The Scammer(54)

Why am I so easy to be left out and behind? Why am I never anyone’s favorite friend that they can’t live without? Why am I— “Hi, baby.”

I whirl around to the familiar voice. Baby??

Nick swoops in, giving me a quick closed-mouth kiss on the lips. The shock of his touch, his scent, overwhelms me so that I almost fall into him. He keeps both hands locked around my waist to balance me.

“Hey?” I croak out. “What are you—”

“Remember, we have DATE night tonight,” he says, a little louder than necessary.

I stare back dumbstruck but manage to play along.

“Oh. Right. Date night. Sorry. I almost forgot.”

“It’s alright.” He slips his hand into mine with a light squeeze as he leads me down to the Rec Center. Music plays out of loudspeakers in the back. It’s Wet Up Wednesday. A day most of the fraternities and sororities take over Malcolm Center in droves. I’ve only been in here a handful of times but never on a Wednesday.

We walk through the Rec hand in hand, Nick stopping every few feet to say hi to someone, giving high fives and sharing quick jokes. I nod nervously, playing along, remaining mute behind him.

He leads me to a booth and places an order at the counter. The entire Rec Center seems to be staring at us, whispering and giggling.

“Sooo, this is what you’d call a date?” I ask as he returns with a tray.

Nick drowns his fries in ketchup like a real psychopath, licking some off his fingers.

“It’s about visibility. Optics,” he whispers. “We need to look like a legit couple to make it believable.”

This is both hilarious and sad at the same time. But as I glance around the Rec, it’s clear that the mere sight of Nick and me sitting together is giving people plenty to talk about. He slides the basket of fries over, hinting at us to share. I stare down at the plate, my stomach churning.

“All fries are dipped in oil made of pig sweat.”

I breathe through my nose to keep myself from throwing up across the table. I know it can’t be true, what he said about pigs. But he had the research in hand. What if he’s right? What if corporations silence whistleblowers and we’re just poisoning ourselves?

“You’re quiet.”

Lost in my own thoughts, I refocus on Nick, eyes locked on my face. Today his hair is long enough to pull back in a messy man bun; wearing a gray hoodie and jeans that sit on his hips.

“Yeah, so?”

He chuckles. “So, you should kind of look like you like my company.”

“You want me to hold your hand or something?”

He grimaces. “Whoa, slow down, girl. Buy me dinner first. I’m not a piece of meat.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Alright, what do you suggest?”

“We could, you know, talk.”

“Talk? And you’ll be honest with me?”

“I’d never lie,” he quips, popping a fry in his mouth.

Up for the challenge, I straighten.

“Okay. What made you want to go to Frazier?”

He smirks. “They have a good prelaw program and an excellent law school.”

“Right, but seriously, why Frazier? You know what kind of school this is.”

He raises his eyebrow. “Yeah. A good one.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine. Be obtuse.”

“I’m not; you’re just dancing around the questions you want to ask instead of being direct. I think you mean to say, why am I attending a predominantly Black university rather than a PWI.”

“Exactly.”

“Because . . . it’s a good school.” He gives me a Hollywood-type smile. “Why are you here?”

“I don’t need a reason,” I scoff. “I actually belong here.”

“Ha! You sure about that?”

I narrow my eyes. “What does that mean?”

He waves a fry around like a pointer. “I can smell Ivy League all over you. This wasn’t your first choice. Probably wasn’t even your fifth. What changed your mind to come here?”

I lick my lips, hunger almost making me blurt out the truth. Almost.

“For once in my life, I wanted to know how it would feel to not be the other.”

Nick’s expression softens. He takes me in, as if he understands. But how could he possibly?

“Anyways, enough about me,” I say with a bright smile. “Why don’t you have a girlfriend?”

He rolls his eyes, clearly sick of the question. “Because I don’t need one.”

“Have you ever had a girlfriend?”

“Does it matter?” he snaps. I lean back, satisfied. Clearly I’ve struck a nerve. I’ll come back to that later.

“Okay. Where are you from?”

He stuffs a chicken tender in his mouth. “The south.”

“When’s your birthday?”

“I’m a Libra. And no, I don’t know the time and location.”

“Christian? Baptist? Jewish?”

He makes a cross over his chest. “I believe in God.”

“What do your parents do?”

“Work.”

I purse my lips, unamused. “Why are you always this vague? You act like I’m asking for your Social Security.”