Pretending

by Shanna Clayton

  “Finding the right girl is like playing your favorite video game,” he once told me. “Some games you’ll play for a little while, then put them away. But your favorite video game will keep you up all night trying to figure out a way to get to the next level. You know, like Call of Duty. There’s just something about it.”

  I think I finally understand what he meant.

  Sighing, I run a hand through my hair. Staying at this party when I can’t focus isn’t a good idea. I need to go home and get some rest.

  I say goodbye to few friends, then head for the door. A familiar black hoodie catches my eye as I reach for the handle. Turning, I recognize the girl inside of it.

  Seeing Dahlia always makes me want to bolt. My dad would hate me for ignoring her—I’m pretty sure he put us together for a reason—but I’ve never felt guilty about it. Neither one of us wanted this. As much as I’ve avoided her, she’s avoided me too, so there’s nothing to feel bad about. We have an unspoken agreement based on a lot of distance. It works.

  A white T-shirt peeks out from Dahlia’s hoodie, but it’s not covered with much writing. Apparently she doesn’t care about the point of Graffiti Bash. Then again, neither do I, but it’s a good icebreaker.

  A few sorority girls hover close to Dahlia. They’re up to something. She’s oblivious to them, and they’re giggling and pointing at her. I know those girls. They’re your typical, catty mean girls. Whatever they’re up to, it isn’t innocent fun and games.

  I turn away. Not my business. Getting involved with Dahlia is the last thing I want to do. I should leave.

  An irritating sense of dread washes over me. I reach for the door handle and pause.

  Dammit.

  I’m not going to be satisfied until I figure out what those girls are doing. I move toward them, noticing a can of spray paint in one of their hands. It looks like she’s writing on the back of Dahlia’s hoodie. I take a few more steps, then stop abruptly, seeing a giant red letter C.

  I shake my head, sighing. Part of me wants to turn around and pretend I don’t see this happening. It would be so much easier to look the other way; I don’t give a damn about Dahlia’s life. But it doesn’t matter what girl is inside of that hoodie. Walking away would make me the biggest asshole in the world.

  The giggling girls disappear just as I approach. Placing my arm around Dahlia, I cover up the four-letter word on her back and guide her toward the back door. “Come with me.”

  “What are you doing?”

  She’s clearly confused, with me all but shoving her through the French doors leading out into the courtyard. She tries to push away from me. “Let me go.”

  The muggy night air hits us, and I close the door. No one else is outside. Good thing too.

  I pull the right sleeve of her hoodie and slip it off her arm.

  “Hey! What the—”

  Spinning her around, I grab the left sleeve. The hoodie is so big, it comes off with one swift yank.

  “Give that back!” she squeals angrily.

  “You don’t need this. We live in Florida.”

  She grabs a handful of the fabric, and we begin to play tug-of-war. “Have you lost your damn mind?”

  It’s a possibility, considering I’m out here trying to save her ass, and she’s giving me hell for it.

  Jerking the hoodie out of her hands, I hold it high over my head. She jumps up and down, reaching for it, but I’m almost a foot taller than her. She doesn’t stand a chance.

  Spotting a trashcan on the side of the house, I go there and toss the hoodie. “You don’t need this one,” I say, blocking her path. “I’ll buy you a new sweater. One that’s not so old and frumpy looking.”

  “What’s gotten into you?” she asks me, and for the first time, I take a good look at her.

  Whoa.

  There’s something familiar about the curves of her face, something unsettling about her slender shape. But I can’t figure out what it is.

  She should be familiar. We’ve lived together for three years. But then again, she isn’t. I barely know the girl.

  The motion detectors activate the outside lights. The entire courtyard brightens. There’s a soft glow to her eyes watching me beneath a thick fringe of lashes. Amber eyes. Eyes that slice into me like a knife.

  Holy fucking shit.

  Her?

  My moment of clarity gives her the advantage. She circles around me and grabs the hoodie before I can stop her. “I like old and…” She straightens out the fabric, her fingers slowing over the bright red letters. “…frumpy.”

  I see the small rise and fall of her chest, and the way her eyes twist around the word. She looks up at me. There’s so much pain and accusation in that one look; I can’t breathe.

  “I had nothing to do with this, I swear.” I reach for the hoodie, shoving it back into the trashcan, as if making the thing disappear will somehow make it not exist. “It was stupid, juvenile girls that never should’ve been let out of high school.”

  “I’m pretty sure I know who did it.” Averting her gaze, she stares at the trashcan.

  If I had a lighter, I’d light the damn thing on fire. That’s how much I want to destroy those four red letters.

  “Well I guess it’s ruined now.” She shivers and wraps her arms around herself, even though it’s a million degrees outside. “Thanks for saving me the embarrassment of wearing it.”

  She starts to leave, but I grab her arm. “Wait.”

  She looks down at my hand and then up at me. “Yes?”

  “We should catch up.”

  “Catch up?”

  “You know, have a conversation.” God, I sound like an idiot, but I need a reason to keep her around a little while longer. I need to know my mind isn’t playing tricks on me. I’ve got to be sure.

  Metal benches are scattered through the courtyard. I steer her toward one of them.

  “I’ve been fine. Completely fine. You?” She’s edgy, like she’s itching to get out of here. I’m not surprised, since she thinks she’s keeping a secret from me.

  “Exhausted. Jetlag,” I explain. “I should tell you about Egypt sometime.”

  “Yes, yes, you should. Sometime. Well, glad to hear all is well. If you don’t mind, I’d like to grab a glass of champagne—”

  “I do mind.”

  I frown. The voice, the way she speaks—it’s the same. Dahlia Reynolds is definitely the girl from the library. It’s hard for me to process. Mostly because I don’t want it to be true. I hate that they’re the same girl. The girl from this morning was obtainable. This one, I’ve never wanted anything to do with.

  I force my tone to sound calm. “Can’t you spare a few minutes?”

  She looks at me, and then at the door leading back inside. “Sure,” she sighs, sinking into the nearest bench. “What do you want to talk about?”

  Sitting down next to her, I watch her fidget with those ridiculous over-sized glasses, which I suspect she can see perfectly fine without. Speaking to her is going to be difficult. This whole conversation is going to be difficult. I feel like a fool, but I don’t want to take it out on her after what she just went through. The hoodie thing was bad enough. And although I’m furious, it’s not entirely directed at her. I think I’m angrier with myself. It’s no wonder she stormed off earlier. She probably thought I was the biggest ass in the world for not knowing who my own roommate is. I sure as hell feel like one.

  On the other hand, she’s the one parading around dressed as two completely different people. Why would she do that anyway? The beautiful girl I met this morning is nothing like the girl I’ve come to recognize as my roommate. I suppose I’ve never really looked at her the way I am now. Because the longer I stare at her, the more I see through her disguise.

  Dahlia shuffles her feet, picking lint off her jeans that isn’t there. The silence seems to bother her. “Didn’t you want to talk?” she finally asks. “Why don’t you start by telling me about Egypt?”

  “Egypt was awesome,”
I answer carefully. “But I would rather talk about you.”

  She watches me out of the corner of her eye. “Is this about Hannah?” she asks. “Because I told Gwen to give her back her job. She probably hasn’t done it yet. I suppose I’ll have to do it myself—”

  “This isn’t about Hannah.”

  “Oh.” She twitches her nose. “Okay. Well what’s it about then?”

  I should keep her guessing, just to torture her, but I’m tired of playing games. “Why don’t you start by telling me why you look like that?” I lean in close to her ear. “Especially since I know how sexy you are underneath your little costume.”

  Her eyes fly to mine and her mouth falls open. She knows I know. What?” I ask innocently. “You didn’t think I’d figure it out? Told you I would, babe. Now, now, there’s no reason to burn me with those eyes of yours, which just so you know, were a dead giveaway.”

  She presses her palms flat against the bench. “Figuring it out wouldn’t have been necessary had you known who I was all along.”

  “And how was I supposed to know when you make yourself look like two different people?”

  She opens her mouth to say something, but changes her mind and stands up. “Catching up was a blast.”

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “I need a drink.”

  Dammit, I stayed calm the whole time—and she’s the one who ended up pissed off?

  “Don’t you think you owe me an explanation?”

  “No.” She says it so simply, then turns around and walks away.

  I jump up and rush to move in front of her, but she sidesteps me. “Listen, whether you think you owe me one or not, I’d still like to hear it.” My voice is sharper now. Everything I tried to hold back is slipping through.

  “It’s not my fault you can’t recognize your own roommate.”

  “Come on, Dahlia, you can’t blame me when we’ve barely spoken.”

  “Yeah, well that’s not my fault either.”

  The door slams behind her, making me flinch. What the hell did she mean by that? As far as I can remember, she’s never attempted a conversation or tried to create any kind of relationship whatsoever.

  So she’s angry. Well, she can just get over it. No matter how much of an ass I may have been, she is still the one that deceived me.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  WESLEY

  There’s no doubt in my mind. Dahlia is wasted.

  I’ve been watching her for an hour now, and after that last conversation, I have no idea how to approach her. So I just stand here across the room, watching her lift glass after glass of champagne to those full pink lips, a dreamy alcohol-infused smile plastered across her face.

  No one else is paying her much attention. Every now and then she’ll dance with Gwen. The two of them look more like toddlers learning to walk, but they’re having fun doing it.

  That smile is amazing.

  I’ve never noticed it before. It brightens her entire face, the weird makeup and awkward glasses fading into the background, and I can’t seem to take my eyes off her. It makes me wonder what else my roommate is hiding.

  Charlotte Hart passes by me, catching my attention. “Hart, wait up.”

  “Hey, Wes,” she says cheerfully. “How’ve you been?”

  “I need to talk to you about something.”

  “Okay,” she says, frowning at the seriousness in my voice. “What’s up?”

  I tell her about the girls who vandalized Dahlia’s hoodie, giving her the names of the ones I could identify and describing the ones I couldn’t. As I’m speaking, the muscles in Charlotte’s throat work to swallow a lump, and I can tell she’s having a hard time processing everything. I assume she’s upset because it means her sorority sisters could potentially be in serious trouble. This school doesn’t take bullying lightly; they could be facing serious consequences. Expulsion, possibly.

  “I need to find Doll,” she says, looking like she’s on the verge of tears.

  “Doll?”

  “Yes, I need to find her and make this right. I can’t believe those bitches did that to my best friend.” She stands on her tiptoes, peeking over the crowd. “Do you know where she is?”

  I’m not sure if we’re talking about the same person. “Are you saying Dahlia Reynolds is your best friend?”

  She nods, still looking around the room frantically. “We grew up together.”

  It’s hard to imagine my roommate and the president of Alpha Delta Pi as friends, much less best friends, but whatever. I’ll go along with it.

  “Listen, Hart, I don’t think you should bring it up again. Let her enjoy the rest of the party.” Falling-down drunk is better than that look Dahlia gave me when she saw her hoodie. There’s no reason to ruin the rest of her night. “I told you so you can deal with the ones responsible.”

  “You’re right,” she says, biting her lip. “I just feel so awful about this.”

  “She’s over it,” I say, thinking of her and Gwen’s chaotic dancing. “Trust me.”

  “Okay…I guess.” She turns to leave, but pauses. “Hey, Wesley?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks for looking out.” She said it almost like she can’t believe I would bother.

  “It’s nothing.”

  Once she’s gone, I search for Dahlia again. She’s in the corner, sprawled across one of the stuffed chairs, her wrist holding up her chin and her elbow resting against the arm of the chair. Her glasses sit skewed on the bridge of her nose, and when she tries to correct them she only manages to unbalance them some more. Gwen isn’t with her anymore, and seeing her alone bothers me. There’s no way she’s driving home like that.

  One of the football players, Miles Cahill, approaches Dahlia and says something that makes her smile. He reaches for her hand and pulls her out of her chair. Twirling her under his arm, Miles guides her to the dance floor. I can’t believe it. The girl can barely walk, much less dance at this point.

  I stand there for a second, debating whether or not I should intervene. Dahlia stumbles, catching herself on Cahill’s arm. Every muscle in my body lurches. He doesn’t notice how close she is to falling on her ass.

  I clench my fist; I want to go over there and do something about it. But it’s none of my business. What I should do is go home and get some sleep. I should forget about this whole night.

  Dahlia’s shoe catches on the floor, and she stumbles again.

  Yeah, fuck that. I’m going over there.

  ~ ~

  DAHLIA

  “Sorry to cut in, Cahill, but Dahlia and I have to go.”

  The abrupt way Wesley removes Miles’s hand from my side takes me a few seconds to register. My entire body tenses. I didn’t expect to see him again this soon; I figured once he realized who I was, he would go back to ignoring me. Why hasn’t he gone back to ignoring me?

  “Sorry, Wes,” Miles says. “Charlotte asked me to keep Doll entertained.”

  Why is Miles apologizing? We were just dancing. There’s nothing to apologize about.

  “I didn’t know you two came together.”

  I start to tell Miles we definitely did not come here together, but before I get a word out, Wesley says, “Last time I checked, I was living with the girl.” He stares Miles down, daring him to push the issue.

  Miles smiles sheepishly, then looks at me. “Oh right. I should check on Charlotte anyway. See you later, Doll.”

  He takes off, leaving me standing there gaping at Wesley. By the casual look on his face, he has no idea how rude he came off. “You are the most…” I’m so worked up, I can’t seem to finish my sentence. This is all the champagne’s fault. Thinking clearly is impossible.

  Oxygen. That’s what I need. Lots and lots of oxygen.

  Taking a deep breath, I start over. “Is this about getting your stupid explanation?”

  “Why does everyone call you Doll?” He asks, totally oblivious to my irritation.

  “What?” I clench my hands into
fists. “My name is Doll. Short for Dahlia. And Miles can call me by name, if that’s okay with you.”

  “Is that sarcasm? Because I know your name, babe. I’ll admit I don’t know much else about you, but I do know your name.”

  “Then why did you ask?”

  Wesley shrugs and says, “I figured maybe you have separate names for each personality—”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “—and if that’s the case, your friends are only making the situation worse. Mental illness shouldn’t be taken lightly.”

  Part of me realizes he’s teasing, but my mind is foggy, and I can’t get around how overbearing he’s acting. He has no say-so about my life in any way whatsoever, joking or not. “Well I don’t think your cook should call you by your first name or talk about all your sexcapades, but you don’t hear me complaining, do you?”

  Except for right now, of course. But I don’t feel the need to point that out.

  “Are we talking about the same cook you had fired?”

  “I did not fire her!”

  Wesley reaches for my hand, unlocking my clenched fist and tucking it beneath his arm. “Let’s not cause a scene, okay?” One corner of his mouth curves up. He doesn’t seem like the type to care about causing scenes, so I get the feeling he said that for me. Looking around, I notice there are a few people staring.

  Oh God.

  Nausea churns my stomach, sending goose bumps down my arms. The room slowly spins around me, a whirlwind of people, music, and voices.

  “Are you all right?” Wesley asks me, sounding alarmed.

  “I don’t think so.” My skin feels clammy, and all I want to do is go lie down somewhere. Even the floor isn’t looking so bad. “I think I might be sick.”

  I really don’t want to be sick in front of all these people. Being the invisible girl is better than being known as the girl who gave Graffiti Bash a new meaning.

  Wesley’s face turns serious. “Let’s get you home then. There are a few cabs out front.”

  My stomach twists painfully. “I’m not sure I can make it that far.”

  “Yes, you can.” He tugs me toward him. “Lean against me, and I’ll walk you there.”