Olivia
Friday night arrived, and with it, a level of exhaustion I hadn't felt all semester. The week had been a relentless series of failed negotiations with Ethan Brooks. We had met twice more since the disastrous committee meeting, and each time had ended in a stalemate. My meticulously crafted proposals were met with his calls for "more spontaneity," and his "spontaneous" ideas were met with my hard-nosed practicality. We were oil and water. Fire and ice. A planner and a walking, talking agent of chaos.
Mia found me hunched over my laptop in our dorm room, trying to draft a budget that could somehow accommodate both a poetry slam and a rock-climbing wall.
"Nope. No more," she declared, snapping my laptop shut. I gasped in protest.
"Mia! I was in the middle of a cost-benefit analysis of inflatable obstacle courses!"
"You're in the middle of a spiral," she corrected, pulling me up from my chair. "You've been cooped up in here all week, fighting a war on two fronts: one against Ethan and one against your own sanity. You need a break. There's a party at the Delta Tau house tonight. We're going."
"A party? At a frat house? Mia, I don't have time for…"
"It's not a request, it's an intervention," she said, shoving a pair of jeans and a black silk top into my arms. "You're going to put on real clothes, you're going to leave that binder behind, and you're going to have fun. That's an order."
An hour later, I found myself standing on the sticky floor of the Delta Tau house, a plastic cup of some unidentifiable punch in my hand. The bass from the speakers vibrated through my bones, and the air was thick with the smell of beer and cheap perfume. It was my personal version of hell.
Mia, of course, was in her element, already chatting with a group of art students by the makeshift bar. I hovered awkwardly by the wall, feeling like an anthropologist studying a strange, primitive tribe.
And then, as if my night wasn't already uncomfortable enough, I saw him.
Ethan Brooks was holding court in the center of the room. He was, predictably, the life of the party. He had a beer in one hand and was telling some animated story that had a circle of people, mostly women, laughing in adoration. He looked completely at ease, in his element. This was his world, not mine.
I tried to shrink back into the shadows, but it was too late. His eyes, those ridiculously blue-green eyes, scanned the room and locked onto mine. A slow, lazy smirk spread across his face. He excused himself from his fan club and started making his way toward me.
My fight-or-flight instincts kicked in. I chose flight, turning to make a hasty retreat, but the crowd was too thick. He caught up to me easily, his large frame blocking my escape.
"Well, well, Chen," he said, his voice a low rumble over the music. "Look at you. I didn't think they let people with GPAs over 4.0 into places like this."
"I was coerced," I said, taking a defiant sip of my punch. It was sickeningly sweet. I grimaced.
He chuckled. "Not a fan of the jungle juice? Can't say I blame you. Come on, I'll get you a real drink."
Before I could protest, he took my hand. His skin was warm, his grip surprisingly gentle. He led me through the throng of dancing bodies toward the kitchen. The brief contact sent a strange, unwelcome jolt up my arm.
He rummaged through the fridge and produced two bottles of beer. He handed one to me. "A step up from the punch, I promise."
"Thanks," I mumbled, taking the bottle. We stood in the relative quiet of the kitchen, an island in the sea of party chaos.
"So," he said, leaning against the counter. "Forced cooperation not going so well, huh?"
"That's the understatement of the century," I admitted, taking a sip of the beer. It was cold and crisp. "We can't agree on anything."
"Because you refuse to entertain any idea that can't be neatly organized into a spreadsheet."
"And you refuse to acknowledge that we have a budget and a duty to be responsible!"
"See? Even here, you're campaigning." He shook his head, but he was smiling. "Can't you turn it off? Just for one night?"
"Can you?" I retorted.
He considered this for a moment. "Fair point."
We were silent for a minute, the thumping bass from the other room filling the space between us. I had had two sips of beer, but I already felt a strange light-headedness, probably from the sheer stress of the week.
"You know what our problem is, Chen?" he said suddenly. "We're both too good at selling ourselves. You sell 'competence.' I sell 'charisma.' And everyone's buying it."
"What's your point?"
"My point is, our public images are everything. The perfect, polished president-to-be, and the charming, lovable rogue." He took a long pull from his beer, his eyes gleaming with a mischievous light. "I bet I'm better at it than you are."
"Better at what?" I asked, confused.
"At playing the part. At making people believe the story." He leaned in, his voice dropping. "I bet I could make this entire campus believe I was madly in love with you. And you, Ms. Perfect, could never pull off pretending to fall for someone like me."
The audacity of it, the sheer arrogance, made me laugh. It was a short, sharp, humorless sound.
"You're delusional, Brooks."
"Am I?" He raised an eyebrow. "It's the ultimate PR move. Think about it. The two rivals, finding love on the campaign trail. It would be a sensation. People would eat it up. It would boost both our images."
It was a ridiculous, insane idea. But the punch, or the beer, or the exhaustion, had short-circuited my rational brain. A reckless impulse, something I hadn't felt in years, bubbled up inside me.
"You think so?" I said, my voice challenging. "You think you could fool everyone into believing you're with me? That I'm with you?"
"I'd have them planning our wedding by homecoming," he boasted, his grin widening.
"You're on," I heard myself say. The words were out before I could stop them.
Ethan's eyes widened in genuine surprise. He hadn't actually expected me to agree.
"What?"
"I said, you're on," I repeated, a strange thrill running through me. "Let's make a bet. We fake a relationship. We convince the campus we're a couple. We see who's better at playing the part. Who can sell the story. First one to get caught, or the first one to admit they can't handle it, loses."
"And what does the winner get?" he asked, his voice a low, captivated whisper.
"The loser has to drop out of the race," I said, the stakes suddenly becoming terrifyingly real.
He stared at me, his playful demeanor gone, replaced by a sharp, assessing gaze. He was calculating the odds, the risks, the potential rewards. I had called his bluff, and now we were in uncharted territory.
"You're serious," he breathed.
"Never been more serious in my life," I lied.
He broke into a slow, dangerous smile. It was the smile of a gambler who had just been dealt a perfect hand.
"Alright, Chen," he said, extending his hand. "You've got a bet."
I took his hand. His grip was firm, electric. We shook on it, sealing the most insane, reckless, and potentially catastrophic deal of my entire life.
I had just bet my future on a lie. And as I looked into Ethan Brooks's triumphant eyes, I had a sinking feeling that I was the one who had just been played.