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The thumbnail profile picture becomes clear when I follow it to his profile, enlarging the image so I can clearly see the two other men standing beside him. They’re attractive, with similarly golden-brown hair, but that’s where the likeness ends. Shirtless and wearing board shorts while standing on some white sand beach with the ocean glittering behind them, the resemblance to one another stops there.
Where Niles is tall and trim, one friend is an inch or two taller with a rangy physique, the muscle lean but obvious, not an ounce of fat on him, and he shows off a wide, confident smile that at once triggers an animal response in me. The other friend is shorter than the others, but he’s bulkier, as if he works out to make up for his lack of height, although I can tell, in relation to my size to Niles, he’s still taller than me. That’s good, because I’ve never been much of a Tom Cruise fan in the sense that I’d rather look up to my man and feel a sense of being small and protected when I’m in his arms.
But I’m getting off topic. The whole reason I decided to research Niles goes beyond personal curiosity. It’s my mission to find out whether or not he is what Colleen claims. In truth, the profile picture doesn’t lend much confidence.
I begin scrolling through his timeline, studying every picture, which are scarce. Niles has a conveniently open profile, but it doesn’t appear that he’s an open book. His posts are often few and far between, going weeks without updating his status, which I find just plain rude. How is a girl supposed to perform adequate recon if the object of her obsession doesn’t cooperate?
Thankfully, there are several pictures involving his friends—at least, I hope they’re just friends. In each one, they seem chummy, like good friends typically are. They go back a few years, showing more youthful appearances and college settings.
It seems Mr. Prescott was a frat boy. Surprising, when the rumor mill pegs him as a straightlaced, uptight kind of guy who shies away from the dating scene.
Unless, of course, he’s already spoken for by one or both of the handsome fellas who seem never to be far from his side.
In two pictures, the three men wear the same red T-shirt with Greek letters and are holding beers and projecting wide smiles. The glassy look in their eyes tells me they were wasted when it was taken, but the people milling about in the distance and the sheer amount of trash and streamers and the way they cling to one another tells me they were having the time of their lives that night.
I smile, feeling happy in light of their happiness.
I can’t recall a time when I ever felt that level of levity. Even in the midst of making many, many, many bad decisions, there was never a sense of absolute fun involved. Maybe it’s because I never had anyone special to share those moments with. Outside of the occasional relationship that never lasted long, the ill-advised flings I participated in were short-lived and never ended well. Hence my last job. I knew better, and yet I still got on my knees and made the mistake, knowing full well the consequences if I got caught. And I did.
I consider the ramifications of this adventure if I were to pursue Niles. If his involvement with these guys is purely innocent, then I wouldn’t be inserting myself into anyone’s relationship. However, we work in the same office, circulate around the same people, and if we got involved and it went sour, things could get nasty. I might have to move on again, find another job and another place to fit in, and at twenty-five, I’m not sure how many chances I have left to set down some roots and get a solid career going. Do I really want to head down this road to the unknown again?
Who’s to say that Niles is even interested in pursuing me anyway? It isn’t as if he’s made any attempt to further connect with me since the party. It could very well be that he’s trying to avoid me as much as I am him. Which, admittedly, isn’t very much. I am, after all, sitting here stalking him. So I guess it goes without saying that I’m already setting the groundwork for yet another potentially bad decision.
I guess it also goes without saying, then, that I must not care that much what consequences may lie ahead if this doesn’t pan out how I want. What can I say? A girl gets bored doing the nine-to-five every day. Like Jack famously typed, all work and no play makes Elle a dull girl. And if there’s one thing I refuse to do in this life, it’s dying with regrets over the risks I haven’t taken.
With little hesitation and before that little voice inside my head can talk me out of it, I click on the lightning icon and a window pops up in the corner of my screen, and then I’m typing a brief but efficient message.
“Hey, stranger! I had fun at the party the other night. We should hang out. Drinks?”
