He shakes his head, eyes scanning like a hawk. “I have no idea where we are.”
I’m about to ask whether he remembers me falling on top of him, but there are more pressing matters. Like his beard. “When was the last time you shaved?” I blurt, fixated on his jaw.
“Before I went to school this morning.” He runs his hand over his jaw to confirm. His lips part slightly before he turns to the full-length mirror, next to what appears to be a walk-in closet. “What the . . . ,” he mutters, groping at his face.
I scramble out of bed and follow him, duvet still wrapped around me like a protective cloak. “It’s fake.” I reach and give the wiry hairs a yank. They don’t budge.
“Ouch! What the hell?” He smacks my hand away.
“Okay. Not fake.” I turn, hands pressed to my temples. Mid-tizzy, my eye catches the framed photo Renner tossed on the bed.
It’s a photo of a couple. The woman is in a delicate lace, lilac-colored dress. Her dark, shiny hair is swept back in an updo with wavy barrel curls framing her angular face. The man is in a deep-indigo button-down. He’s kissing her forehead, staring at her like she’s his forever. It’s an I’d-rather-die-a-grisly-death-than-go-two-seconds-without-you kind of love, by the looks of it.
They look weirdly familiar upon closer inspection.
The longer I stare at it, tilting my head like a dog to view it from every angle, the more it sets in.
The couple is us.
TEN
I toss the framed photo on the floor like it’s a heaping pile of dog poo. “This is a prank.”
“It would have to be one elaborate senior prank,” he says in disbelief, unable to stop combing his fingers through his very real beard.
My cheeks heat. “This looks like Nori’s work. She’s always playing around with Photoshop. Remember that time she pasted all our heads on that Riverdale picture? It looked so real.” I was aggrieved because she made me Betty and Renner Jughead. Even a totally pointless, photoshopped pairing doesn’t sit right.
“But how could Nori . . . how could anyone do . . . all of that?” He makes a faint gesture toward my chest again, but quickly thinks better of it when he meets my scowl.
My left boob threatens to flop out of these weird silky pajamas. I bolt into the walk-in closet for literally anything to cover myself.
The closet is full, but seemingly organized, split in two with his-and-her shelving. There’s a laundry basket on the floor, and a gray hoodie that reads MAPLEWOOD HIGH SCHOOL across the chest rests on top. I grab it and pull it over my head.
When I emerge from the closet, Renner is in the en suite bathroom. Like a child distracted by shiny objects, he runs a hand along the marbled countertop and touchless tap, while admiring his bearded face in the mirror. He’s making that pouty face models make when they’re trying to be all sensual. That’s how I know it’s really him. His ego is unmatchable.
The hallway outside the bedroom （our bedroom?） is lit with a rosy hue from the morning sun. We appear to be on the second floor of a home. There’s a carpeted staircase directly to the left of the master bedroom and two other bedroom doors down the hallway, along with another bathroom.
The larger of the two bedrooms is fairly nondescript. There’s a neatly made oak-framed twin bed and clutter-free furniture. The smaller room appears to be a home office. Near the landing above the stairs, a collection of framed photos sits atop a floating shelf.
The photos depict Renner and me in nauseatingly romantic poses in random places, including an apple orchard. Who takes photos like this and why? Nori really went to great lengths to photoshop these. I idly wonder if I’m on camera, if I’m unknowingly starring in one of those YouTube prank shows.
“Ha ha, very funny. You got us. You can all come out now,” I say, waving my arms toward the ceiling, examining it for cameras.
Nothing.
I head downstairs, arms crossed, bracing myself for Nori, Kassie, and Ollie to jump out from behind a closed door and scare the crap out of me. The kitchen and living area are long and open with a nautical vibe. Strangely, it’s exactly how I’ve always imagined styling my future home. I’m a little jealous of whoever owns this house. I rack my brain, trying to figure out who could convince their parents to loan their home for such a prank.
A couple dirty, free-form ceramic plates are stacked on the coffee table. The pantry is sparse, aside from approximately a year’s worth of peanut butter and some boxed macaroni. Whoever owns this house must love peanut butter. The fridge isn’t much better. There’s a half-empty carton of eggs, a brick of marbled cheese, a nearly empty jar of dill pickles, and jumbo bottles of condiments.