Page 62 of Fake Crown

“Are you trying to freak me out so I get really drunk and don’t finish my project in time because I’m too hungover to function?”

“Doesn’t sound like something I’d do,” Nadiya says.

It’s true. That doesn’t sound like something she’d do. But if this isn’t an elaborate plot to tank my academics then she thinks she’s telling the truth. There is no way Brent has those sorts of feelings for me. He’s just a really affectionate guy. He went from one relationship straight into a fake one with me. If anything, whatever he’s experiencing is a major rebound. He’ll bounce right off me and into a relationship with someone else.

A knot forms in my stomach. Flashes of Brent with some other nameless, faceless girls cause my heart to stutter. Maybe we’ll see each other around campus and we’ll stop to chat, but we’ll never again be like we’ve been the last two weeks. I’ll return to staring at his photos, but with a bittersweet tinge. He was mine once for a little while.

God, why does my fucking chest feel so tight? I rub the spot above my heart.

When we get to the bar, I don’t even stop to mingle with everyone like normal. I get shots, and then I get more shots. By ten, I’m already a little tipsy, and a freshman basketball player keeps hitting on me. I don’t even know how he got into the bar since he’s not of age. Elite athlete privileges. Across the bar, I catch Deacon’s gaze, and he makes his way over to us.

“Fisher,” he says to the giant who is hovering over me. Probably has a clear view down my top. “She’s got a boyfriend. Brent Faulkner. You’re not making headway. You’re just going to piss someone off.” He claps his teammate on the shoulder and steers him away.

Nadiya sips her drink beside me. “He said boyfriend, and you didn’t correct him, and you didn’t break out into hives.”

I ignore her, and I take out my phone to find a text from Brent. This past week we’ve been exchanging memes. He sends me ones about interior design, and I reply with something swimming or sports related. For some reason, the sight of the message causes tears to spring to my eyes, and when I glance at Nadiya, her amusement morphs to concern.

“Oh god. What’s wrong?” she asks.

“I think I might really like him. Like him, like him.”

“Tell him.”

I shake my head and stare at my phone. Instead of replying with another athletics-inspired meme, I find one that has a woman with obviously fake muscles who is trying to stay strong over missing someone. Before I can second-guess my drunk decision-making, I send it. His response is immediate.

I’m only three hours away. Come watch me swim.

“Should I go to Chicago?”

“What?” Nadiya laughs. “Go to Chicago?”

I’d tell you to come tonight, but you must be drunk if you sent that meme. And Ethan and I are sharing a hotel room.

Paying for a hotel room is nothing. The real problem is finding a way to Chicago at this late hour. I check the bus times, and I find one is leaving at midnight. Enough time to sober up and be there by three in the morning. I click through the booking process and enter my card details from memory.

“I’m going to Chicago. I gotta go home and pack.” I weave on my feet as I tuck my phone into my pocket.

“You’re drunk,” Nadiya says. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“It’s probably a bad idea. But I want to see him. And he said I could come. Brent doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean. He’s a good guy.”

“Yeah, we established that earlier. I mean...he’s home Monday.”

“I’ll take my computer, and I’ll work on my project in the hotel room. Oh shit. I need to book a hotel room.”

Nadiya leads me out of the bar and into an Uber. “Are you sure about this?” she asks as she leans into the back seat.

“You said to tell him, and I’m not doing that. But this says something, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Her expression softens. “It says something. I’ll see you when you get back on Monday. Don’t forget to turn in your project.”

Brent

It takes a few rings for the piercing sound of my phone to fully penetrate my dreams. On race weekends, I sleep like the dead.

“What the fuck, Faulkner?” Ethan groans. “Who the hell is calling you at three thirty in the morning?”

The time, and the fact Posey was at a bar earlier, register in my brain at the same time, and I’m wide awake. I rub my face and snatch my phone off the nightstand. “Posey? Are you okay?”