When Malia's boyfriend perceives her first conversation with Reese, their college's star soccer player, as flirting, her night ends in lies, denial, a nasty breakup, and a tight strain between her and the hot soccer star.
A hopeful romanticizer at h...
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"What the hell are you doing?" I break through the crowd, cutting off Reese's words. My mouth hangs open as I sear my eyes into him. Protectiveness of Brandon courses through my blood, igniting a fire.
Reese takes a step back, swinging his eyes over me. Recognition registers. "Are you drunk?"
"I—" My eyes narrow into slits. "Excuse me?"
He nods. "Because your boyfriend seems to think so."
"What?" A slow knot coils in the pit of my stomach like the moments before a horror movie jump scare. My interanal music plays in eery beets, and my slasher's whereabouts are unknown. "What the hell are you talking about?" I say, stuttering over the last word.
Brandon scoffs, planting a firm hand on my shoulder. "He's being crazy, Malia."
Reese widens his eyes, not an ounce of hesitation in them. "He came over here to tell me the 'not drinking' thing is bullshit, and you really are intoxicated, just hide it well. He said the buzz was the only reason you 'flirted' with me. It makes you act like a 'slut." That, since you don't know what you're doing, that it's not about me."
I stare back at Reese, motionless. His words ring like a dreary echo, pounding on my head, creeping up my spine, quickening my heartbeats, spiraling my mind.
When I—was I too flirty with Reese? Did Brandon think—no. He couldn't have; our five-minute conversation was just like conversations he has all the time. But did I overdo it?
Subtle guilt spikes my stomach. Questions whirl, but before I contemplate, I shove them all behind a sturdy dam wall cemented with my trust. I halt the thoughts in their tracks. None of what Reese said is true. It can't be true. Brandon wouldn't say that about me. He knows I haven't had a drop of alcohol tonight. And he wouldn't lie about me, embarrass me, and call me a slut.
I push Reese's chest. "No," I say, rejecting his words. The push is an instinct, a knee-jerk reaction. "Brandon didn't say that."
"I didn't." Brandon's denial echoes behind me. In actuality, it's drowned out by the beating music, the clicks and clacks behind the bar, the voices all around us. But I hear his words, sharp and crisp. They're the only thing that matters. They're what I hold onto. Everything else fades.
I take a deep breath, attempting to slow my racing heart as I pin my stare on Reese. "Why are you lying?"
Reese's tired, heavy eyes flash. "I'm not."
I clench my hands. "I trust Brandon," I reply, voice shaky.
"Maybe you shouldn't."
His words spark me. "I'm sorry?" I step closer. Brandon tugs on my arm, trying to prevent me from moving, but I ignore him. "You don't even know me, and you barely know Brandon!" My scream, loud and strained, chokes past my lips. Brandon pulls on my shoulder, but I shrug him off and stay face-to-face with Reese.
