Page 12 of A Perfect Fit

ISABELLE

I’m grinning as I stare at the Congrats, you published your event! message on my laptop screen.

This year, I’m hosting a small-scale fashion show, which is now less than four months away. It’s been my dream to do this since I was a teenager, and a glimmer of pride flashes in my chest because I’m one step closer to making it a reality.

I take out my mile-long to-do list. The only items I’ve ticked off so far are finalizing my designs, locking in a date and time, booking a venue, and publishing the event online. With my budget, I rented a cute little warehouse in Manhattan for the night. There’s still a ton of logistics left, like getting models, putting together my playlist, arranging catering. I have plenty of time, but I want to look back on it and be proud that I put in my all.

I open Instagram on my phone and am about to switch to my business account to do a marketing post, announcing my event, when a post from one of my high school classmates catches my eye.

Summerhurst High Reunion.

A high school reunion? This is a first.

After reading the event details, I scroll through the comments. One from Aaron, tagging Jackson’s handle, stands out: Just in time for Jackson’s arrival!

I snicker. Jackson didn’t even graduate from Summerhurst High since he moved to London during our junior year.

Just as I’m about to click off the post, my eyes zero in on Jackson’s handle like it’s calling my name.

Don’t let the temptation get to you.

I swallow.

Just a little peek. It can’t hurt, right?

Don’t do it.

My finger promptly taps on his handle, and I let out a defeated sigh. So much for not giving in to the temptation.

There are a few photos from Jackson’s time in London, and he’s wearing a suit in most of them. The rest, and the majority of his photos, are beautiful architectural shots—buildings, bridges, and cool-looking spiral staircases. I don’t know if he took them, but if he did, he has a good eye for detail.

Scrolling down to his older posts, I notice there’s only one photo of his time at Summerhurst High—a smiling shot of him at one of our speech and debate tournaments. I remember stalking his profile back when we were in school, and he had more posts back then, so he must’ve deleted most of his pictures from Summerhurst High.

My eyes squint at the tournament photo more closely, and I realize something.

I’m in the photo.

Specifically, I’m not posing with him, but I’m somewhere in the background, talking to someone.

My finger moves to zoom in on the photo, and that’s when I commit the biggest social media faux pas.

I accidentally like the photo.

Crap. Crap. Crap.

My eyes widening in horror and my heart skipping a beat, I immediately unlike the post, exit his page faster than an athlete sprinting across the finish line for a race, and pray with all of me to the social media gods that Jackson won’t get a notification from my little mishap.

To my dismay, a new Instagram message from username @JacksonCarter shows up on my screen less than thirty seconds later.

Jackson

Did you have fun stalking my account?

My embarrassment instantly disintegrates, a scowl taking over my face. Most people would let accidentally liking someone’s photo slide and act as though nothing happened. Not Jackson. He’s never going to let this go.

I’m still scowling as I type my response and hit Send.

Me