He Found the Wrong Girl

[I found you.] I was looking at the DM from the heir to the Sinclair fortune while he was out on the quad, confessing to my best friend in front of the entire school.

He'd covered the whole quad in roses. He said he'd come across the blog where she had spent years writing about her secret crush. Except that blog was mine.

All because when he went looking with our section's group photo in his hand, what he asked for was the only girl with blunt bangs.

And in that photo, my best friend had thrown up a peace sign and covered my face, which left her as the only girl with blunt bangs in the shot. She heard him out.

For a moment she looked genuinely thrown. Then she laughed, sweet and small, and threw herself into his arms.

And I stood outside the crowd, trying to figure out who I was supposed to tell first— He'd found the wrong girl. Chapter 1 Fireworks went up. Huge ones. Romantic and gorgeous.

Weston Sinclair looked down at my best friend, at her eyes shining with tears, and laughed low in his throat, dragging the words out. "All this time and you never worked up the nerve to say it. "So I had to come find you myself. "So.

Will you be my girlfriend?" Screaming broke out from every direction, one wave rolling into the next. But for me, the whole world went mute.

My hands were shaking as I scrolled back through my own posts. And in the photos, there were traces everywhere.

The handwritten letter to Weston — in the corner of the shot, a sticky note that said GET INTO HALSTEAD.

The competition results board with Weston's name at the top — and in the glass, the reflection of my blunt bangs.

And the entry I'd put up the day the semester started, the one called Closer to You, was a photo of the placard outside our seminar room.

Finance, Section 8. … My best friend's voice, bright and thrilled, pulled me back. She came through the crowd and stopped in front of me, her cheeks flushed. "Roz!

I'm in love!" And then Camille snatched my phone out of my hand, no discussion, and scolded me in that singsong voice. "At a time like this and you're still messing around on your phone. "Did you not see?

Weston just asked me out, in front of everyone, with all of this. "I think I'm so happy I could pop…" I had no idea how I was supposed to react.

I was still looking down, still trying to decide, when a cool, clear voice came from over my head. "Hi.

I'm Camille's boyfriend." My throat locked up and my eyes went hot and swollen. I blinked hard, and forced the tears back down. I had been quietly in love with Weston for so long.

And that was the first thing he had ever said to me for real. I looked away from Camille's hopeful face. Took a breath.

Then I looked up at Weston, and my voice came out shaking, and I couldn't stop it. "But has it occurred to you that more than one person could match what you were looking for? "I have blunt bangs too—" I didn't finish.

I stopped short — stunned at myself. My hand went up to my hair before I told it to. And then I remembered.

That afternoon Camille had dragged me to the salon and spent the whole time telling me curtain bangs would suit me so much better.

And for once, she had insisted on paying. "My family doesn't have that kind of money.

You're always the one buying me dinner, buying me clothes. "Today it's on me. "Because I actually want what's good for you.

I want you to get prettier and prettier and prettier!" I couldn't win the argument. And a new haircut didn't seem like a bad thing. So the blunt bangs came off. "Ha.

This is your best friend?" Weston let out a cold breath of a laugh and turned his head toward Camille. "That's rich. I've seen your section's group photo.

You were the only one with blunt bangs. "Baby, I have met every kind of schemer there is. You're too trusting. Don't let her play you." And that was all he had to say.

Chapter 2 It was like he couldn't stand to be near me for one more second. He turned and walked away. Camille blinked.

She stuck her tongue out at me, mouthed the words sorry about that, and jogged off after him.

I stayed where I was, watching the two of them lean into each other as they went, and I couldn't keep the tears back. On one side was my best friend.

On the other was Weston, who I had quietly been in love with for years. I held onto my phone and tried to decide.

If I just took the blog public, it would land badly on Camille— "I'm back, Roz!" Camille pushed the door open.

She had changed into a designer dress and she was carrying a huge armful of lush roses, and out of the stack of gift boxes filling her hands, she pulled out a small one.

She held it out to me, grinning. "Weston says this brand is understated.

The kind with real taste behind it. "And I thought of you right away— "You're new money, so your taste is probably kind of off.

That's why I got you this one." Her eyes were shining. She looked completely open and completely sincere, without a trace of mockery anywhere in her.

She giggled. "I know Weston doesn't like you much, but the moment he saw I wanted to buy this for you, he didn't even argue. "He just said yes." I didn't take it.

I gave her a nothing answer. "If I like something, I'll buy it myself." Camille's face fell a little. I didn't say anything else.

I still believed the mistake should be fixed while there was still time. So I took out my phone and sent Weston a text. [That's not Camille.] [Check the blog.

I'm putting my name on it.] Then I opened the dashboard, ready to type my own name in. The page loaded. And my heart stopped— The blog was gone. Permanently deleted.

I messaged support in a panic, and they told me it had been deleted by the account holder. At eight thirty that night. I broke out in a cold sweat. Because eight thirty.

Eight thirty was exactly when Camille snatched my phone out of my hand on the quad. I sucked in a breath, and my voice wasn't steady when I asked her. "When you had my phone.

Did you delete my blog?" Her eyes slid away for a second, then came right back to normal. "Huh?" She sounded genuinely amazed. Her lower lip pushed out. "What blog?

I don't know anything about that." She blinked at me, all concern. "I really don't know. Do you think maybe you tapped something by accident—" She didn't finish.

The other two came in through the door. Camille turned away without missing a beat, picked up the gifts she had set aside for them, and handed them over, beaming.

I knew there was no version of that question she was going to answer now. I opened my phone and checked the date— It was the birthday of one of Weston's closest friends.

Which meant, going by tradition, they would be celebrating at the usual place. I didn't hesitate again. I got everything straight, in the order it happened.

Then I got a car to the club where Weston was. I had made up my mind. I could be turned down. What I couldn't do was let Camille take my place while nobody knew any better.

When I reached the door, Weston was leaning back in his chair, loose and unhurried. Hair falling across a hard line of brow.

Two buttons open on his shirt, the clean line of his throat running down to the shadow of a collarbone.

Everyone was raising a glass to him, congratulating him on finding true love, and he had a faint smile at the corner of his mouth as he lifted his own. And it was right then.

Somebody got nostalgic and pulled up a stack of old photos. "Look how green we all were in high school— "Hey, Sinclair, this girl in the bottom left, short hair, blunt bangs.

She was in your class?" "I don't remember her at all." I looked down.

Chapter 3 I was holding the same photo in my own hands, and I froze— It was the first picture the two of us were ever in together. I had treasured it.

I had kept it for a long time. … "Oh," Weston said, lifting his eyelids a fraction, his voice lazy. "That girl. I think I sort of remember her." In that one second.

My heart skipped.

But before I could be glad that he remembered me, a low laugh came up out of Weston's throat. "Braces, glasses, and a face covered in acne. "I never actually talked to her.

But one time she tripped in front of my desk and I steadied her. "I looked up, and we made eye contact—" He pressed at the space between his brows, resigned, and a smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, the kind you could read anything into. "And it scared my heart into stopping, you know that? "And she still smiled at me.

I had nightmares about it afterward. "Tsk. No idea what she looks like now. Let's hope she stays inside and doesn't scare anybody." Now?

I looked at my own reflection in the glass— Clear, pale skin. A straight nose. And when I smiled, two shallow dimples at the corners of my mouth.

When I first got to college, a streetstyle photographer happened to take my picture. The photo blew up, and the internet decided I was the prettiest girl at Halstead.

I dug my nails into my palm. And I smiled, and it was bitter. I thought about the one time I was ever close to Weston. He had come in late and hadn't had time to eat.

I was slipping my own milk and roll into the compartment under his desk. He came up without warning and startled me, and the way I stumbled was nothing but panic.

I was timid back then, and easily frightened. That one moment of being near him, I kept for years and years. I just never imagined that in his head, it was a nightmare.

On the way back to campus. I deleted every memory I had of Weston. The cicadas were still screaming at each other the way they do in summer.

The food carts on the corner were packing up for the night, same as always. In the cab, some cheesy remix was thumping away to keep the driver awake.

Everything was completely ordinary. The only thing that had changed was that the crush I had held onto for years had been quietly set aside. When I got up the next morning.

Camille was already out. I got to our seminar room. Weston was standing at the front with a group of people behind him.

His left hand was turning a lighter over, not paying attention to it. His right hand was holding Camille's. "I hope all of you will look after my girlfriend." Screaming broke out.

That was when I noticed what the people he had brought were setting down on every desk. Laptops. Newest model. Top spec.

He took in everyone's delight without much expression, and spoke quietly. "Camille keeps things to herself.

Sometimes she isn't going to speak up. "When I'm not around, if any of you notice she's uncomfortable or having a hard time, and you help her— "go to him," Weston said, lifting his eyes toward a guy beside him, "and get paid." The words landed.

The room was silent for two seconds. Then the noise exploded again, higher and sharper than before.

It wasn't until everyone had a laptop that somebody noticed the desk where I always sat was empty.

The first person to speak was Camille. "Weston." She tipped her head to one side and bit her lip. "How come Rosalind doesn't have one? "Is it because she's my best friend, so you got her something different?" "Her?" Weston let out a soft scoff, and his voice turned cold. "She texted me last night.

Something about how the person who wrote the blog isn't you. Chapter 4 "But you already told me that once we were together, you'd hide the blog— "That's calculating.

Do you really think a phone number is hard to track down?" Nobody said anything.

Weston's voice was firm, and there was no give in it. "There is nothing I hate more than a girl who schemes." I kept my face cold as I looked at the two of them.

I started toward them. One of the people with Weston stepped into my way. Weston raised an eyebrow, every inch a man ready to fight anyone who came near Camille.

And Camille stood turned slightly away, behind him, and didn't give me a single look. And it came to me all at once. People are who they are. And that was all there was to it.

But here's what surprised me. The classmates who had been over the moon a second ago heard Weston out.

Every one of them went stonefaced and put the laptops back in the big box. "Rosalind is kind and she pays attention — back during freshman orientation I passed out from low blood sugar, and she was the first one to notice.

She and somebody else carried me to the campus clinic, and she got into a fight with the guy running it, over me.

If it hadn't been for her, in that heat… I don't want to think about what could have happened." "Right, and it's fine that you feel for Camille, but why put Rosalind down to do it?

Besides, nobody has been better to Camille than Rosalind. She's given her a designer bag, for God's sake. If you had any conscience you'd be thanking her." "It's a laptop.

Like anybody here couldn't buy one." In the end. The laptops sat in the big box in neat rows. Not one person took one.

Weston's face darkened, and for a long moment he had nothing to say.

He just let himself be pulled out of the room by Camille, who had started crying all at once, wronged, with no way to defend herself. Weston never gave me any trouble again.

And Camille and I both avoided each other without ever having to say so. The days were plain, but they were full.

Just when I was sure I would never have anything to do with either of them again. That day, I ran into Weston in the elevator, on his way up to see Camille.

Our eyes met for a second. And by unspoken agreement, we both went and stood in opposite corners. Then, a few seconds later. The lights in the elevator flickered twice and went out.

There was a clunk, and a jolt. And the elevator stopped. Word came back that maintenance would be there soon. Everyone inside let out a breath. But it wasn't long before I noticed.

Weston, who was always cool and above all of it, was leaning against the elevator wall now with no color in his face, and his body was shaking a little.

Sweat had soaked the hair on his forehead. And I remembered right away: he was claustrophobic. I told myself it was none of my business and turned my head away. But as time went on.

Weston looked worse and worse.

Other people noticed him, and it got into them, and they started going tense too— "Try this." I took the handheld fan out of my bag, pointed it at Weston's face, and turned it on.

Then I took out the mint gum, calmly, and held it out to him. Weston looked at me, his eyes dark, and didn't move. I didn't say anything either.

I pushed the whole pack into his hand, hard, and went back to my corner. Three minutes later.

I heard a low voice above my head, coming from somewhere deep. "Thank you. "But— how did you know I'm claustrophobic? "It's never happened to me since I got here." That stopped me.

I could hardly say: I've known for a long time that your family kept you on a short leash, and that your parents would lock you in a dark closet for the smallest step out of line.

When it happened in high school, I was the one who helped you. The same way. "Coincidence." I said it looking straight ahead. In the reflection on the elevator wall.

I watched Weston's face go unreadable, watched him start to say something and stop. The silence stretched on.

Chapter 5 Finally he spoke, and his voice came out rough. "What do you want? "Anything, I'll—" The elevator doors opened. I pretended I hadn't heard. I walked fast. And I was out.

Outside the seminar room. Camille and a group of Weston's friends were gathered there, waiting for him. When they saw me coming.

Camille elbowed one of them and said, grinning, "This is my best friend. Isn't she pretty?" The guy leaning against the wall on his phone looked up at that. He looked at me.

He killed the screen immediately and raised an eyebrow. "That's an understatement." Warm, upturned eyes, fixed on me, and burning. Not hiding any of it.

I made myself keep going, and I was trying to slip past him into the room when Camille caught my wrist.

She was completely serious. "Roz, I really think the two of you fit. "This friend of Weston's, his family's loaded too, and he's never even dated anyone— "Really, you two should try.

Then the four of us can go out together, do everything together. Just thinking about it makes me happy." At that.

Weston's friend laughed under his breath and looked at me. "It's fine. No pressure. "We can start as friends. "Can I get your number?" Before I could open my mouth.

Weston, who had come up behind us at some point, said in a dark, hoarse voice: "Not happening." The line of Weston's jaw pulled tight and sharp