Olivia
Executing a plan was my specialty. Executing this plan, however, felt like trying to solve an advanced calculus problem while riding a roller coaster. The variables were too unpredictable, the primary one being Ethan Brooks himself.
Our first public appearance as a "couple" was scheduled for 7:00 PM at the library's Read-a-Thon. According to our agreed-upon strategy (outlined in a shared document I had created, complete with a timeline and success metrics), this was Phase One: The Soft Launch.
I arrived five minutes early, selecting a table in a high-traffic area. I laid out my political science textbooks, a highlighter, and a copy of "The Federalist Papers," just to complete the picture of academic dedication. I was in my element. The only thing out of place was the nervous flutter in my stomach.
At exactly 7:00 PM, Ethan appeared. I watched him from over the top of my book. He paused at the entrance, scanning the room. For a moment, I thought he might bail. It would be just like him to deem a library too boring for his Friday night. But then his eyes found mine, and he started walking over, a look of theatrical reluctance on his handsome face.
He was playing his part perfectly. He was the fun-loving frat boy, dragged to the library by his new, studious girlfriend. He slumped into the chair opposite me with a long-suffering sigh.
"Chen," he muttered, just loud enough for the people at the next table to hear. "Remind me again why we're here instead of at the movies?"
"Because some of us have midterms, Brooks," I replied, my voice carrying a hint of affectionate exasperation. This was part of the script we'd worked out via a series of terse, business-like texts. "And because it's for charity."
"Right. Charity," he said, picking up one of my highlighters and twirling it between his fingers. "The things I do for you."
It was a good line. A little cheesy, but effective. I saw a girl at the next table hide a smile behind her hand. Phase One was working.
"Just try to read something," I said, pushing a copy of the university's literary journal towards him. "It won't kill you."
He opened it with a dramatic groan, but then he actually started reading. We sat in silence for a while, a tableau of domestic bliss for any interested onlookers. The studious girl and her reformed bad boy. It was nauseatingly cliché.
But a strange thing happened in the silence. Without the need to argue or score points, I found myself watching him. He wasn't just pretending to read. His eyes were actually scanning the page, his brow furrowed in concentration. He had a small, almost invisible scar above his right eyebrow. I wondered where he'd gotten it. I noticed the way he bit his lower lip when he was focused, a habit I found unexpectedly endearing.
Stop it, Olivia, I chided myself. This is a strategic partnership. He is a variable to be managed, not a subject to be studied.
To distract myself, I focused on our next move. The plan called for a shared beverage and a moment of light-hearted banter.
"I'm getting a coffee," I announced, standing up. "Do you want one?"
"Only if you promise it's not one of your unsweetened, soul-crushing black coffees," he said, looking up at me.
"I'll get you a mocha. With extra whipped cream," I said, playing along. "To match your sweet personality."
His answering grin was dazzling. "You know me so well."
As I walked to the small café cart, I felt a strange warmth spread through my chest. The banter felt… easy. Natural. It was a dangerous feeling.
When I returned with the coffees, he had put the journal down. "Okay, I'm officially bored. Tell me a story."
"I'm studying, Brooks."
"Come on. A real story. Something not from a textbook. Tell me about the first time you knew you wanted to be president."
The question was personal, a deviation from the plan. But we were being watched. I had to play along.
I hesitated, then gave in. "I was eight. My dad took me to a town hall meeting. The mayor was talking about building a new park. Everyone was arguing, but he was calm. He listened. He made a decision. I didn't care about the park. I cared about the way he commanded the room. The way he made order out of chaos."
It was a story I had told many times on the campaign trail, but saying it to him felt different. He was really listening, his gaze intent, his usual smirk gone.
"Order out of chaos," he repeated softly. "Yeah, that sounds like you."
"What about you?" I asked, surprising myself. "When did you decide you wanted to run?"
He looked away for a second, a shadow passing over his face. "That's a more complicated story," he said, his voice losing its playful edge. But before I could press him, his charming grin was back in place. "Let's just say I realized the student government needed a little more chaos and a lot less order."
He was deflecting, but he had given me a glimpse of something real, something beyond the carefree persona. It was the second time I'd seen it, after his apology.
Our script called for me to laugh at one of his jokes. He hadn't made one, but this felt like the right moment. I let out a small, soft laugh.
"We really are opposites, aren't we?" I said.
"Maybe opposites attract," he said, his voice a low murmur. He reached across the table and, for a heart-stopping second, I thought he was going to break Rule #1. But his fingers just brushed against the back of my hand, a touch so light it was barely there, before he drew back.
It was nothing. A ghost of a touch. But it sent a jolt through me that had nothing to do with strategy and everything to do with the man sitting across from me.
We stayed for another hour, making small talk, playing our parts. As we got up to leave, he did it. In full view of the student journalist who had been "subtly" taking pictures for the last twenty minutes, Ethan reached out and took my hand.
His hand was large and warm, enveloping mine completely. It was a public display of affection, as per the rules. It was for public consumption. But as we walked out of the library, his fingers intertwined with mine, it felt dangerously, terrifyingly real.
We were just outside the library doors, hidden in the shadows, when we let go. The absence of his touch left my hand feeling cold.
"Well," I said, my voice a little breathless. "Phase One complete."
"Yeah," he said, his voice strangely hoarse. He wouldn't meet my eyes. "We're getting good at this."
"Too good," I whispered to myself as I watched him walk away into the darkness. The line between the performance and reality was already starting to blur, and that was a variable I had never planned for.