Your Rival Saw Me Naked

Chapter 47

The second time I see Scott that week, I know I’m not going to make it through the night sober.

He’s standing near the vending machines this time, laughing with two guys from my year like he belongs there, like this campus isn’t supposed to be my clean slate. He doesn’t even look at me at first. That somehow makes it worse. Like I’m an afterthought. Like everything that happened is already filed away in his head under done.

Then he does look.

His eyes lock onto mine, and the look he gives me isn’t angry. It isn’t surprised. It’s knowing.

That’s what gets under my skin.

I turn away before he can say anything, my chest already tight, my pulse loud in my ears. My hands shake slightly as I shove them into my pockets. I tell myself to breathe. To walk. To just get through the day.

I don’t.

I skip my last class and head straight to the bar near campus, the one everyone pretends isn’t grimy because it’s familiar. The bartender doesn’t card me anymore. That should bother me. It doesn’t.

“Whiskey,” I say, dropping onto a stool.

“Rough day?” he asks.

“Something like that.”

The first drink burns going down, sharp and grounding. The second dulls the edges. By the third, my shoulders loosen, the noise in my head quieting just enough to let me breathe.

I don’t plan to text Zoey.

I never do.

But my phone buzzes on the bar top like it’s alive, her name lighting up the screen.

Where are you?

I stare at it for a moment, then type back.

Out.

Out where?

I hesitate, then send the truth. The Lantern.

Three dots appear almost immediately.

I’m coming, she writes.

Something twists in my chest. Relief. Irritation. Both at once.

By the time she arrives, I’m several drinks in, the room warm and loud, my thoughts pleasantly fuzzy.

“Chase,” she says, stopping in front of me. “You didn’t answer my calls.”

I grin, lazy and stupid. “You found me anyway.”

She frowns. “You’re drunk.”

“Buzzed,” I correct. “There’s a difference.”

She looks around the bar, uncomfortable. “Can we go somewhere quieter?”

“Why?” I ask, too loudly. “You embarrassed?”

Her cheeks flush. “I’m concerned.”

“About what?” I scoff. “Me having fun?”

“This isn’t fun,” she says softly. “This is you running.”

People nearby glance over. I can feel the attention now, and instead of shrinking from it, something ugly inside me leans into it.

“You always say that,” I reply. “Everything I do is running to you.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is,” I insist. “You’ve got everything figured out, right? The grades. The awards. The professors lining up to tell you how special you are.”

Her eyes widen. “Why are you bringing this up now?”

“Because it’s funny,” I say, laughing. “Watching you pretend you still want me when you’re clearly moving on.”

“That’s not fair,” she says, voice shaking. “I came because I was worried.”

“Oh, I know,” I reply. “You love worrying about me. Makes you feel needed.”

A guy at the bar snorts quietly. Zoey stiffens.

“Chase,” she says through clenched teeth, “you’re hurting me.”

The words bounce off the haze in my head, barely registering.

“You’re hurting yourself,” I fire back. “Running around like some academic star while pretending you still care about people like me.”

Her eyes glisten. “I care about you.”

“Do you?” I ask, leaning back. “Or do you just like how bad I look next to you?”

That one lands. I see it in her face—the way something fractures, something small but vital.

“That’s cruel,” she whispers.

I shrug. “Truth hurts.”

The bartender clears his throat. “Hey, man—”

“Mind your business,” I snap.

Zoey steps back like she’s been slapped.

“I came to help you,” she says. “And you’re humiliating me.”

“Then leave,” I say. “No one’s stopping you.”

The room feels very quiet all of a sudden. Zoey stands there for a second longer, like she’s hoping I’ll take it back.

I don’t.

She turns and walks out.

The door slams behind her harder than necessary.

For a moment, the silence in my head is absolute.

Then the guilt crashes in.

I drink more to drown it out.

The next morning, I wake up with my head pounding and my mouth tasting like regret. My phone is on the floor beside the bed, screen cracked slightly, notifications stacked up.

Zoey’s name is there. Several times.

I sit up slowly, groaning, memories of last night flooding back in uneven flashes—her face, the bar, my own voice sounding meaner than I ever intend it to.

“Shit,” I mutter.

I text her immediately.

I’m sorry.

No response.

I pace the room, anxiety crawling under my skin. I tell myself it was the alcohol talking. That I didn’t mean it. That she knows that.

I was drunk, I add. I didn’t mean any of it.

Still nothing.

An hour later, my phone buzzes.

Can we talk? she writes.

Relief floods me so hard it almost knocks me over.

Yes. Please.

We meet outside her dorm. She looks tired. Smaller somehow. Guilt twists deeper in my chest.

“I’m sorry,” I say as soon as she stops in front of me. “I shouldn’t have said those things.”

“You humiliated me,” she replies quietly.

“I know,” I say quickly.

She studies my face, searching. “Are you going to stop drinking?”

I hesitate. Just for a second.

“I’ll try,” I say.

The word hangs between us, weak and noncommittal.

She nods anyway.

“I forgive you,” she says.

The ease of it hurts more than anger would have.

“Thank you,” I breathe.

She gives a small smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Just… don’t do it again.”

“I won’t,” I promise, even though I don’t know if that’s true.

After she leaves, relief fades, replaced by something uglier.

She forgave me. Just like that.

The thought makes my chest ache.

Because part of me knows I didn’t just humiliate her last night.

I tested something.

And she passed.

I don’t know whether to hate myself for that—Or hate myself for knowing I’ll probably do it again.