Chapter 1.
JASON
The August sun beat down, shimmering off the cracked sidewalk as I hoisted the last box from the backseat, balancing its stubbornly digging weight on my hip and nudging the car door closed with my foot. Parker was already halfway up the worn stone steps of Theta Lambda, her shoulders back, her yellow sundress fluttering in the gentle, almost teasing breeze. The fabric skimmed delicately over her hips, catching slightly; a familiar sight that always reminded me, with a pang somewhere between possessiveness and longing, that she still didn’t know what she really looked like in motion. Her hand, slender and a little hesitant, ran self-consciously through her honey-blonde hair, the summer sunlight dancing on the ring encircling her finger.
Promise rings. We’d worn them since high school. Most people thought it was outdated; maybe cute in a tragic kind of way. But for us, it was real: something we held onto, a shared stillness in a world that always seemed to be spinning faster. A little like the feeling of looking up at the same moon at the same time. That ring, cool silver against my own skin, had kept us connected through the distance, the crackly late-night calls, the months where we felt like we were living in different worlds. And now, she was finally here. With me. The way it was supposed to be.
She turned, biting her lip; that small, almost imperceptible habit she had when she was nervous. Her eyes, hazel-green and wide, sparkled with that familiar anxious excitement, like she wasn’t sure whether to hug me or sprint headlong toward her future. Her arms were bare, golden from a summer spent lifeguarding, and her dress clung in all the right places without her even realizing it. My heart gave a familiar skip, a beat of pure appreciation every time I saw her with fresh eyes.
She still moved like the girl I fell in love with. Unguarded, unaware, almost impossibly beautiful. “Do you think they’ll like me?” Her voice was a little breathless, tinged with the college-town humidity. “I mean, what if I bomb the drama mixer? They’re all theater kids. Like, real ones.”
I grinned through the oppressive heat, the back of my t-shirt already sticking to me. “They’d have to be blind not to.”
Inside, the sorority house buzzed with a chaotic symphony of motion: overlapping feminine laughter, doors slamming shut down long hallways, music with a heavy bass beat dripping and bleeding through the ceiling from somewhere upstairs. It smelled like lavender and sharp antiseptic cleaner, overlaid with something else… a cloying, overly sweet perfume that seemed to hang in the air. I trailed behind her, the strap of my thrifted backpack digging into my shoulder, trying not to feel too out of place. Everyone here seemed taller, shinier, richer; their confidence an invisible accessory I couldn’t afford. I kept my mouth shut.
That’s when she appeared, as if summoned by the shift in atmosphere.
Cate Graves. Statuesque, stunning, and whip-smart, she had the lean, toned build of someone who didn’t just walk into a room – she stalked it, claimed it. Sharp where Parker was soft, Cate wore a cropped athletic tank that showed off angular shoulders and small, high breasts that didn’t so much bounce as track with sleek intention. Her dark hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail, emphasizing the hawk-like intensity of her gaze. She exuded the kind of casual confidence that made people part without realizing why.
“You must be Parker,” she said, her voice modulated, practically manufactured. A 1200 thread-count sonorous purr that felt like judgment via waveform. She extended a perfectly manicured hand.
Parker took it, and watched her smile widen, nervous but undeniably glowing. I shifted the box against my hip, its cardboard edge pressing raw.
Cate’s gaze, sharp and analytical, dropped to Parker’s hand, then to the ring. “Wow. That’s a nice ring. Engaged already, or just incredibly wholesome?”
Don’t stare. Don’t let her see you sweat. My stomach clenched, a familiar tightening against this kind of too-smooth, too-knowing scrutiny.
She laughed. A quick, amused caw that didn’t remotely illuminate her eyes, making my skin crawl even though her lips curved upwards. “That’s so sweet. Old-fashioned, huh? You two high school sweethearts or something?”
Parker’s blush rose instantly, a wave of color up her neck, and she gave the tiniest laugh; tilting her head just enough for her hair to shift over one shoulder, the sun from a nearby window catching the delicate curve of her cheek. “Kind of a long story. We’ve just- we’ve been together since forever.”
I nodded, trying to keep my voice casual despite my defensively tight larynx. “Since sophomore year.”
Cate looked at me then, a slow, deliberate appraisal that felt like being scanned, cataloged. Her eyes carried the triple‑shadow of a crossroads at midnight: one glance forward, one behind, one straight through you. “That kind of devotion is rare.” Her gaze flicked back to Parker, a subtle shift in her expression, something almost… possessive. “A woman like you, with that fire… one hopes your Jason understands the kind of queen he’s pledged himself to. A modern Medea needs a hero, not a hand-wringer.”
I couldn’t tell if it was a compliment or a threat. The air thickened with unspoken meaning.
Before I could figure it out, she spun smoothly, a dancer’s grace, and gestured down the polished wood of the hall. “Come on, I’ll show you around. We move fast around here. You’ll love it.”
Parker looked at me, her eyes wide and uncertain for a second. I managed a nod. “Go. I’ll bring the last box in.”
She let herself be pulled forward. At the threshold, Cate’s arm slid around Parker’s shoulders with an ease that suggested years of intimacy, not minutes. Pausing then for a glance back at me, eyes somehow both steely and playful, she tossed the room key to me in an effortless arc. “Make yourself useful and start unpacking, hero. I’ve got Parker.” The lilt in Cates voice belied the sting in her words.
They disappeared down the corridor, Parker’s silhouette soft and yielding beside Cate’s sharp, commanding frame.
She’s in her world now. And you’re just the guy with the boxes.
My hand twitched, a possessive instinct to reach for hers again, to keep that connection in this overwhelming new place.
Don’t be weird, man, she’s just excited.
But she was already gone, swallowed by the dim hallway.
A strange, metallic sensation rose in the back of my throat; the taste of a rusty nail, or an old coin. I told myself it was just the heat, the exhaustion. Staring down at my own ring, the silver suddenly felt thin, its shine a temporary thing that could be scrubbed away, tarnished by the slightest touch of this new, charged air.
Chapter 2.
PARKER’S DIARY – September 1st, 11:00 a.m.
Theta Coffee
First full day, and I just had my first official “mentor moment” with Cate.
I’m writing this at the little corner desk in my room. The sunlight feels warm on the old wood. My brain’s still a happy, nervous fizz, but I have to get this morning down, because I think it might be important. Not in a huge “big break” way… just… I don’t know. Something feels different now. Like a switch flipped.
Cate texted me last night after dinner:
I figured it was an orientation thing, maybe Theta president being nice to a new pledge. But it wasn’t like that at all.
We walked off-campus to Finch & Ivy. It’s one of those rustic-hipster places, you know? Exposed brick, and it smelled like really good, strong coffee. She paid for mine before I even pulled out my wallet and said, “If you’re going to carry yourself like a woman with gravity, you shouldn’t be fumbling with change like a freshman.” I laughed, probably way too loud. Felt a bit like a dork.
She didn’t ask about Jason. Not once. That was a little weird, right? I mean, I mentioned him when I was talking about moving in, and she just flashed this polite, super-bright smile and changed the subject. So fast.
We talked about drama. For ages. I was surprised how much I talked. About the roles I dream about. You know, the scary ones, the ones that really change you. Even about practicing that one speech from Streetcar in my room for ages. I love how the pages of that script feel, so worn in, even though I’ve never actually used it for an audition. It felt like I was finally talking to someone who understood that this isn’t just a hobby for me. I’ve had headshots on my wall since I was ten. I’ve spent every summer since middle school in community theater, dreaming of a real stage. It’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted, the only version of myself that’s ever felt real.
She said I have “the bones for presence” (what does that even mean?!). And she noticed I get tense in my shoulders when I’m self-conscious (how could she tell that already?) but said my posture is “magnetic” when I’m thinking.
I totally blushed. I could feel my face get hot. And that only made her smile more, this little knowing look.
Then she leaned in, resting her chin on her hand, and her eyes were so sparkly and focused, it kind of made me lean in. She said, “Have you ever done monologue work without the crutch of modesty?”
I blinked at her, so confused. I think my mouth even dropped open a little. “Like, emotionally open?” I asked.
She just sipped her coffee, looking right at me. “Like emotionally naked. Or naked-naked. Either’s a good start.”
I laughed. Such a nervous, dorky laugh. My palms got a little sweaty. But the weird thing? I didn’t say no. I didn’t even ask if she was kidding. Something about Cate made it easier to… go along, I guess? And when I thought about it. Like really thought about it, it was like this tiny jolt, a thrill, went down my back. Did she really mean that? And… would I? If she asked?
She told me vulnerability is everything in theater. And that courage is what casting directors notice even before beauty. Her line really stuck with me. Courage is currency. I keep thinking about it.
And then – God – she said: “You have it. Most girls like you don’t.”
Girls like me? What does that mean?
The way she looked at me… it was intense. Like the first time being caught in a really bright spotlight. A little scary, but also… I don’t know, kind of addictive.
I didn’t ask her to explain. Maybe I didn’t want to know. Or maybe, deep down, some part of me already gets it.
When we got back to the house, the smell of lavender and cleaner seemed extra generic. So different from how Cate feels, so focused and sharp. She asked me to stand by the sunny window in the front room. “We’ll need it for light reference,” she said, and pulled out her phone like it was no big deal. I hesitated for a sec. My dress felt so thin in that bright light. Her smile seemed to say, ‘trust me, I know what I’m doing.’ “You’ll thank me later,” she said.
She took like three photos, telling me to move my head a bit, or my arm. I felt so awkward. I was super aware of the light on my collarbones, and I could almost see the outline of my bra through the sun-warmed fabric. My hem kept riding up a little where I was sitting on the window seat and I wanted to pull it back down, but I couldn’t make myself interrupt her process? She never made me feel ashamed though. She was so… focused. Like an artist or something, the way she looked at the angles. Like she already saw something that I don’t see in myself.
Then she frowned a tiny bit and then said “excuse me” and was gone.
About twenty minutes later, I was walking back to my dorm as the air was starting to get that cooler evening feel, and she sent me one of the photos.
I’m looking at it now. The girl in the picture… it’s me, but not? The light makes me look… different. It’s like a riddle I’m supposed to figure out.
Jason texted me a couple of times while Cate and I were out. I apologized that I didn’t text back until I got to my room. I really wasn’t trying to ignore him. It just felt like… his texts came from another world. Like an interruption to this whole new, intense feeling Cate gave me. It’s strange how she can make me feel confident. Celebrated. Like the only thing real in that moment.
Chapter 3.
JASON
I didn’t even know who Cate was at first. Not really. I’d heard Parker mention her, of course – Theta president, drama pipeline, maybe even a scholarship connection – but I hadn’t actually interacted with her one-on-one. That changed at the Friday mixer, the air in the student union hall thick with the smell of lukewarm pizza and nervous energy, when Dr. Laird, the theater department head, steered me through the crowd with a hand on my shoulder. His smile was warm, but he had a weary, uncertain look in his eyes, as if he expected Cate to ask him to write code.
“Jason Raines, I’d like you to meet our Theta President and the driving force behind this initiative, Hecate Graves. Hecate, this is Jason, the tech whiz I mentioned.”
Cate looked up slowly, her eyes a cool, assessing gray, sharpening with interest, like a chess player who’d suddenly noticed a pawn in striking distance. “We’ve met. Informally.” The corner of her mouth quirked. “A pleasure, Jason. And please, call me Cate.”
“So, Computer Science?” she asked, her smile tilted, a subtle challenge in its curve. “And if I’m not mistaken, engaged to little Parker…?”
“Promised,” I corrected, too fast, the word feeling defensive even to my own ears. “Not engaged.”
“Oh, right,” she said, a little laugh, light as air but somehow carrying an edge of condescension. “Promised. My mistake.”
That caught me. I nodded, too quickly, my face warming under her direct gaze. “Yeah. She- she just got here this week.”
She held my gaze for a beat longer than comfortable, then handed me her tablet, screen forward. As the screen lit up, the lock screen wallpaper was visible for a fraction of a second. It wasn’t a photo, but a crisp, minimalist logo: a stylized ‘H’ intertwined with a serpent, above the initials ‘HTM’. I was briefly curious, then a dense spreadsheet appeared with labeled columns like Donor_Tier, Event_Engagement_Projection, Perk_ID, Unlock_Threshold, Audience_Sentiment_Delta, Points_Awarded glowing on the screen as she quickly scrubbed through.
“We’re rolling out a donor engagement platform,” she said, her voice a low, confident pitch that cut through the surrounding chatter. “Think gamified generosity with Kickstarter elements. Theater-meets-Twitch, but curated. I need someone who can build the backend to handle tiered logic, trigger milestones, real-time polling, and maybe a way to push metrics to a visual dashboard during livestreams.”
She said it like it wasn’t a big deal, like she hadn’t described a full-stack architecture in a single breath.
After I’d answered her initial questions, I looked back to Dr. Laird for guidance, but he was already holding up his hands in a gesture of gentle surrender.
“This part of the engine is all hers,” he said, giving Cate a knowing look that was equal parts admiration and resignation. “I only sign the forms. You two figure it out.” And with that, he gave a final, decisive nod and made a deliberate retreat toward the snack table, leaving me drifting alone in her orbit.
Cate smiled, a brief, regal flash. “I can pay you.”
I blinked, the word ‘pay’ stopping me short. “Wait- like, real pay?”
“Freelance contract. Forty dollars an hour for now.” She paused, letting that sink in. “Retroactive to this conversation.”
My skin prickled, a sudden jolt of adrenaline. That was more than I made all summer lifeguarding. So why did the back of my neck feel tight, like I was signing away something else, something more valuable than time? I tried not to sound too eager, pushing down the image of my dwindling bank balance. “Yeah, I mean- sure. I’d love to help.”
She tapped a few things on her screen, then looked up again, her expression softening, morphing into something almost encouraging. “I’ve heard good things, Jason. I’m sure this will be a great opportunity for both of us.”
I turned, an overwhelming sense of relief washing over me. I hadn’t even realized how much my financial situation had been weighing me down.
Parker had slipped into the room without me noticing. She smiled at me, that open, uncomplicated smile that always made my chest ache in a good way, and looped her arm through Cate’s like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“You’re actually doing this?” she said, voice light and genuinely thrilled for me. “That’s awesome.”
Cate leaned in, conspiratorial, her earlier sharpness now veiled. “We like to keep things in the family.”
I wasn’t sure what that meant, but it made my throat tighten anyhow. Then Parker gave me a tiny, proud nod, her eyes shining, and it made my chest warm. Her dress today was the same pale yellow one from move-in, smelling faintly of sunshine, clean cotton, and that soft vanilla of hers that made me want to hug her and never let go. She looked back and forth between Cate and I, then smiled like she couldn’t imagine anything better. “You’re going to do amazing work. You always do. I’m so glad we get to work together!”
Later that night, the flimsy contract papers signed and scanned, Cate’s system access synced to my GitHub, we gathered in the back courtyard for drinks. A few of the senior sisters had set up fairy lights that cast a soft, dreamy glow, and someone was playing moody acoustic covers of 2010s pop songs, the notes drifting through the cooling air. Parker was beside herself with delight at the scene, her laughter like wind chimes.
Cate handed me a glass of wine I hadn’t asked for. It was a deep pomegranate, and the first sip was surprisingly smooth, richer than anything I usually bought.
“To new partnerships,” she said, raising hers, the fairy lights reflecting in her eyes. “And a very promising fall.”
Parker clinked her glass of rosé to mine. Her fingers brushed mine and stayed there momentarily: warm, soft, grounding. Her smile was wide and a little breathless, like she couldn’t believe how lucky we both were to be doing this, as a couple.
She leaned into me, resting her head on my shoulder, her hair tickling my cheek as she snuggled, before sipping her wine and looking around eagerly, soaking in this new and exciting experience.
This had to be what trust looked like: working side by side, believing in each other. I was helping her. Helping us.
I didn’t realize yet that the cool glass in my hand, the signed papers in my dorm, the bits on my PC, were the first links in the chain I was quietly forging for myself.
Chapter 4.
PARKER’S DIARY – September 3rd, 9:08 p.m.
Today was our first official Theta “bonding” outing, and I’m still trying to sort out how I feel about it. Cate called it a “Rush readiness sweep,” which apparently means shopping for clothes to look “effortlessly amazing” in photos that are definitely not candid. Ugh.
I really wasn’t going to buy anything. Seriously. But then we walked into this little boutique downtown “Chic Happens” (I know, right?). It was all bright lights, mirrors reflecting everywhere, and they handed us cold water in these little stemless wine glasses like we were actual adults. The whole place smelled like sharp grapefruit and high-end sunscreen, a scent that screamed money. And Cate just… took over. Not in a mean way, exactly. More like a super confident, warm, joking, I-know-what-I’m-doing-and-you’re-going-to-love-it way.
She said, “These next two weeks are about visibility, Parker. We’re selling theater, not hiding from it. You’ve got to project.” Then she pulled this hanger from a rack and handed me… a bikini. Pastel-yellow, so delicate and tiny the fabric felt almost like silk ribbons against my fingers. The top was all triangle and pure intention, the bottoms barely enough string to tie.
I stared at it. “Cate, I can’t- this is, like, actual lingerie.” My voice came out a squeak.
She didn’t smile. Her face was serious. “How will you ever bare your soul on stage if you can’t even bare your skin in a beach outfit?”
I flushed, heat rushing up my neck. “I… I’ve never worn something like this. Not even around Jason.”
Her tone softened, but only a tiny bit, her eyes still intense. “Courage is currency, Parker. You can’t spend what you don’t carry.” (She said that before, in the coffee shop. It’s like her mantra or something.)
The other girls were already a whirlwind of activity, pulling things from racks, their laughter bouncing off the walls. Outfits were flying over dressing room doors. I heard someone shriek, “Oh my god, YES. Dina, that’s SO you!” and then a flurry of giggles and phone camera clicks.
I suddenly felt like if I said no, I’d be the only one not getting the memo, the prude in the corner. So, I told myself it was just to see. Just to try it on. Nothing more. Then I stepped into the tiny dressing room, the curtain feeling flimsy behind me.
It was… revealing. So, so revealing. The kind of thing that made me feel half-naked even when I was standing perfectly still. My skin felt too bare, too exposed. I felt a little lewd, like I’d slipped into someone else’s much more daring body by mistake. But then, through a crack in the curtain, I caught Cate’s expression as she glanced over. She was calm, appraising, not teasing at all. And the burning heat in my cheeks eased a bit. There was no smirk, no judgment in her eyes. There was only… approval. Professional, almost. Like I was nailing a role I didn’t even know I’d been cast in.
For a split second, I wished Jason could see me. Just to see his face. I’m sure his eyes would have popped out of his head. I almost sent a selfie. What would he have even said?
It was my color, that pale yellow. And I almost hated how good the cut looked on me, how it made my waist look tiny and my… well, everything else, not so tiny.
Cate nodded once, a small, decisive movement. “Beautiful. We’ll save that one for Sisters’ Selfie Night.” Then she took it from me and handed it to the cashier like it was nothing. She bought it for me. “Just in case,” she said with a little smile, like she was doing me a huge favor.
I didn’t know what to say. My voice felt stuck. So I mumbled, “Thank you.”
Cate’s smile softened then, becoming almost kind, but her eyes still had that evaluating glint. “Wait until you see how people look at you in that. Sometimes applause starts before you even open your mouth.” I felt the tingle of butterflies as she said it.
When I got back to the dorm, I pulled it out of the slick boutique bag, the tissue paper crinkling. I held it up to the light, the tag still dangling. It’s beautiful, in a terrifying sort of way. A little ridiculous. I honestly don’t know if I’ll ever have the guts to actually wear it.
I told Jason it was just a sisterhood thing. For a theme night or something. No guys allowed, obviously. He smiled and said I’d look cute in anything.
He’s so sweet.
Sometimes I think he believes in me more than I believe in myself. He sees this perfect version of me, and I want to be that, I really do.
But then there’s Cate. I can’t quite figure her out. It’s like she sees something totally different in me, something I don’t even understand. Not only the acting, something… bigger, maybe? Or something she can use? I trust her, but… I don’t know. It’s confusing.
All I know is, I want a real role in this play so badly I can taste it. The thought of actually getting up on that stage, of people seeing me… it’s terrifying, but it’s also everything. Do I even have what it takes? Cate seems to think so, or at least, she acts like it. This bikini… it feels like a test. A ridiculous, terrifying, tiny yellow test.
The scariest part is, I already know what passing looks like.
Look at me getting all dramatic now. It’s just a swimsuit. I shouldn’t be too worked up about it, right?
Chapter 5.
JASON
The Theta Drama Club mixer was louder than I expected, a barrage of overlapping conversations and forced laughter. Someone had dragged two battered floor lamps into the courtyard to give the whole thing an “impromptu theater under the stars” vibe, but the haphazardly strung fairy lights overhead were doing most of the work, casting a jittery glow. I stood by the folding table with the lukewarm sparkling water and questionable Aldi charcuterie, the flimsy paper cup cool and damp in my hand, wondering whether I should keep sipping or go find Parker.
It was technically Cate’s event – Theta co-hosting with the theater department – but I hadn’t seen her in ten minutes either. Maybe she’d seen Parker?
When I finally tracked her down, Cate was holding court, Parker tucked in close, the pair ringed by two of Cate’s latest acquisitions. On her right: Noah Bennett – Theta’s very own NFL prospect, a wide receiver with the kind of polished charm that played just as well on camera as under stadium lights. He’d picked up a performance-arts minor “for range,” or so he claimed, and I couldn’t tell if he was rehearsing for a post-football career or just auditioning for Cate. On her left: Chase, the drummer from some campus band with a little buzz, lean and restless, the kind of guy who always seemed to know where the next drink or joint would be. Together they had a way of closing ranks on a conversation, a practiced, unspoken bracketing that made anyone between them seem already claimed.
Dr. Laird eventually stood on one of the wobbly benches, his voice, surprisingly resonant for his slight frame, cutting through the noise. “Icebreaker time! Cold reads. Partner up, draw a scene, no rehearsals. It’s theater! Feel it or fake it!”
A stack of dog-eared scripts were passed around. Parker was still across the courtyard. She caught my eye, gave me a hopeful little wave – but then Cate leaned in, her dark hair obscuring her words as she murmured something close to Parker’s ear. The next beat Parker was stepping forward, volunteering to go first, any hesitation gone.
I didn’t expect her to pair up with Noah.
They handed Parker a short romantic excerpt, the pages slightly crinkled. Something from an indie play I didn’t recognize: close proximity, lots of breathy tension. She looked down at it, her brow furrowing, then up at Cate. Cate leaned in again, and whatever she said made Parker’s jaw tighten for half a second before she gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
Parker reached for the band of her ring.
My breath hitched, lodging somewhere in my throat.
I flashed back to every time she ever fidgeted with it. Despite the similar look, this felt in no way the same.
She hesitated for a beat – her fingers hovering, the silver catching a stray flicker of light – long enough that I thought she might back out. But then she slid the promise ring off her finger and tucked it into her back pocket like it was a prop she wasn’t ready to give up but had been told not to use.
The last time she took that off was… never. Not that I had seen, anyway. Not even to sleep. The air felt suddenly colder.
No one said anything. They just waited, a collective, expectant hush falling over our little corner of the courtyard.
She began the scene.
It was… good. Really good, if I’m honest. She was flushed and fidgety, but it made her delivery better. More vulnerable. She stood with one foot slightly behind the other, body angled toward Noah, one hand twisting the edge of the script. I could see the paper indenting under her grip, her other hand brushing back her hair like she didn’t realize how much she was commanding the space.
Then I watched Noah’s eyes dart down for an instant, and suddenly I found myself fixated on her shape. Her top just a little too sheer in the inconsistent light of the fairy lights, the gauzy cream fabric clinging to her chest in this humidity. Didn’t she usually wear a jacket with that? I knew the curve of those breasts too well not to automatically fill in the rest, even as a hot wave of shame washed over me for doing it here, now.
And those jeans: painted on, high-waisted, and molded to her ass so tightly it made my chest ache with a familiar possessiveness. I could practically trace the ring’s impression with my eyes; right over the swell of her right buttock, stamped through the thin denim as she moved, a maker’s mark I was terrified to see fade.
I shouldn’t have been hard, but I was. Blood pounding in my ears, a frantic pulse skipping like it hadn’t seen her in weeks. I shifted my stance, suddenly hyper-aware of the denim tenting in my jeans, and prayed no one noticed. My pulse throbbed unwelcome in my crotch, as my vision narrowed. She was acting, I told myself, the words a desperate chant in my head. It was just the scene. But my body wasn’t buying it.
This is just acting. Just theater. So why did it feel like a street fight? Why did I want to jump in and pull her back?
Noah touched her elbow once during the blocking – a light, directorial touch, probably – and I was ready to climb out of my skin. Not only from jealousy, but from the part of me that couldn’t stop looking at her, either, cataloging every micro-expression, every subtle shift of her weight. Don’t be that guy. Don’t let them see you break. She delivered the last line looking out into the night like she meant it, and I was struck dumb by how easily the scene made sense with her in it, how much she became that other person.
I knew I’d watched something intensely private – like I’d stumbled into someone else’s girlfriend getting off onstage, and a part of me, the part I hated, had leaned in for a closer look.
A wave of enthusiastic, slightly drunken applause erupted from the onlookers.
Cate leaned toward her, a pleased, almost proprietary smile on her face as she whispered something.
The next pair was already stepping forward, but Parker walked back across the courtyard, the ring still in her pocket. She stood beside me again like nothing had happened, breathless and bright-eyed, her skin radiating a damp warmth. She stood close enough for me to smell the hint of grapefruit shampoo and comforting vanilla of her skin, her hip brushing mine like she hadn’t crossed a line neither of us could possibly name.
“You were amazing,” I said, my voice quieter than I intended.
She shrugged, eyes still lit from the performance, the adrenaline. “Just a character.”
I looked down at her hand. Still bare. She hadn’t even noticed. Or maybe she had? Maybe she really needed to wear that applause a little bit longer?
Cate passed behind us, a fresh drink in hand, her gaze flicking down to Parker’s bare hand with pointed casualness.
“See?” she said, her voice a low murmur meant only for Parker, but loud enough for me to catch. “Details make the performance.”
Chapter 6.
PARKER’S DIARY – September 6th, 10:12 p.m.
Tonight was my first Theta “Sisters Only” pool night, and it made me feel seen in a way I never expected..
I almost didn’t wear the bikini Cate bought me last week. I put it on twice in the dorm bathroom, the cool, slippery fabric feeling alien against my skin, then changed out of it again. It felt… loud. Like walking around with a highlighter over my body.
But when I got to the pool deck, the air warm and smelling of chlorine and coconut sunscreen, everyone was in some variation of the same outfit: bright, tiny, unapologetic. No one blinked when I walked out. Well… except Cate. Her eyes, those cool, assessing gray ones, flicked up and down my body, calm and clinical, then she nodded like I’d passed some invisible test.
“That color was made for you,” she said, her voice smooth as always. And then: “Come stand here. Light’s perfect.”
We took photo after photo. Not casual ones. Posed, directed, hands on hips, chins up, legs long. I felt ridiculous at first, the concrete of the pool deck surprisingly rough under my bare feet. I’m not a model. I’m a drama kid who got a little lucky with bone structure.
At one point, I adjusted the strap at my hip, suddenly sure it had shifted too far, exposing more than I meant to. But Cate said, “Perfect. Don’t touch it.” Her voice was quiet but firm, and I didn’t.
But then the first photo came back on Cate’s phone, and… I didn’t hate it. My breath kind of hitched. I looked different. Stronger. Sexy, even. The other girls whooped and clapped: a chorus of “Yas, queen!” and “Damn, Parker!” that echoed off the nearby building. Cate smiled, “You photograph so beautifully.”
I blushed so hard my toes curled. The heat rushed up my neck. But some part of me… liked it. Liked the way their voices changed when they looked at me. Like I could do anything. Like being wanted was a kind of power.
I never thought I could look like that. Did Jason ever see me this way? Would he even want to?
She scrolled through the set on her phone, the screen bright in the gathering dusk, and tilted it toward me.
“I initially thought I saw a Medea in you: all fierce ambition,” Cate explained, her head close to mine, her perfume (bitter orange and cypress, a thread of saffron like an offering) tickling my nose. “But there’s a gentler power too, a willingness to be… guided. Perhaps you’re less the sorceress queen and more… Persephone, on the cusp of her own realm. Yes, I like that. Persephone. It suits your journey.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I just nodded, cheeks still hot, the “Persephone” name dancing in my head.
Maybe I needed to learn who she was, if Cate saw that in me?
The photos were up on Theta’s official StageLights campaign page about an hour later, my phone buzzing with notifications while I was trying to do some reading. I didn’t realize they were going up publicly, and I almost choked when I saw the post at first. They tagged me in four of them. In one, I’m twisting my hair up off my neck, water droplets on my shoulders like tiny diamonds, and I look… almost unreal. It doesn’t feel like me. And also, maybe, it does. A stronger, bolder me.
I texted Jason to let him know I was back in the dorm. Just a quick
He didn’t reply at first.
Then, maybe ten minutes later:
I smiled. A small, private smile.
And sent back:
I was SO worried he would misinterpret those pictures, and his approval meant everything.
I didn’t have to explain anything. What was there to explain, really? It was just a sorority thing.
JASON
I wasn’t expecting the notification.
My phone buzzed on the worn laminate of my desk, interrupting a particularly frustrating debugging session. I was scrolling absentmindedly between commits, the low hum of my ancient desktop fan a familiar drone, when Parker’s name popped up in my feed: four tagged photos from the Theta account, part of the StageLights fundraising campaign.
I clicked the first one, expecting a group shot.
Maybe her first official Theta pic.
It wasn’t a group shot.
It was Parker.
Standing at the pool’s edge in that pastel-yellow bikini – the one I’d caught a tiny glimpse of in the bag as she’d brushed it off as just for “sisterhood things.” No guys allowed. Her words repeated in my head, increasingly hollow.
Her skin was sun-kissed and glowing under the harsh poolside lights, hair caught up in a messy twist, her neck long and bare. The bikini clung to her in ways I didn’t know fabric could, damp patches darkening the yellow in strategic, maddening curves. The top framed her chest without compressing it, barely covering the perfection of her teardrop curves, the triangles cut almost high enough to flirt with exposure. The bottoms were side-tie, riding unreasonably low, cinched tight against her hips and hugging the outrageous flare of her ass like a second skin. I could see the slight ridge where the fabric pulled against her, indenting her soft skin – like the suit wanted to keep touching her even if she walked away.
I stared way too long, my breath held. My mouse hand drifted, a traitorous instinct, before I could think better of it, like my body had already decided what it wanted. Why did it feel like I was the one being exposed? One glance down at my lap and the sudden, aching tightness there confirmed I’d have to stay seated a while.
I didn’t want to be hard from a photo – her photo, posted for everyone – but there it was. And not even because she was showing off, in that obvious, attention seeking way some girls did. Because she wasn’t. And that, somehow, made it worse. Sharper. Like I was the only one she didn’t mean to see, the only one whose reaction wasn’t part of the plan.
While I was staring, my phone buzzed in my hand.
I fumbled for my phone, needing to say something, anything. I paused and thought.
A joke, maybe. Or a compliment.
Or both.
I wanted to say something real, something that connected to us. But all I could manage was fire emojis, like some random, thirsty guy in her comments. Because what else was I supposed to say? You lied about who would see you in that? You look incredible, and it’s tearing me apart?
She replied five minutes later. Five minutes that felt like an hour.
No explanation. No follow-up. Just that damn winking smiley. Like a pat on the head.
I sat with my phone clutched in my hand for a long time after that, the cheap plastic casing growing warm. I didn’t open another tab. I didn’t scroll. I kept looking at that first photo – zooming in, backing out, my mind cataloging the way the light caught the subtle slope of her hip, the innocent crease in her smile that seemed so out of place with the raw sexuality of the image, the place where the strap dug slightly into her sun-warmed skin.
Eventually, with a sigh that felt like it came from my shoes, I closed the app and shifted in my worn desk chair, the springs groaning in protest. Trying to will everything back down.
It was just a fundraiser. Just girls having fun. Just photos.
Just Parker.
Still mine.
Right?
The word hung in the stale air of my dorm room, unanswerable.
The Bad Idea Guy 