’s arm gets thrown around my shoulders, and I’m suddenly trying to process the tsunami of comments.
“The sexual tension has been killing us!”
“I knew something was up when you guys were spooning at the Polar Bear Plunge!”
“My roommate owes me twenty bucks!”
My phone buzzes repeatedly. I fish it out of my pocket while Drew fields questions about our “first date” with increasing panic in his eyes.
Ryan
Jackson, why is social media exploding with photos of you and Drew?
Apparently, the entire university believes you’re dating.
This stems from yesterday’s Polar Bear Plunge. Multiple witnesses report seeing the two of you “canoodling” under a blanket.
Canoodling was their word, not mine.
“Oh, fuck,” I breathe, showing Drew the messages.
“Everyone thinks we’re together because we shared a blanket?” He turns to the crowd. “We were preventing hypothermia!”
“Sure you were,” someone calls out, and the crowd laughs.
“We’re friends!” I insist. “Best friends! Platonic friends!”
“The lady doth protest too much,” some English major quotes smugly.
More phones appear. More photos. My phone won’t stop buzzing with notifications as people tag us.
“This is insane,” Drew says, running his hand through his hair, messing it up more than it already is from the wind. “We’re not dating! I literally just told Jackson about hooking up with—”
“Denial is so cute,” a girl sighs, her Valley accent thick.
Reaching for Drew’s arm, I grip the corded muscle beneath his clothes for dear life. “We need to get out of here.”
We try to push through the crowd, but they follow us like we’re the Pied Pipers of relationship goals. Someone’s live-streaming. Another person shouts questions about our “meet-cute.”
“There was no meet-cute!” Drew yells, his arm instantly coming around my shoulders in a protective gesture. “We met when our best friends started dating!”
“That’s such a sweet story!”
“It’s not a story! It’s what happened!”
“Let me get this straight,” I mutter to Drew as we finally manage to break free from the crowd. “Everyone saw us hugging for warmth at the Polar Bear Plunge and assumed—”
“That we’re together,” he finishes, dazed and confused.
“This is insane.”
“Completely insane.”
We stand there for a moment, processing the absolute clusterfuck our lives have suddenly become. Drew’s still pressed against my side, though whether for warmth or much-needed moral support, I can’t tell. I’ll take him either way.
“What do we do?” I ask.
“Deny everything?”
“I tried that. They think we’re being cute.”
“Fuck.” He drags his palms down his face, fingers splayed wide enough to cover from hairline to jaw in one frustrated sweep. “This is going to be all over campus by dinner.”
“It already is.” I show him my phone, where the BSU social media pages are exploding with posts about us. Someone’s already made a ship name. Drackson. I want to die.
“We could just…let people think what they want?” Drew suggests weakly. “Eventually, they’ll realize we’re not together when we don’t, you know, act like a couple.”
“Have you met these people? They’ll analyze every interaction we have for hidden meaning. We’ll sneeze in the same direction, and they’ll call it synchronized couple behavior.”
“Shit. You’re right.” He meets my gaze, his expression shifting from frustration to something softer, more vulnerable. “This is going to change everything, isn’t it?”
My heart sinks because he’s right. Our easy friendship, the casual touches, the inside jokes—it’s all going to be scrutinized now. Every lunch at The Brew will be a date in the court of public opinion. Every time we hang out will be proof of our “relationship.”
“We’ll figure it out,” I say, forcing a certainty into my voice that doesn’t reach my churning stomach. “It’s all a misunderstanding. People will move on to the next scandal soon enough.”
“Yeah.” He doesn’t sound convinced. “Hey, Jacky?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for having my back out there.”
“Always,” I say and mean it.
We finally part ways, and I head to my dorm with my phone buzzing nonstop. The universe has a sick sense of humor. I’ve spent months hiding my feelings for Drew, and now the entire campus thinks we’re together.
The irony would be funny if it didn’t hurt so much.