6 - Jess #3
His words hit a little too close to home. I looked down at the vinyl sleeves, my throat suddenly tight. He wasn't wrong. I had spent the past few years hiding in the dark, climate-controlled archives, treating fragile paper with infinitely more care than I treated my own heart.
"I just..." I swallowed hard, my fingers tightening on the edge of the wooden crate.
“You just what? Enjoy piecing together the lives of people who actually lived while you forget to do the same?”
"I don't want to get hurt again.” It was the truest thing I’d said in a really long time. “Carter and Amberleigh... that whole mess broke my compass. I don't trust my own judgment anymore."
"Which is exactly why you need to shake things up," he said softly, that playfulness returning to his voice.
"The gym voucher wasn't about the wedding, Jess.
It was about reminding you that you're alive.
" He turned back to the record racks, trying to lighten the mood.
"Speaking of the devil, though... I was doing my morning rounds on the digital battlefield today.
You know, checking up on the enemy lines. "
I blinked, my mouth going dry. "What are you talking about?"
"Amberleigh's socials," he said casually, pulling a vintage synth-pop vinyl from the shelf and examining the cover. "I had a bit of downtime before I stopped by Harrison’s.”
“David. You didn’t.” I stalked over and ripped the vinyl from his hands.
“I did,” he said proudly. “I stalked the bitch. And you’re welcome, by the way.”
“Oh my God. What is wrong with you?”
“She posted a nauseating carousel of updates about the Manford Mansion venue. Apparently, the bridesmaids' dresses are a custom shade of champagne, and the registry includes a crystal punch bowl from Tiffany's."
A sudden, icy jolt went straight down my spine.
The warm, hazy thoughts of the gym, the steam of the locker room, the intellectual defense of my archival work—all of it vanished in a single, violent heartbeat.
The name Amberleigh acted like a total system override, wiping my mental slate completely clean.
"Wait," I said, my voice suddenly losing all its breath, my heart rate spiking in a way that had nothing to do with an elliptical. "How did you see her updates? I tried to look her up when... when I was feeling masochistic. Her profiles are completely locked down. Have been since graduation."
David took the record back and slowly slid it back into the rack, a deeply wicked grin spreading across his face. He leaned against the display case, pulling his phone from his coat pocket and tapping the screen with a flourish.
"Oh, sweet summer child," he chuckled, his eyes gleaming with the joy of a seasoned digital operative. "Did you really think a little blocking protocol would stop me from gathering intelligence on the woman who ruined my best friend's senior year? Please. I have standards."
I stared at him, my brain scrambling to catch up. "David, what did you do?"
"Nothing illegal," he defended, holding his hands up.
"I simply adapted to the terrain. You can't see her registry drama or her gag-worthy color schemes because you're using your real identity.
But me? I have an alter ego." He turned the screen around, showing me an Instagram profile for an incredibly aesthetic, completely fictional interior design consultant based in Richmond named 'Clara_Designs_VA'.
"You created a fake account just to spy on her?" I gasped, my jaw dropping.
"I created a masterpiece," David corrected, his thumb scrolling through a feed of perfectly curated living room layouts that he’d clearly stolen from Pinterest. "And Amberleigh accepted the follow request within an hour because she’s obsessed with validation from strangers.
She posts everything on her stories, Jess.
The tastings, the seating arrangement feuds, the absolute disaster that is her fiancé Jacksyn's bachelor party planning. "
The weight of the betrayal from my past loomed large in the small record shop basement, heavy and suffocating.
The invitation on our kitchen table wasn't just a piece of paper anymore; it was an active theater of war.
The gym guys, the naked encounter with Dane, the delicate ledger books at the museum—all of it faded into complete insignificance.
"She's really doing it," I whispered, staring at the glowing screen in his hand. "She's putting herself out there, acting like she's a saint."
He slid the phone back into his pocket, his eyes locking onto mine. The playful mockery was completely gone, replaced by the calculating mind of a true ride-or-die best friend.
"She’s a snake in champagne silk," David said, his voice dropping into an enticing murmur. "And if you want to show up at that mansion in four months looking like the goddess of vengeance you are, you need inside information. You need to know exactly what you're up against."
"But I'm blocked," I repeated, frustration flaring in my chest.
David leaned in close, a slow smile spreading across his face as he tapped the side of my head with his finger. "Then do what any self-respecting archivist with a vendetta would do, Jess. Create a burner account, copy my methods, and start stalking your enemy properly."