Alex
Goodnight. Sleep well.
I shut off my phone, hearing my name uttered a few rows in front. Most of the swimmers are sleeping, except a guy in third year and his girlfriend who are just one inappropriate pair of shorts away from fucking in their seats. Colette yawns, lashes fluttering sleepily. “Are we nearly there?”
“Yeah.”
Her phone dings. Someone has sent a link into the swimming group chat that I refuse to join. She opens it and angles her phone away from me.
This is never good.
“Show me.”
“It’s stupid.”
I snatch it from her grip. It’s on some social media platform I don’t have. A not particularly flattering—though my triceps lookfantastic—picture of me getting out of the pool earlier today sits beneath the captionTFW Alex Corbeau-Green’s crazy ex is at your swim meet.
“What’s TFW?”
“Just like …that feeling when…”
“That feeling whenAlex’s ex is at your swim meet?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s the feeling?”
“What?”
“What does that even mean? What’s the feeling? She didn’t even say what her feeling about it is.”
Colette frowns, texting Belladonna and asking her to use her admin privileges to delete the link. “It’s just an internet expression.”
“Well, it’s a shit one.” I take her phone back and open up the replies. They’re pretty terrible. I hand the phone back after my eyes coast over the wordshelicopter whore.
It’s not the nickname I would’ve chosen for myself. Biscuit whore might be more fitting.
“Don’t they have something better to do?” I ask, refusing to let their words sink in. This is just one of many reasons I can’t be with Alex. Me and the spotlight don’t mix well. I’m a ginger, for heaven’s sake; I’mmadeto hide in dark corners. All this media attention is the sun, and I’m thoroughly sunburned, tired of it all. “Why do I get more hate than Cain?”
“Because the world will turn a blind eye to the actions of a rich man if there’s a defenseless woman around to take the hit instead.” Her expression brightens at a text on her lockscreen. “My dresses for the Winter Ball have been delivered!”
“Fun,” I say, failing to hide my lack of enthusiasm.
“Ophelia, you have to come.”
“I’m ill tomorrow.”
She scowls at me. “You’re ill all the time.”
“Then I’m busy tomorrow.”
“With what?”
“I have to hang up my used tea bags.”
“You’re going,” she declares. “And you’re going to wear green.”
“Great. That’ll look good with the wine that inevitably gets thrown on me.”
