Page 47 of The Girlfriend Agreement (Conwick U #1)

El que por su gusto muere, hasta la muerte le sabe - He who dies by his own choice, even death tastes sweet

Translation: If you choose your path, you must accept the consequences…even if they suck.

It’s been a week since the unveiling of Blondie’s identity broke the internet.

One week since the world discovered that the mystery girl I’ve been seeing is, in fact, one of the ladies named on the infamous “Fucket List” (as it became known following the media shitstorm all those months ago).

And while the tabloids, and literally all of my socials, are in an absolute uproar about the revelation, I’m elated to find that most of the commentary on the matter is positive.

Just as I hoped, the revelation that I’m now “dating” one of the women mentioned in my bet with Mason has much of the online community questioning if the whole situation with the bucket list was really as bad as it was made out to be, or if the media purposely blew it out of proportion to sell trashy tabloids and get clicks.

It’s not a stretch—everyone knows the quickest way to make a few bucks is with a celebrity scandal.

It’s a well-known fact that nothing gets the attention of the people quite like the downfall of a public figure.

But this isn’t a downfall at all—it’s a goddamn resurgence.

A one-eighty in societal perception from the outrage I was bombarded with in the spring following Mason’s video.

Many on the internet are even shipping my relationship with Blondie and romanticizing the circumstances that brought us together, with headlines like, A Bet Gone Right: The Heartwarming Story Behind Damian Navarro’s Sex-Bet Controversy and Alexandria Dornan: The Girl Who Turned a Dare into a Love Affair gracing the front pages of several prominent news sites.

Of course, most of the information in the articles I skimmed in the spare time I had between midterms this week was absolute bullshit with so-called “sources” who claim to know us both spewing so many lies I could literally wallpaper my entire dorm room with them.

But with others, it’s harder to separate the truth from the lies, the facts from the fabrications.

For example, the article that lit the fuse on the current media interest referred to Blondie as some sort of “math prodigy,” which could be an exaggeration, of course, but considering she’s at Conwick on a notably rare full-ride scholarship, and she was indeed learning some kind of ninja math in that one class I dropped in on, the title certainly fits.

There were other truths peppered in the article, too, like how Blondie was born and raised here in Newport and that she’s currently a sophomore in college, though it didn’t go much more in-depth than that.

But then, like the other articles I’ve read, it turned to rumors of our apparently “impending engagement,” and how—according to yet another “close source”—I got Blondie’s face tattooed on my left ass cheek, and suddenly, I couldn’t be sure what was true and what was just another lie in this facade we’ve built up around us.

Still, riddled with inaccuracies or not, the majority of what I’ve seen online has put a positive spin on our fauxmance, and with every day that’s passed since that first article dropped, more and more people have commented and posted in support of our blossoming “love.” Blondie and I have even been bestowed with our own merged couple names, like we’re the next Brangelina or Bennifer.

Now, that’s when you really know you’ve made it.

But like with all things, there are the supporters, and there are the haters—Team #Dexi (our adoring fans) and Team #Lamian (as those who think the whole thing is sketchy have come to refer to us).

Whenever I see comments from the latter, I’m beyond relieved that Blondie isn’t on social media, and I only hope her friends have the sense to keep her in the dark about what these assholes are saying.

I know I sure as shit don’t plan on telling her about anything I’ve read this week—about how countless idiots are questioning her intelligence, her judgment, especially on any articles that specifically highlight how smart she is, as if their ill-informed perception of her is fact and everything else is a lie.

As if these anonymous keyboard warriors are themselves the very arbiters of truth.

The worst ones have even suggested I’m blackmailing Blondie into a relationship to make myself look better following the bucket list scandal.

That angle on things doesn’t sit well with me, probably because it’s too uncomfortably close to reality.

I can only imagine how the headlines would spin it if they knew what was really going on—how they’d try to make this whole thing between me and Blondie into some sordid tale of extortion.

Christ, I can’t even begin to guess how she would take that.

Blondie might have a tough exterior, like some kind of pissed-off turtle, but I have a sneaking suspicion that what’s on the inside is softer…

vulnerable …even if she tries hard to hide it.

I think that’s the real reason I’ve been avoiding her since that day out on the Lucia .

This past week, I had an excuse. We had midterms, and we both agreed to put our outings on pause until all our respective exams were over.

But moving forward? I have absolutely no idea what to expect the next time I see her.

If she knows what people are saying about her.

If she regrets making this agreement with me.

If she’s going to freak out and call the whole thing off.

Since we started fake dating, she’s been surprisingly blasé about being seen together, about being in the public eye, but that was before her identity was blasted to the masses, and before she admitted that she apparently has a hard time with change.

And let’s face it, becoming one of the most Googled people in the country is a big fucking change.

Sure, I could sit here and say she knew what she signed up for, but I don’t think that would be fair since no one can really understand the full scope of something like this unless they’ve previously had to endure that level of scrutiny.

I can’t exactly rewind to last spring and check (and it’s not like I was paying that close of attention to the blowback on specific people other than myself at the time), but from the lack of familiarity surrounding Blondie—both physically at Conwick and in regard to her name in recent media coverage—I think she might have gotten off easy when the list was first exposed, even flown under the radar completely…

which means this might be her first real rodeo with this kind of attention.

As for me, I’ve experienced enough negative press about me in the last four years alone that I’ve learned how not to give a shit.

Except…with my father’s warning hanging around my neck like a noose, I realize that’s not entirely true. I do have one fuck left in my arsenal. One worry that keeps me up at night and fills me with an unrelenting dread whenever I let myself think too hard about it.

And that is my parents’ very notable silence.

I know it’s only been a month and a half since their ultimatum at Fernando’s, but it’s odd they haven’t said a word to me.

No praise for attending my classes without incident (I’m sure they’re still actively checking).

No “well done” for avoiding the party scene and keeping myself out of trouble.

And above all, not a single comment about Blondie, not since I posted that picture of us at the Breakers on Instagram, and especially not since news broke of her connection to the bucket list last week.

And here I was thinking that Blondie’s name and our messy past going public was somehow doing me a favor.

Maybe I’ve miscalculated this whole thing, and rather than look at the positive shift in commentary and opinion surrounding the matter, my parents are simply pissed that my stupid bet is in the headlines again.

Or maybe they know me better than I gave them credit for, and they’ve figured out what I’m really up to—that my relationship with Blondie is just a ruse intended to trick them into retracting their threats to disown me.

Or maybe they’ve taken the side of Team Lamian, and despise us because it’s easier to be a hater than to believe people are capable of making mistakes and actually growing from them.

Or…maybe the real problem—the real reason for their silence—is because they’re waiting for me to make a move first. Maybe the real issue is that I haven’t been vocal enough—that I’ve been playing it safe, playing it vague, because I thought that was the easiest and quickest route to my goal.

My parents want me to get serious about my life, but I’m starting to think that what they really want is to see me take initiative…

and responsibility. To stop making excuses and just fucking do something.

And actually have the balls to stand firmly behind it.

An idea pops into my head as I prop myself upright in bed, where I’ve spent the last hour doomscrolling my socials instead of actually trying to sleep, and tapping open my notes app, I begin to type.

The time for half-assed apologies and ambiguous gestures is over.

Damian Navarro is officially stepping into his proclamation era.

By the following Friday, the public’s opinion of me and Blondie, and the general perception around how we got together, has improved even further, whereas my mood has taken a nosedive.

I still haven’t heard a single word from my parents, not even an “Oh, hello son, just checking in to make sure you’re still alive and well.” Nope. Nothing of the sort.

Just that same unbearable, judgmental silence.