Page 38 of The Girlfriend Agreement (Conwick U #1)

Donde hay humo, hay fuego - Where there is smoke, there is fire

Translation: Where there are rumors, there is truth…unless you’re the one in control of the narrative.

October

Just as I hoped it would, news of my date with Blondie spreads like wildfire.

The hashtag #DateGate trends on both Instagram and X, and the pictures snapped of us at Izzy’s wind up on at least three separate gossip sites—well, the ones I think to check.

Blondie was skeptical when I said people would be shocked to see me in public with a woman, and though I had pointed out that being seen at a party chatting up a hot chick is very different to a daytime date, it took seeing the viral posts about us for her to believe it.

There were people who were so confused by our outing that some even commented on one Instagram post questioning if it was one of those Make-A-Wish things and I was granting Blondie her dying request. Let’s just say, she did not find that nearly as amusing as I did.

In the nearly three weeks and multiple additional outings since our initial date, the conspiracy theories have run rampant, and I’ve been stopped several times by other students on campus with every single one pestering me about Blondie.

Mason was the first to corner me for answers, and had acted utterly scandalized when I caved to his probing and revealed that the mystery woman in the pictures circulating the internet was actually Poor Girl.

At the time, it hadn’t occurred to me that telling him she was the same one-night stand from the start of the semester would be a bad thing—after all, it wasn’t like he remembered her name or knew anything about her other than what box she had ticked on the bucket list, about which he has since been sworn to silence again.

But then the real interrogation began, and his main question hadn’t been how we ended up on the covers of multiple tabloids together, but why I would willingly date someone who seemed to make a habit of trying to obliterate my dick with her knee.

“What can I say?” I told him in response. “I guess the shock of that last hit to the balls must’ve gone straight to my heart.”

But my answer did not appease his horror, nor did it settle the building unease in my gut that Mason could very well turn around and start spreading rumors about us, the gossipy little bitch that he is.

My dude knows not to mention the list or the bet, but what if someone were to make the connection themselves based on whatever else he says?

My parents used their rich people powers of we-will-ruin-your-life persuasion to threaten lawsuits against every person and publication that screenshotted and shared the list in the weeks following Mason’s video.

They even paid off Conwick, and the school was more than ready to bend over backward for them as my family is one of the university’s largest donors, announcing it would expel any students who posted, shared, reposted, retweeted, or contributed to any rumors related to the bet.

But this college has an abundance of assholes, and who’s to say someone won’t remember the names Mason posted, make the connection to Blondie, and try to ruin our lives just because they can?

Some people love drama and live to stir shit, and the internet provides the platform not only for them to do just that, but to do it anonymously.

That hadn’t occurred to me, and it really fucking should have considering there was at least one tabloid still printing stories about the bet as of last month.

They didn’t publish the list—the article was more about that board member at Hallazgo my parents mentioned going on the record about my “questionable behavior”—but that doesn’t negate the possibility that the list could end up published again.

If there’s one thing the internet loves more than a TikTok trend, it’s celebrity drama, and because of my family, I’m recognizable enough on a global scale to fall into that category.

It’s quite possible I underestimated the universe’s devotion to fucking with my life. If someone does link Blondie to the list, then her trigger-happy knee will be the least of my worries.

Or would it? At this point, I don’t even know if that knowledge being out in the open would help us or hurt us, and I’m mad at myself for not considering the fuckery that might ensue.

I was so focused on the clock ticking over my head with this whole graduation deadline and seizing the only option I saw before me, that, like always, I didn’t stop to consider the consequences.

And I should have thought about it since it is inevitable that Blondie’s identity will come out sooner or later.

Shit, the only reason it hasn’t yet is because she is bafflingly anti-social, and because, as established, I am clearly an idiot.

Jesus, what the fuck did I think would happen?

Well, I didn’t—that’s the issue. I didn’t think this through at all, and now, I have to figure out whether this is a problem before said problem kicks me in the ass.

But then…maybe I’m not entirely hopeless since none of this has occurred to Blondie either as far as I can tell—or maybe it has and she just doesn’t care, though that seems very unlikely given what I know of her personality.

Or maybe the money matters more to her than reliving the humiliation I exposed her to last spring, even if her reaction to said humiliation would certainly beg to differ.

In any case, I’ve been too afraid of spooking her to ask.

She’s like a deer in headlights—the slightest wrong move from me and she’ll bolt, and her running out on me now would be worse than us weathering any possible storm together.

So, to keep things calm, and to buy me some time to figure out a solution to this maybe-problem, I made the split-second decision to threaten Mason.

I kept my warning vague; I don’t really have anything blackmail-worthy to hold over him, but that doesn’t mean I’m above finding something and getting receipts to silence the fuckwad if that’s what it takes.

Then, for good measure, I told him Blondie would crush his balls like grape jelly if he so much as breathes a word about her or about our relationship.

That , thankfully, seemed to get his attention.

As for everyone else who’s asked, I’ve remained…

well, not silent but silent adjacent on all things pertaining to Blondie, brushing off any questions with ambiguous answers about how we’re just friends getting to know one another.

I make sure to never say her name, and I discover it’s surprisingly easy to keep her identity locked down.

Despite being mentioned in the comments of Mason’s video regarding our bet, it seems very few people on campus—or anywhere, for that matter—actually know who Blondie is, and as of yet, no one appears to have made the connection between her and the list. It helps that no pictures were ever posted along with the names Mason outed, and Blondie isn’t on any social media that I could find, like some kind of ancient relic from the pre-internet days.

It also doesn’t seem like she has many friends, and without a digital footprint for people to stalk, there’s really no possible way for anyone to work out who she is.

In a strange, eerily convenient way, it’s almost as if Blondie doesn’t exist. Shit, if I hadn’t made a note of her name in my phone after we met in Touro Park last month, I’m not confident the admin ladies in the office would’ve had any clue who I was talking about, and that’s saying a lot considering Conwick isn’t exactly known for handing out scholarships, let alone academic full rides.

And that includes that silver fox Meredith, who Blondie might know on a first-name basis, but the old bat sure as shit doesn’t know her back.

Though, to be fair, Meredith is nearly as old as the Crypt Keeper, so that might have something to do with it.

Still, even despite getting entangled with me, Blondie’s found a way to stay incognito as if she really is Conwick’s very own Clark Kent.

It’s strange how invisible she is, but then…

was I ever aware of her before recently either?

We might have hooked up last school year, but only because I was specifically looking for someone of her social caliber.

Anyone of her socioeconomic background or worse off would’ve fit the bill, which the more I think about it in hindsight, the more I realize just how truly fucked up of me that was.

Because really, it’s no different to how I feel whenever people try to befriend me because of my family’s money, and I hate that I didn’t have the common sense to see the comparison sooner.

No wonder Blondie despises me. It also makes me think…

if I hadn’t made that bet with Mason, would I have ever noticed her at all?

Or would I be as oblivious to Blondie as everyone else on campus seems to be?

Even now, dressed in the designer clothes I bought her, people only notice her when we’re together, and even then, it’s like she’s being viewed as little more than a pretty accessory on my arm; the talking point is always me.

Part of me blames the media, but I also can’t shake the suspicion that it’s intentional—like Blondie is trying not to be noticed.