honey

A loud snore startles her, bringing her back to the present. She turns to see her husband fast asleep.

Typical.

She waits a beat, counting to ten in her head to make sure he’s actually sleeping before swinging her legs over the side of the bed, sock-clad feet touching the ground.

She walks through their ensuite to their closet making sure to lock the door behind her. At the very end stands a mahogany armoire, one she had first bought with Grayson at an antique sale. He never realized its true purpose.

She pushes it slightly to the side, revealing a loose floorboard. When she removes the plank, she’s greeted to the sight of two large duffle bags.

So, yes. She was hiding something, something jeopardizing to both their lives. She sets aside the first bag, unzipping the second one.

Multiple passports, a ziploc bag full of cash, a burner phone. She takes another look at the file hidden underneath, a penlight tucked between her lips.

Name: Grayson Dolan

Age: 25

Occupation: Tech Consultant

A smiling picture falls from underneath the documents and she brings it closer to her face, examining his features slowly.

She was no stranger to the black widow op, seducing a wealthy man to take his money and leaving with nothing in return. It was practically how she survived, always receiving a generous cut from her agency.

This, however, was different. Grayson happened to work at a reputable tech agency that had been stealing money from her boss, embezzling him out of a quarter of his net worth in under four years, and a lot was riding on her ability to figure out how to get this money back. She flips through the documents again, scanning through her assignment outline. She was supposed to find a way into Grayson’s life, sneak her way into his job and get access to documents of proof of fraud. It should have been simple enough, over and done with in less than a year. Somehow, Grayson had found a permanence into her life. She had gotten used to waking up beside him and falling asleep to his soft snores in the evening,

A sparkle catches her eye and she looks down at her left hand, flashlight illuminating her wedding ring. A sign of broken promises and a marriage already built on a foundation of lies. She tucks the diamond under her finger, revealing the script embedded on the bottom.

Naomi Dolan - April 2022

Two years. She should’ve have been in and out, done with this in an under a year and yet she was heading into her third year of marriage. And everyday it was getting harder to differentiate between what was real and what was fake.

She sighs again, clicking her flashlight off and placing everything back in its original spot before falling asleep in her usual her spot next to Grayson.

When she wakes up, birds are chirping loudly outside the window, reminding her that she’s stuck in another day of suburbia.

She follows their unspoken routine, having fallen into a comfortable routine with Grayson. Everyday is the same.

They’ll wake up and brush their teeth, neither of them speaking, just stealing glances through the mirror. Naomi will leave for work, kissing him on the cheek before driving to work, where Grayson believed she’s simply an accountant. In reality, she’s at her agency, figuring out how to take whoever her boss is focused on down. Around 3:30, she’ll come home where she’ll sneak around and hope that today is the day Grayson would be careless enough to leave some information lying around before he comes home to her at 6, a hot-dinner laid out on the table waiting for him.

Everyday is the same.

“How was your day at work?” He’ll ask her.

Memories will through her head, laying the scene out like a flip book. Victim unrelenting to give information, another blood stained shirt tucked underneath the floorboard so he won’t find it.

She’ll sip her wine, coyly smiling over the glass. “Troublesome. And you?”

But today he does something different, breaking their scripted out day.

“We’re having a Christmas party, black-tie. It’s this Friday and I’d like it if you come with me, sweetheart?

Naomi hums, acknowledging his statement. In her mind, a Christmas party surrounded by a bunch of tech bros was the closest thing to Hell she could get.

“Dr.Braun said we should try to spend more time together. Said it’ll help with our marriage.” Naomi fights the urge to roll her eyes.

Another terrible suggestion by that terrible man.

“Andras is the head of another company. It’s supposed to be a merging gala, whatever that means.”

Andras?

Naomi perks up at the mention of that name, that was interesting to her.

Andras Graves had been one of the top marks her agency had been watching for the past year or so, taking over Grayson’s company in under two months. He was born into wealth, a trust fund baby that grew into a powerful man by the age of 22. He controlled over half the technical information in the western United States and having him on your side was valuable.

Having his information was even better.

“You didn’t tell me Andras was becoming CEO of both the companies.” She ask, hoping her tone remains steady enough to sound inconspicuous.

He twists his wedding band.

“We didn’t know until this morning.”

“Well, I would love to come then. Get to know this new CEO of yours.”

Grayson twists his wedding band again before smiling back up at her.

“Of course, sweetheart.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There’s really only three essential rules to a long term con: always stick to your story, never let your identity become comprised and never cross-disguise.

Fortunately Naomi had always been good at dress-up, playing pretend and leading a new identity. The more you do it however, the less glamorous it starts to become.

She adjusts her janitor uniform, pulling at the baggy pant legs. Her hair is tucked under an itchy and hot blonde wig. She knows how to remain unseen, unnoticeable to the passing eye. She keeps her head low, eyes downward as she pushes her cleaning cart through the bustling crowd.

Grayson’s company he works at surprises Naomi, a large high-rise with big glass windows and screens everywhere. Some displaying the news, some displaying stock information and others being used for presentations. The more Naomi looks, the more what she’s seeing makes less sense - so unnecessarily big as if to distract from something.

She continues walking, looking all around her and praying she knows what she’s looking for when she sees it. Doors to an evil lair, henchmen guarding an entry way or even a giant neon sign screaming ‘evil shit goes on here’. However, nothing useful catches her attention.

“Grayson, Andras wanted to see you later.” Naomi’s head whips back, spotting the way Grayson is walking right towards her. Instantly, she knows that regardless of whatever wig she has on, Grayson’s perceptive enough to recognize the supposed love of his life.

She takes in her surroundings, scanning for a quick exit but not seeing anything that will get her out of his way. He’s grows closer and Naomi holds her breath she’s running out of time until he’s close enough to see her. She tucks her head even further down, pulling down her wig to cover her face before rushing past him. She sees her getaway, walking through a pair of double doors, sighing out when she can lock them behind her.

“Excuse me?”

She turns around. Sitting behind a broad desk was none other than Andras. His dark hair is slicked back, revealing a pale face. Everything about him is classically handsome except for his eyes, laced with vice and deceit.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I just need to clean your office.” She slips into a airy French accent, hoping he’ll go along with no questions.

“Doesn’t cleaning normally come on Tuesdays?”

Life can never be easy, can it?

“The woman who normally comes is out sick, sent me here today instead.”

“Really, is Florence okay?” He smiles at her, almost amused as if he’s picking up on something she isn’t.

She swallows deeply. “She’s fine, just a brief touch of appendicitis.”

“Very well. Do I need to be in here or-?”He walks over to her, staring her down with such an intensity that Naomi starts to feel nervous - a rare feeling for her.

“I’ll be just a second.” She assures, slightly pushing him out of his office.

She takes a deep breath, standing in front of his desktop set up. Naomi unclips her bracelet, placing the flash drive into his computer before copying most of the documents onto there.

“C’mon, c’mon.” She whispers under her breath, eyes hurriedly focused on the loading bar. The computer dings, and she sighs out, clipping her bracelet back on before walking out. Not paying attention, she carelessly walks into the person standing outside, hand half-raised in a knock.

“Woah, watch out.” Two strong arms steady her, pulling her upright before she falls to the ground.

Hazel eyes meet green.

“Naomi?” Grayson asks.

She releases himself from his hold, quickly walking past him and into the crowd. She turns around to see him following her and begins to walk even faster, ditching her janitor cart to move through the crowd easier. Her heart is racing, the rapid thumping deafening to her ears.

“Naomi, wait!”

Grayson grabs her wrist, finally catching up to her and turning her so she’s facing him. She watches as he looks over properly, fully taking in who’s in front of him.

Naomi’s been trained to read emotions since a young age, gather what somebody is feeling in just a second based off of facial expressions and body language alone. She’s expecting confusion, panic, even anger. She knows how Grayson is supposed to react.

Instead, he surprises her. His whole demeanor radiates calmness, not even fazed by the chase she had just put him through.

He drops her wrist and smiles calmly, not even missing a beat.

“Sorry, I must’ve mistaken you for somebody I know. You have a familiar face.” He turns the other way, hands in his pocket as if he hadn’t just caught her parading around as another woman.

She stands in the middle of the lobby, still trying to calm the anxiety racing through her body. Mostly, she’s confused. She’s always been able to read Grayson like the back of her hand, growing in tune to what he’s feeling just from studying so long. So she knows she hadn’t missed the main emotion written clearly on his face:

Recognition.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

High stakes jobs require a level of calmness that are usually uncommon in most people. Naomi’s always prided herself on being a rational person, always able to stay calm in even the most stressful of situations.

“It’s done. I can’t do this anymore, I gotta get out. Call me when you get this.” are the first words out of her mouth when she’s in the car. She’s already called her agency, panic weaving it’s way through her burner phone. She’s unsure why she so rattled by her experience with Grayson, but something is off.

He should’ve reacted - yelled, responded or even yanked her away, or even explain to his coworkers - ‘Hi, sorry my wife is certifiably insane. No she doesn’t not work here and I don’t know why she’s dressed like this.’

She doesn’t understand why he remained calm, but ever nerve in her body is on red, screaming at her to run. She whips her car into her driveway and immediately crosses into her house, running up the stairs to head straight for the mahogany dresser in the back of the closet. She pushes it to the side, opening the second duffle bag to reveal her go-bag. She changes immediately, throwing on leggings and a black t-shirt with a baseball cap. She pulls off he gun taped to the back of the dresser, and almost as quickly as she ran in, she’s leaving, headed straight towards Grayson’s office on the first floor. She opens up the safe, hidden behind a giant painting, and grabs all the cash from inside stuffing that into her duffle bag.

It’s not until she’s halfway out the window that she notices something’s not right.

“Fuck, fuck!” She screams. Her bracelet is missing, panic rapidly rising throughout her body. She’s sitting one leg out the window when she hears dinging, loud noises coming from the thin Macbook in the middle of his desk. She walks over, clicking on the first folder that’s finished uploading.

Files are being uploaded to a cloud, documents after documents. She recognizes them, files that she had just copied from Andras’ desktop. Financial records of embezzlement, records of larceny and assault. Everything she was supposed to take back to her agency was being uploaded right in front of her eyes.

She drops her bag in shock, finally piecing everything together. Too caught up in making sure Grayson hadn’t recognized her, she had missed the way he had grabbed her wrist, hands deep in his pocket as he was leaving. She tries to steady her breathing, panic intensifying as she watches all of her work from the past two years go down the drain. Watching as everything she’s worked for slowly fall into the hands of her enemy.

She opens the last file, pictures of her loading the screen. As expected, Grayson had been watching her, longer than she had thought. Old ID’s, street cam photos, anything connected to her or another identity was being uploaded for Andras and his team to see. The final photo in the series is a picture from their wedding, Her smiling at the camera, happiness almost mocking Naomi’s utter despair at the realization that she is most literally a dead woman. Her identity being revealed puts everyone she works for at risk, and her agency doesn’t take that risk too lightly. Her burner buzzes a few times, and she takes a deep breath before reading the lone text waiting for her.

Identity compromised. Kill Grayson Dolan.

When Grayson started working for Andras, he hadn’t expected to be caught up in a criminal ring. He had taken a security job in his early 20’s, knowing that it paid well and was enough to keep him afloat until the next thing came along. He hadn’t expected to quickly rise up into Andras inner circle.

Everyone knew Andras was involved in some shady organizations; you don’t become as powerful as he did without a few skeletons in your closet. The closer he got to Andras, he realized he was actually in the midst of a graveyard.

He shouldn’t have been too surprised then when Andras approached him a year ago, dropping simple files revealing the true identity of his wife. Andras had explained the whole thing to him: how he had stolen some money from an ex-partner whom Naomi worked for, and she was helping to get revenge. He explained how she had been after him for years with no success and claimed how easy it would be for Grayson to get rid of her. It was practically perfect since she would never expect for her target con to be the one to take her down.

Grayson knew he should be angry, knew he should feel betrayed for being played a fool. However the only feeling was a sickness of listening to how disposable Andras thought his wife was. Luckily, it never got to that point.

In reality, the best way to avoid a takedown is to know what the other side has planned. And Naomi had dropped that precious information into their lap.

Apparently, she had gotten really desperate - actually showing up to his job in order to snoop around. And he wouldn’t have known her true intentions if he hadn’t noticed the bracelet, a gaudy piece of silver that he hadn’t recognized. She normally preferred daintier pieces and when he had finally had a chance to touch it, he recognized it for what it was. A hidden flash drive.

After that, everything practically fell into place. Knowing which files her agency deemed important, it was easy to cover Andras tracks. Delete whatever information they needed the most and the best part was he didn’t even have to confront Naomi.

Grayson just hoped Naomi would’ve been smart enough to flee, get far away from the house by the time he got home.

He sends a silent prayer to the universe before opening the door.

“Hi honey! How are you doing?” She’s chopping vegetables, music playing through the speakers.

Apparently the universe doesn’t listen.

She’s changed since the last time he saw her, obviously not wearing the grimy janitor outfit home. Instead she’s wearing all black - down to her running shoes. She’s finishing up the salad, a large dinner already set out on their expansive dining table. For a moment, Grayson can almost pretend like it’s normal. That they’ll sit down and he’ll ask her about her day. Almost pretend like none of today’s weirdness had even happened.

Naomi continues to hum along, At Last playing softly through the speakers. He recognizes the melody almost immediately, taken back to their wedding day when they had danced together - officiating their title as a couple. He had always loved that song, but Naomi refused to play it - claiming she didn’t want to taint her perfect memories to it. His face darkens as it always does when he thinks about their supposed past - how none of it was real to her anyways.

“Sit down, honey. Dinner will be ready soon.” She calls out, and she turns the music up louder while he obeys, walking into their dining room. He listens closely, recognizing that what he thought was humming is actually the soft murmurs of conversation. He strains, trying to listen, but all he can focus on is Etta James crooning.

He knows his wife is a smart woman, that she would have already pieced together what happened today. Theres no reason why she wouldn’t have left, already halfway across the world and away from him.

Unless there was something forcing her to stay.

He walks over to their china cabinet, reaching in the back to grab a hidden gun.

“You read my mind, honey. Grab the wedding glasses, please.” Grayson freezes, not from Naomi’s sudden presence behind him. He hadn’t even realized she had entered the room, setting down the salad bowl in the center of the table. He pauses at the word honey - the third time she’s called him that in less than five minutes. She never calls him pet names - even when they were dating. She always claimed she hated the cliche and while he was quick to shower her with sweethearts, babes and darlings, she always kept quiet.

The warning signs were always really there and Grayson curses himself for being too blind to recognize them.

Naomi is just as calm as she was in the kitchen, blinking at him owlishly as if wondering what’s taking him so long to grab those glasses and sit down. As he joins her, pouring a glass of wine and sitting across from her, he starts to wonder if he’s crazy. If Andras actually got it all wrong and Naomi isn’t who he thinks it is. The woman who is sitting across from him does not have the demeanor of someone who is waiting for their death - knowing powerful people are hunting her down. He swallows, taking a large swallow before looking at her.

He almost believes himself until he notices her hand, gaze flickering between her coy smile and her ring finger as she takes her own sip of her drink. In the entirety of their marriage, she has never gone without her ring. It had become a source of comfort for him, being able to look down and see the Tiffany ring on her finger - even when he knew the marriage was fake. She taps her ring finger on her glass, grabbing his attention and he recognizes the action for what it is. A silent message that the sham is over, that they both know the others game. She clears her throat softly before speaking.

“I know its not a special occasion, but I thought we should have a nice dinner anyways. We’ve been having so much trouble with our marriage and Dr. Braun did say spending time together was important.” She couldn’t hide her smile if she tried, and Grayson swallows as she throws his earlier words back in his face. He looks at all of his favorite food in front of him, a steak with mashed potatoes and salad in front of him. She never cooks like this for him, always settling for something simple and quick. He honestly didn’t even know that she knew how to cook this well, and almost cuts into his food before he stops.

Naomi is still staring at him expectantly, not even having moved to touch her own food. He pauses before looking down at his own plate, noticing a pile of white powder dumped on his potatoes. The pile was too large to be a seasoning and almost sat on top of his food like a mountain of snow. Naomi’s plate was missing the powder, and he turns his own plate away, biting into the steak instead.

He hopes she’s not cliche enough to poison him.

Naomi simply smiles, grabs some powder from a bowl and places it on her own food before taking a large bite.

“Emilia, the neighbor, brought back this special salt from Chile. She said it made every dish she tried better, and we both know how my cooking is. I didn’t put it on the steak though so it might taste a little,” She pauses before taking another bite of her salad completely avoiding her steak “different.”

He glares at her hard before swallowing his own bite.

“On second thought, darling - I’m not that hungry.” She nods getting up to collect both their dishes and for the millionth time that evening, he’s surprised by how calm she’s being. How can she act like everything is fine between them? Like this is just another day in their lives. Anger slightly swells in his chest and he speaks before thinking when she stands next to him.

“Y’know, the weirdest thing happened today. Saw a woman at my job who looked exactly like you.” She pauses before grabbing his steak knife, setting it on top of the other dirty dishes. He shouldn’t have done that. He doesn’t know what she knows and he could’ve at least pretended to be clueless. Maybe she really didn’t know he knew, and now he’s jeopardized everything.

“Weird.” is her only response and she walks back into the kitchen. He’s silent, planning an escape route before she can bring out dessert. The music is turned off and he’s never felt a quietness this loud before . Beads of sweat start forming at his hairline.. Something is wrong.

He just barely ducks underneath the dining table before the bullets make their way through the wall. He hears glass shatter, and immediately knows what’s been hit. Once her round is finished, he waits for the tell-tale clicks of a gun being reloaded before diving to grab the gun hidden in the china cabinet. It takes less than 30 seconds for him to do so before rounds are being fired off again. He inhales sharply when a bowl breaks above him. The shootings done almost as quickly as it started and the quietness is back. He holds his breath, listening to her footsteps walk in before standing up and shooting in her direction. Her eyes widen, taking in the fact that he’s very much still alive and darts back from where she came, hiding from his shots.

He walks out from his hiding spot, surveying the damage around him. Glass litters the entire dining room floor, bullet holes decorating their once-perfect yellow walls. He walks around to the entry foyer, turning in a circle to find a sign of to where she could have gone.

A zipping noise, steak knife literally cutting the tension in the air. He swipes his face, spreading sticky blood along his cheekbone. Of course, she had nicked him.

“Your aim is worse than your cooking, sweetheart.” He calls out. The house is silent in response, him starting to slowly move up the stairs.

He pauses at the top, cocking his gun and letting his finger hover over the trigger. His first thought is the master bedroom, quietly walking to the other side of the hallway. He makes it halfway before another load of gunshots works its way through the doors. Grayson quickly jumps over the banister, landing in the living room below. Naomi continues firing bullets below, using the upward angle as an advantage. He manages to craw into the next room, obstructed from her eagle-eye view. He knows she’s heading down the stairs and he’s getting tired of the cat-and-mouse chase.

“Sweetheart?” He calls out, “ Let’s tal-“

He’s interrupted by a load of gun shots, bullets breaking through the wall. It instantly wrecks, furniture flying everywhere and pieces of wood piling in the middle of the living room. Naomi fires three rounds before her bullets run out, silence calling out to her.

“You still alive, baby?” Her tone is cocky, arrogant and when she rounds the corner where she expected Grayson to be waiting for her, she’s confused when she doesn’t see anything. She walks slowly over destroyed furniture, moving things aside in order to find her missing husband.

“Grayson?” She whispers.

A firm grip behind her grabs her neck and pulls her around to face him. Naomi finds herself eye-to-eye with his gun, and she swallows deeply. She braces herself, watching as his face watches her own, staring deeply into his eyes. She’s silent, wishing to herself how things could’ve been different, ended differently. She silently asks Grayson to forgive her for what she’s done.

“You got me.” She whispers, and Grayson just stares at her, sighing before releasing his hold on her.

“Get out of here.” He whispers back, and before Naomi can say anything else, he’s gone.

“I just don’t understand. I mean, Stevens has praised me this entire semester. She even told me personally he’s never had a student write as well as me nor pick up on the work as fast as I have. Wouldn’t that be qualities you’d want in an intern, Bea? Even Grayson Dolan would’ve been a better pick.” C.J. turns to her boss, angrily folding flared jeans.

Another reason C.J. loves Sunnyside —  her boss, Beatrice “Bea” Walker. Once a glitzy soap star of the ’50’s, she retired with her husband and opened Sunnyside in the late 80’s. Despite being in her late-70s, she still holds on to the same glamour and charm that made her a household name a century prior.

“Maybe there was another reason. It could be something other then your application.” She croaks, lifting a pumpkin to place next to a costumed mannequin. As halloween rapidly approaches, the store was starting to transform to fit the fall season — hoping to draw in customers to purchase unique costumes for the holiday.

Before she can move to help Bea, the doors chime, signaling an entrance. Walking through with seemingly-glowing skin and a symphonic smile was Alexi, C.J.’s best friend and roommate. It’s hard to miss Alexi whenever she walks into a room — from her bleached-blue hair to eclectic style, she’s never been afraid to follow her own path, something C.J. has always admired. She walks straight to C.J., wrapping her in a loving embrace

“Are you okay? James told me what happened.” Alexi leaves an arm around her, and while C.J. knows it’s supposed to be comforting; all she can think about is how much she wants Alexi to leave. It’s one thing to rant to her elderly boss, someone who would love her in spite of her shortcomings and faults. But to know her own friend group has already heard about her misfortune, sending over someone to comfort and soothe, it was all just a little too pitiful for her to handle.

“Theta’s are throwing a party tonight. It’ll be the perfect pick-me-up, and you can forget all about Evans Jensen-“

“Eli Jennings” C.J. corrects.

“Whoever” Alexi rolls her eyes at the interruption, “is missing out on your incredible talent because of an idiotic professor’s incompetence. Everyone’s going and it won’t be the same without you, C.”

“As much as I would love that, Lex, I really just want to be alone tonight. Shitty beer, cheap Indian food, a sad movie so I don’t have to think about how these past four years have been a waste.”

“Not a waste, first of all. Look, I know that you’ve had this whole plan for your life since you popped out the womb, but shit happens, things change. This isn’t a failure, just think of it as a temporary setback. Plus, when life gives you lemons, you…” She trails off, waiting for C.J. to finish.

“Make lemonade?” She sighs.

“Use it to chase tequila.” Alexi giggles.

“I would go, but I have to close. Right, Bea?"

"Don't use me as an excuse. You should go, maybe find a boy to take home." Alexi makes a face at Beatrice's statement and C.J.'s face heats up.

“You’re going - no more buts. Wear something cute. Something that maybe doesn’t make if look like you were alive for Vietnam.” Alexi’s already leaving, kissing Beatrice lightly on the cheek on her way out.

This was how C.J. found herself standing outside the Theta Lambda  frat house, October air chilling her through her jacket. She shifts her weight between her feet, surveying the small group around her. Alexi talks animatedly on the phone, asking for whoever to meet them out front.

A random person bumps into her, forcing her to spill the contents of her purse onto the dewey grass. C.J. groans, bending down to pick everything up while mentally thinking to herself all of the other things she could be doing right now.

A pair of dirty air forces steps in front of C.J. and she slowly looks up at the girl standing in front of her. She’s pretty, stunning actually. C.J. recognizes her immediately. Channing Williams - social chair of Rho Xi sorority and the key to all the best parties on campus. Dressed in a black romper and red velvet jacket, she’s everything C.J. isn’t and a quiet twinge of jealousy plucks her heart. ‘I bet she’s never lost out on an internship.’ she thinks bitterly.

“Sorry, do you know anyone?”  Channing asks, voice soft and sweet with a clipboard in hand. C.J. looks at Alexi, waiting to hear her answer.

“Not really? I mean we know people, but we aren’t going to be on your clipboard or anything so if you could just let us slide through, I’m sure there’s someone here who could like vouch for us or something?” C.J. wants to slap her — not only did she drag her out in below-freezing weather, but she couldn’t even guarantee them a way inside.

“Well this is a greek-only party so unless you know anyone….” Channing trails off, not openly wanting to kick them out in front of so many people.

“That means no GDI’s.” C.J. didn’t even notice the miniature-sized freshman standing besides Channing. She clearly looks annoyed at the intrusion, keeping her from inside where everyone else is to deal with their little group. C.J. briefly wonders if the upturned stare is a requirement for Rho Xi or if that’s was just especially reserved for her.

“Geed’s?” Alexi repeats, raising an eyebrow.

“Goddamn independents. Y’know, not greek-affiliated.” At this point, C.J. is ready to call the whole night and retire in her bed when she see’s someone appear in between Channing.

“They’re cool, Chan. They’re with me.” Micayla Zhao enters, covered in glitter, sweat and what C.J. is almost sure to be a line of salt from a body shot. C.J. has always considered Micayla the only cool Rho Xi, having had multiple classes with her over the years. Micayla fit right in with their group: smart, beautiful and a wicked sense of humor.

Channing nods, seeming bored and just wanting to get back inside with everyone else. She does a quick finger tap with Micayla (sacred Rho Xi bullshit is what Alexi always calls it) and moving along the line.

“Are your sisters always that charming?” Micayla rolls her eyes, grabbing C.J. to move them through the house to the backyard. A huge bonfire is set up in the middle with a canopy near by for the designated drinking spot. She watches as Micayla confidently moves through the crowd, stopping from time to time to say hey to friends and classmates on the way.

“Most of the time. Look, they’re just possessive over tradition and the Rho-Theta party has always been major exclusive, Channing’s been fighting to make it open to outsiders.” Micayla yells over the thumping bass.

“Yeah, I’m sure they love all the GDI’s.”  C.J. exaggerates her voice, pinching her nose to capture the nasally, valley accent Channing is almost famous for. Micayla stops, and had C.J. not been paying attention, she would’ve ran into her.

“Dude, you’re kind of being a bitch right now. Look, I get your bummed about your internship, but Channing wouldn't have let you in if she didn't want to. Would you rather be getting drunk, in your apartment alone?”

“Yeah, actually.” Micayla stares at C.J. for a second, looking like she’s about to bitch her out. As if Alexi can sense the fight forming, she grabs Micayla by the arm.

“Let’s go get a drink, you look like you need a drink in you.” They both walk towards the house, Alexi mouthing ‘Be Nice’ over her shoulder before disappearing completely. C.J. exhales, counting to 3 in her head before walking over to where drinks are set up.She fills up her solo cup, watching as the fizzy liquid moves closer and closer to the top.  Before she can take a sip, someone bumps into her spilling half the drink over the side.

“Hey, watch it!” A thick Jersey accent exclaims, and C.J. groans, wondering if this night could get any worse.

“Bennett?”

Grayson appears in front of her, denim jacket over a black t-shirt and black jeans. She takes note of the dark spot growing on the front of his shirt, from where she spilt her drink.

“What’re you doing here?”

She simply shrugs, refilling the missing contents of her cup.“I didn’t know parties were your scene. I always imagined in your free time you’re in like a dark room, crying alone to Sylvia Plath novels.”

“Nice to know you think of me out of class, Grayson” C.J. takes a sip of her beer. She moves to walk away, hoping he would take it as an end of conversation.

"How'd you get in? Isn't this like Rho's only?" He asks, following her to the edge of the bonfire. She looks at him, watching as the light frames the features of his face.

"Couldn't I say the same about you? You're not a Theta." He just stares at her intensely until she relents, "Micayla Zhao got me in. Y'know her?"

"We had history together sophomore year. She helped me cheat on the midterms."

C.J. laughs shortly. "Sounds like her."

Grayson opens his mouth to speak again, but is cut off.

“As much as I’m enjoying this conversation, Grayson, don’t you have someone else to bother? Someone who, y’know, actually likes you?” If that comment bothered him, he didn’t show it, continuing talking to her as if they haven’t pissed each other off continuously for the past four years.

“What do you think about Michael Eichler getting the internship spot?”  He asks. As if it wasn’t bad enough that she didn’t get the spot, now she has to sit and rub salt in the wound with her worst enemy.

“What’s there to think about? He got it, I didn’t. Fucking sucks.” He laughs, holding up his own drink.

“Cheers to that.” They both clink cups, and C.J. briefly wonders if the universe is still laughing at her.

"You know, that spot should've gone to one of us." He muses, watching the partygoers continue to stumble around them. He doesn't say anything after that, and she bites.

"Why should it have gone to one of us?"

"Well, think about it. We're both the top of our class, and I know for a fact Stevens has submitted your writing to collegiate magazines. There's no fucking way Michael fucking Eichler should've got that spot over one of us." C.J. pauses. She had known that Stevens appreciated her writing, but not enough to submit it anywhere. If what Grayson was saying was true, why hadn't she gotten the apprenticeship?

"Nothing I can really do about it now. He got the spot, I didn't. I guess I can become a second rate author now." She takes another sip, and Grayson snorts unattractively.

"I'm sure you'll be okay, Bennett. If Stevens like you, I'm sure there's another author dumb enough to want to publish your work too." She glares at him.

"And here I thought we were becoming friends."

"As if you actually would've wanted to become friends with me."

"Oh yeah, that's what I do in between my Sylvia Plath crying sessions. Desperately wish that Grayson Dolan would become my best friend." Sarcasm drips off every word and he looks at her before taking another long sip of his drink.

“You know you’re actually kinda cool, Bennett. When you’re not trying to bite my head off in the middle of lecture”

“Maybe if you didn’t have such shitty takes, I wouldn’t want too.” Whatever retort Grayson was planning falls from his lips when Channing appears by his side, tucking herself underneath his arm.

"Hey, Gray. I got you another drink." Two Coronas hang from her manicured hand, and he whispers inaudibly to her, giggling between the two of them. C.J. begins to feel awkward, and coughs uncomfortably.

“Oh, you’re the GDI from earlier,” Channing looks up at her half-lidded, dark eyelashes framing red-tinged brown eyes.

“Yeah, that’s me.” Channing shifts her weight, biting her lip and feeling like an intruder. "I didn't know you two knew each other?" C.J. supplies, feeling desperate for conversation

"Gray and I had math together freshman year, "They both stare at each other awkwardly, silent tension as they wait for the other to speak.

“So, I’m gonna go." She speaks.

“No, you don’t have to." Channing is already turned back to Grayson, looking like she wouldn't mind C.J.'s exit.

“No it’s fine” Neither Grayson nor Channing seem to protest anymore, and C.J. turns back to see her friends looking at her, both amused and curious at her interaction with the duo. She begins to walk towards them, feet and heart sinking with every step, not feeling any better about her current predicament.

“Hey Bennett,” She turns around to face Grayson. “Think about what I said. About the internship stuff” She just nods, and leaves the pair. The moment she reaches her initial group, Alexi pulls her towards them.

“You and Dolan were just talking and it didn't end in a screaming match. That’s new. What did he want?”

“Nothing. Just typical Grayson Dolan bullshit."Alexi looks like she doesn't believe her, and frankly C.J. doesn't believe herself. She thinks back to what Grayson said, about how they were the only real competition for the apprenticeship. Whatever he meant by that could be handled tomorrow.

"C’mon. Didn’t  you say something earlier today about tequila shots?” She asks

Professor Stevens’ American Lit class had been the one class C.J. actually enjoyed during her four years at UCLA. As an English major, she found herself bored in most of her classes — revisiting the same works and short stories she had read in high school, only now in dusty auditoriums and cobwebbed libraries. At least with Stevens, she was given a challenge — a way to go further beneath the work and dig into the emotional meaning behind some of the classics.

“With Bukowski, I think the appeal is that his work is raw. He captured life as it really is. It’s not glamorous like the American dream was trying to portray — its gritty, depressing and downright horrifying at times.”

The one downside to this class — Grayson Dolan. She fights the urge to roll her eyes, thinking to herself that of course he would praise the likes of Bukowski.

“With all due respect, Grayson,” She sneers. “I just don’t understand how you can idolize a misogynistic asshole who identified more with a liquor bottle than another person. I mean, Women, reads more like a college boy bragging to his friends about whoever he hooked up with than an accredited, ‘raw’ author. But I’m sure that’s what appeals to you as well”  

C.J. wasn’t exactly sure what had started this hatred between them. It had started as a friendly, academic competition — seeing who got better grades on essays, who could make the better point, who was just overall greater. What started as in an in-class rivalry soon turned into a complete and utter loathing. Neither could be in the same room for longer than a few minutes without arguing with the other.

He whispers something under his breath, no doubt at her expense, and his little group snickers to themselves.

“Miss Bennett, I would ask that you allow other people to have an opinion — even if it doesn’t directly align with your own.” Professor Stevens sighs. C.J. slumps down in her seat, subtly flipping off Grayson’s smug look. He returns the gesture, sticking his tongue out.

“And Mr. Dolan, if you are to do such obscene gestures, I ask for it to not be in the middle of my lecture hall.” C.J. snorts, watching Grayson’s face turn red and he mumbles out an apology.

“Now before we end class, I have an announcement to make. As some of you are aware, UCLA has had an incredible opportunity for one bright, lucky student to shadow author, Eli Jennings, for a semester. Your applications were incredible, and just know that this was by far one of the hardest pools to choose from.”

C.J. straightens up at this announcement, almost leaning forward in her seat. The Eli Jennings apprenticeship was one of the most coveted spots for any English major. It practically guaranteed whoever received it an audience with some of the greatest authors and publishing houses in America, and moreso than not, a New York bestseller. She has been working for this since she was a freshman, doing everything to keep herself in the forefront of the English department’s mind so she that was their number one choice. Her palms are sweaty, heart racing. She can see now visions of her hard work paying off, being rewarded with the opportunity of a life time the moment her name was called.

“With that being said, just know that if you weren’t selected, this doesn’t speak about your quality as a writer. All of you are talented in your own way and I’m sure I will be hearing each of your names for years to come. Now, I would like everyone to congratulate Michael Eichler for receiving the 2021 Eli Jennings apprenticeship.” Scattered applause fills the auditorium after their professor’s announcement  and C.J’s heart drops to her stomach.

Almost immediately, C.J.’s whole college career flashed before her eyes. Every club, every freelance job, ever class taken, every A, down the drain because of Michael fucking Eichler.  Her mouth dries out, and she can’t even lift her head, quiet rage filling every fiber of her being. She could’ve sworn that internship spot was hers. She looks up at the ceiling, counting speckled ceiling tiles in-between yellow fluorescent lights, mentally willing the burning feeling in her throat to go away.

She is not going to cry in the middle of her lecture - especially not in front of Grayson.

Surprisingly when she looks to see his reaction, he’s staring at her, looking just as gutted. His thick eyebrows are furrowed, looking confused like he expected her to give him the answer. She goes back to staring ahead, tuning out everyone else.

They both knew that the other was the only true competition for this spot, a quiet acknowledgment that if one doesn’t get it, the other will. It was ultimately the end of their contest, a metaphorical blue ribbon for a four-year race. If both of them were the losers, only one questions remains: