The week back at school after the break starts off stilted and awkward between Preston and me. I chalk it up to the struggle of post-vacation exhaustion. I mean, I’m not an idiot; it’s expected drinking would be involved. They’re college guys, after all.
“Going out with Prepston again, huh?”
I roll my eyes at Stephanie’s nickname for him, smoothing down my dress while I internally war with myself over my choice of heels. Preston’s due to pick me up for dinner before we attend a party at the fraternity he’s considering “rushing.”
Prepston. The moniker stuck as soon as the two met. She zeroed in on his collared shirt and pressed khaki pants, the expensive watch on his wrist, and began to call him Prepston to his face. He took it in stride, being the sweet, easygoing guy he is. That’s one of the things I appreciate, and I think I can learn a lot from the way he doesn’t let others’ opinions or comments get to him.
Plenty of people have opinions on Roy and his decisions and work in the community, and sometimes they aren’t the kindest or politically correct. I’ve been lucky enough not to become the center of attention by default because he’s shielded me as much as possible, but with his aspirations to run for governor of Alabama, I know my reprieve will be short-lived.
Preston hasn’t had the same experience. He’s told me how his father pressures him to keep up a perfect façade when all he really wants is to be allowed to be a normal college kid.
“I mean, duh, of course the infamous Prepston’s wining and dining you,” Stephanie continues. She lies on her bed, scrolling through whatever social media thing on her phone.
I’m the rare person without any social media accounts. My mother continues pressuring me to promote myself on social media, like I’m some sort of a show dog, but it’s one thing I’ve dug in my heels on. I just can’t stomach the idea of playing a part in the fakeness.
Mother has more followers than our local mayor, and she’s proud of it. Apparently, selfies of her having tea with the ladies at Women’s Club and photos of her fundraising dinners are something to fawn over.
“Yes, ma’am.” I lean toward the floor-length mirror affixed to the closet door and double-check my lipstick.
“The power couple of Auburn. Attorney general’s son and a state senator’s daughter,” she muses, still scrolling on her phone. “I can just see the headlines no—”
I turn, curious as to why she cut off her sentence only to find her staring at her phone with a horrified expression.
“What’s the matter?”
Her head jerks up, and when her eyes meet mine, a sense of dread washes over me. “What is it?” I say slowly.
She worries her bottom lip, glancing down at the screen of her phone, a tormented expression on her face. “Shit,” she breathes out. With a wince, she holds out the phone for me.
I step closer and accept it, peering down at whatever it is that’s rendered her speechless— Oh, sweet mother of all that’s holy in this world.
The Instagram photo acts like a pair of invisible fists clenching my lungs, rendering me unable to breathe.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers raggedly. “But shit, Magnolia.” She buries her face in her hands. “I’d sure as hell want to know if it were my boyfriend.”
My lips part, then snap closed before I finally compose myself. “Don’t apologize.” I toss the phone onto the edge of her mattress, and she lifts her head to look at me. “It’s not like you twisted his arm and made him have a spring break that resembles the male version of Girls Gone Wild with photos to prove it.”
I draw in a deep breath, trying to calm myself. “I’m sure his father is on the phone with him now tryin’ to do damage control and get that taken down.”
She snorts derisively. “Yeah, good luck with that. We live in the age of screenshots.”
My phone buzzes on my desk with an incoming text message. When I walk over to read the text, I can’t say I’m surprised in the least.
Preston: Hey, Sugar. Dad called, so I’m running behind. Should be done in ten minutes or so.
That little nickname—Sugar—now makes my skin crawl.
Runnin’ behind, huh? I bet.
Stephanie turns over, flopping onto her back. “And, really. What kind of moronic friends think it’s okay to post this pic and tag him in it? I mean, come on, people.”
We fall silent for a moment while I mull over how to handle this new development. Instantly, I dredge up all the lessons drummed into my head as far back as I can recall.
Chin up.
Posture straight.
Smile with confidence.
Act with graciousness, kindness, and poise.
“Guys are douchebags.” I’ve never heard her speak in such a gentle tone before, and I bristle because I know why she’s doing it. “It’s not a reflection of you.”
She pities me. That, and she doesn’t know that the scene in that photo might have been warranted. Because things work differently in college, and everyone—even clueless little me—knows it.
I haven’t slept with Preston yet. And, judging from that photo, the effects of that abstinence had been plaguing him.
Breathe in, breathe out. I can practically hear the clinking of my battle armor sliding into place.
I have a date tonight with my boyfriend—no, that’s not right. I have a dinner date with a guy who claimed to be my boyfriend but ended up sucking face—and had roving hands on her, too—with some girl in Cabo.
“Oh, I know that look.” Stephanie backs away. “Just remember, you always say orange washes you out, so prison won’t be a good choice.”
“Are you feelin’ all right?” Preston asks me. Again. For what must be the tenth time tonight.
“Right as rain.” I smile prettily while contemplating his dismemberment.
Someone hollers his name, and it booms over the loud music in the large frat house, drawing Preston’s attention. He lifts his chin at the guy and smiles before turning back to me.
His features sober, and concern is etched on his face. “Just stressed about your research paper?” He tips his head to the side, and his lips turn down, a frown marring his face. “You need to eat. I should’ve insisted we have dinner anyway.”
Every single part of my vertebrae stiffens at his words and the pure male chauvinism that colors them. I adopt a casual smile and shrug, glancing past him to survey the crowd of partygoers. I haven’t missed the looks and hushed voices when others spot us. The looks of pity or snide laughter. Like Stephanie said earlier, you can delete a post, but the screenshot can live forever.
This appears to be the case for the photo Preston was tagged in. When I focus on his face, I’d be lying if I said his attractiveness hasn’t dulled considerably.
“Guess what?” I inject cheerfulness in my tone and rush on before he can respond. “I’ve just started an Instagram page and wanted to see if you’d be okay with me postin’ a photo of us and taggin’ you.”
He stills for a split second, and I probably wouldn’t have noticed had I not been paying close attention. His smile is a little tight around the edges now. “Sure.”
“Great!” I pull out my phone and go into my photos. I select it and turn my phone, a wide smile pasted on my face. “What do you think of this one?”