I type away at my coursework essay while Maguire talks, wrapping up the final lecture of the day. For all Sorrowsong’s ugly parts, I love the work, and when the teachers aren’t trying to kill me, they truly are the top of their field.
A notification pings through on my lockscreen.
Unknown
Nice laptop. Did your rich boyfriend give you that?
What?
I spin around where I sit, surveying the faces illuminated by screens. I bounce from person to person, waiting for someone to meet my eyes, to slip up, to give themselves away. I turn to face the front, but every open laptop I can see is open on the course notes.
My eyes drop to the only other way someone could’ve seen me: a huge arched stained glass window at the front of the room. The world beyond is too dark to make anything out.
Did your rich boyfriend give you that?
They sound almost … jealous. Jealous of Alex? Jealous of our relationship?
Or … jealous that IchoseAlex? My breath catches in my throat as I shut my laptop, haphazardly tossing my things into my bag and hurrying out of the lecture hall and into the tunnels beyond.
The door to the Cortinar halls is ajar when I reach it, slipping through the gap and into the warm, rich interior of the common room. Shawn Miller is exactly where I hoped he’d be, laughing with his finance buddies whose foreheads are all as shiny as their loafers.
“Who’s your victim this time, Winters?” asks a girl by the door.
“Fuck you,” I bark back, just about ready to leave this castle and never return.
Shawn’s smile fades when he sees me approaching, the chatter around their little circle of chesterfield sofas dwindling to an awkward silence.
He manages to find his smug expression again, running his eyes up and down my muddy boots and oversized track pants. “Wow, Winters. You look … you know Halloween isn’t until October, right?”
I give him a sweet smile, silently hoping his snickering friends burst into flames. “Weren’t saying that when you were begging me for a second date, were you?”
His smirk melts into a snarl. “What do you want?”
“To talk. Alone.”
He laughs. “And end up in a trash bag in the trunk of your car?”
“With all these witnesses, Shawn?” I ask, like he’s three years old. My patience has frayed beyond its limit. “Not the sharpest crayon in the box, are you?”
He scoffs, muttering something to his friends that has them howling with laughter. “We can talk in here.”
“In private,” I grit out, and someone wolf whistles behind us.
“I’m not going to take you back,” he says, crossing one ankle over his knee and leaning farther into his seat.
“Investment advice as foreplay doesn’t really work for me, so the feeling is mutual.”
“If you want to chase the market and miss the best entry points then be my guest,” he says, his mouth tipping up like he’s just landed a great burn.
He’s even more hopeless than I thought.
“Are you following me?”
“You’re a psycho. Anyone ever tell you that?”
“Are you texting me?”
“How much spare time do you think I have?”
