Page 133 of Bad Prince
Background noise.
The phrase echoes.
I shove my phone into my bag.
“I don’t care.”
But later that night, while icing my knee, I stare at the ceiling and replay the image longer than I should.
Three days later, the quad is golden with sun and freshman energy.
I’m crossing the grass, headphones in, backpack heavy with books.
And then I see him.
Tristan.
Laughing.
Not smirking.
Not guarded.
Laughing.
He’s walking beside a tall caramel brunette girl in Stanford soccer gear — long legs, Texas drawl I can almost hear from here.
She nudges his arm.
He leans closer.
That stupid lock of dark hair falls over his forehead.
He brushes it back absently.
He’s wearing a fitted charcoal tee that stretches across his shoulders, sleeves tight around biceps that look carved.
My pulse skips.
She touches his forearm when she laughs.
He doesn’t pull away.
The sun catches the metal of his watch.
He looks… easy.
Unbothered.
Free.
Something sharp twists under my ribs.
Jealousy is ugly.
And hot.
And immediate.
