One
I’m staring at the shared story on Noah’s social media feed. He actually read and considered the stupid post some random girl pinned to her own story as worthwhile. I mean seriously, that caught his eye? To him Lucy is a complete stranger, whereas I recognize her name from the constant comments she adds to every single piece of content he puts out. I’ve engaged with her in a back-and-forth convo from time to time, agreeing on everything Noah related. He’s never acknowledged our exchange. We’re merely two women in a gazillion who do the same.
No guy could keep up with the onslaught of female attention. Anyway, Lucy from San Diego manipulated one of his professional pictures, slanted it to a jaunty angle and covered it with heart emojis and hashtags like #BabyDaddy, #TheModel, and even more cringey, #ThePerfectMan.
My pulse is thrumming. I’m all uppity and irritable, as if the gorgeous man with thoughtful eyes and sexy dark hair belongs to me. For the record, he doesn’t.
Noah is a striking male model who I follow on social media. It’s irrelevant that I routinely check his account twice a day, sometimes more if I have a few minutes between lectures or at bedtime, because he is oblivious to my existence.
Today, when I logged on for a nosey, I found Lucy’s crazy post, and a little part of me died inside. He noticed her, and worse still, he reposted her childish nonsense, choosing her as the special one out of the millions who chase him daily.
I don’t stalk him. I watch from afar because I’m interested in the style of images he uses and the contrast of his sculpted muscular form–as a photographer, nothing more.
There’s no denying he’s perfection, with only one major downside–he lives in Canada. Nowhere near me. I live outside of Dublin City. Seven hours in the sky and a bus ride away. It’s not a long journey by any means. I’d happily soar through the clouds to accidentally, on purpose, bump into him. Yet lovely Lucy comes from the same clump of earth as he does. She could easily appear on his doorstep with her hashtags and fluffy bullshit. They might fall in love, live together and adopt rescue pets. He adores dogs and posts action pics of his cute beagle. In my opinion, any guy who has an affinity for animals is a saint.
Ha! I’m kidding myself. I have an EPIC crush on Noah Adams, and he’s cheated on me with another fan.
“Rowan?” A harsh, spiky voice whips up from behind. “Do you have the assignment?”
My shoulders stiffen, and my mind returns to the lecture room. “Eh, yeah, I have it here.” I rifle through the notebooks and loose pages cluttering my bag, thankfully locating the stapled report. “There you go.”
The teacher, with an oval head shaped like a potato, nods curtly, swiping the folder from my hand. As he waddles to the front of the room, his head bobs from side to side. I’m guessing it’s because it feels dense and heavy. He even has tiny eyes like random dots of soil engrained in speckled skin.
Chelsea leans in. “Wanna go for a pint of cider?”
I need something to soften the blow of my raging jealousy. It can’t be envy, surely? I’m just a touch disgruntled that Lucy has been highlighted, that Noah’s eyes locked on her and he’s more than likely assessed everything on her social media account, finding her worthy of his time. “It’s not Friday.”
I’m met with a groan. “Okay, one pint of cider and a packet of nuts.”
Chelsea smirks, folding over the lid to her tin pencil case. “Did something happen? You zoned out.” she whispers, under the drone of Mr. Potato Head.
“I’ll tell you at the bar.” I slide my phone under the desk, discreetly crane my neck to see the screen, tap on the app and stare at the flurry of O. M. G. comments in Lucy’s Instagram feed. She’s bounced to the moon, and her annoying bungee cord is twanging up and down, reminding me of her small victory. I’d love to snip the elastic. Sure, she’s happy. There will be hearts in her eyes for eternity.
The cold fruity cider chills my hot blood. I’m still all jumpy and green-eyed over the whole Lucy-gate incident.
“Are you going to tell me why you’re so cranky?” Chelsea tears open a packet of cheese-flavored snacks, crunching loudly when she stuffs a few in her mouth at one time. To add insult to injury, they don’t have my favorite munchies behind the bar today. What a day, first off, Noah features goosey Lucy, and then, just to boot me while I’m down, the students' bar failed to restock my favored roasted peanuts. Shoot. Me. Now.
I sigh wistfully, resigned to the fact I’ll never meet Noah, and I’m just another fan among many. Insignificant and one hundred percent invisible.
“I’ve told you about the guy I follow on Instagram, Noah?” I begin. My long slurp gives Chelsea a chance to hum out a reply. “Well—” It’s so pathetic, but I need moral support and possibly a hug. “He reposted another girl’s shitty post on his story.”
Chelsea stops chewing, waiting for the rest of my harrowing tale. There isn’t any more than that. That is the issue right there. “And…” She follows up her pause, drawing the word out.
“And… he saw her. He noticed Lucy from San Diego and not me.” I stuff my fingers in the greasy packet and pull out a few unnaturally colored puffs.
“What did you post?” Her tongue slides around, cleaning orange goo from her front teeth.
“I didn’t.” The cider doesn’t ease my resentment when I take a thirsty gulp. “Not this time. I have in the past and guess what?” I huff. “It disappeared in the sea of attention seekers. Noah didn’t see it, and he certainly didn’t repost it.”
Chelsea shrugs like everything is simple. “Show me the repost.”
I don’t want to rehash the scarring ordeal all over again, but morbid curiosity makes me do it. I have to show Chelsea why I’m seething. I scroll through Noah’s feed and locate the offending image with her name on display. “There. Look.” The phone judders across the table when I shove it forward.
Her eyes narrow to a squint, and the lower half of her face contorts as she studies the screen. “It’s only a repost. He didn’t put any text on it. It would be worse if he added a text response.” She’s completely unaffected by this act of treachery.
“Worse?” A crispy puff melts like glue on my tongue. “I bet they’re messaging each other behind the scenes and planning their courtship announcement,” I mumble around a mouthful of sticky mush. “And for the record. I hate these things.” An orange dusting that smells like aged cheddar sticks to my fingers.
“Courtship?” Chelsea lowers the pint glass from puckered lips, my words stopping her mid sip. “You’re aware that people don’t court, right? They text, or meet up, or fuck.”
“I wouldn’t know. My last date was—” I pause for dramatic effect. “Last Jul-ember.”
“Has it been that long since you had dick?”
“I’m not good with real men. They always seem so pushy to have sex on the first date.”
“Because it’s a normal, everyday function, Rowan.” Chelsea eyes me warily. “That poor deprived vagina will close over if you don’t use it.” She crosses her legs.
It’s not that I’m neglecting it. I’m hopeless at dating. I met a guy from the media studies course a few months ago. He was reasonably attractive. On a scale of ugly to Noah, he was midway. We went out for drinks. The conversation dried up like a raisin. It was so awkward. He downed his full pint in three seconds flat and asked if I’d like to fuck. I suspect he guessed the date had nose-dived and didn't want to waste the opportunity for sex. To kick my self-esteem harder, he called me Robin. I’ve already told Chelsea the not so heated details. I can categorically state there was no riveting conversation or stimulating sex that night. “I must be sexy-time challenged,” I proclaim.