Today's Reading
It kills me that he knows my schedule so well. Because I do, in fact, have a shift at the library in fifteen minutes. I'll already need to rush to get there on time.
"Fine." The word comes out bitten off as I stand, grabbing my bag.
I shove my chair in, bashing it a little harder than necessary against Three's seat. Even from behind, he looks smug. It fills me with rage, which makes it very difficult to put on a normal, well- adjusted voice as I call goodbye to the rest of the staff in the newsroom.
I shoulder my bag with enough force that it smacks Three in the back of the head.
"Whoops," I say lightly, glancing back. His glasses have gone askew, and his glare is deadly. I manage to choke out, "Sorry!" and rush for the exit, making it into the hall just as my laughter explodes out of me.
It's a small victory in our ongoing war.
The worst part about Three isn't that he's, arguably, the most unpleasant human being I've ever met. It isn't his sneer, or his perfectly timed jabs, or the way he pushes his reading glasses up onto his forehead like he's some kind of movie reporter.
It's the fact that everyone else thinks he's incredible. The rest of the 'Torch' staff finds him charming. I've caught more than one person in our shared statistics class shooting him major heart eyes. He's well-spoken and, unfortunately, intelligent, so professors love him. No one would ever believe that under his nice hair and his kind smile and his good manners, there lies a plotting, poisonous snake.
The second-worst part about Three is that he's cute. He's got the kind of face you would inherently trust—or at least not be surprised to find in a Vineyard Vines ad. He's got the look of East Coast old money, though really he's just Midwest old money. It doesn't matter—it's all money either way. He even went to boarding school, where I imagine he earned such a boarding school nickname like Three. As though a normal nickname, when he is Nathaniel Wellborn III, would be too pleb.
It stings to acknowledge, but when I first saw him, my brain did a deep dive into every campus romance webcomic I've ever read. We were very firmly 'not' friends—Three was impossible to be friends with back then, no matter how hard I tried. But for five minutes at a time, when I arrived with a cup of coffee just for him, he was 'charming'. I'd get a morsel of him for myself to stow away for giggling, feet-kicking fantasies as soon as I was alone. And at the grunt desk, we handled the work like partners, dutifully tackling the to-do list together.
It all fell apart a few weeks ago when Angelica, the Campus Life editor, found out she got an internship at the 'Columbus Dispatch' starting next semester. Now that she's leaving the 'Torch' and others in her section are moving up, there's going to be a spot for a new Campus Life reporter.
A spot that's going to be 'mine.'
Landing a staff position on the 'Torch' blows a little writing credit straight out of the water. It'll prove I have real value to the paper beyond a few articles they happened to like. (Not that I've gotten to write any articles yet.)
Three might think he needs to win for the same reason, but I've looked at the numbers—there is a disproportionate amount of female applicants over male applicants, but a fairly even number of male and female journalism students. He has nothing to worry about—or at least less to worry about than I do.
And yet, the day Angelica announced she would be leaving, Three waited until the noise in the room picked up again before turning to me and saying, casual as ever, "You know I'll destroy you before I let you win that spot, right?"
And just like that, every happy, flirty thought I'd ever had about him got flushed. We were at war.
There's a guy coming out of my dorm room when I arrive late that night. It's after midnight, the hall quiet and the lounge mostly empty except for one person studying.
"Um, hi?" I say when the guy nearly knocks into me.
"'Sup," he says, but it's not a question, because he's already walking away.
I catch the door before it swings shut and poke my head into the room, the rest of my body following, relieved, when I see my roommate, Ellie, sitting at her desk. She's wearing sweats that are baggy on her thin frame, her brown hair pulled up in a messy bun— her go-to when she hasn't washed it in a while. She has the overhead fluorescents turned off, the room lit by her color-changing lamp, which is currently blue. It makes her look extra pale.
Not that I have room to talk. The sight of my reflection in our vanity is staggering—shoulder-length brown hair in tangles from the windy walk home, dark eyes bloodshot from staring at my computer in the newsroom all afternoon, and skin sheet-white now that we've left summer far behind.
...
