LUCY
The first thing I notice is the flowers.
Large. Elaborate. A riot of colors bundled together with the kind of effort that screams I rehearsed this.
Raymond is cutting a path through the sea of green behind the college building, and he has brought an audience — more than a dozen people trailing behind him like he's a parade that got lost on the way to somewhere important.
Some of them look goofy. Others just look curious. I suspect he didn't invite most of them; they simply saw the school's golden boy marching across campus with a floral arrangement the size of a small child and decided their afternoon needed this more than their textbooks did.
I am not liking this at all.
"I think Raymond is about to propose to you…" Vera says beside me, her voice carrying that particular delight people reserve for other people's disasters.
"Wait until that bitch hears about this…" Amara laughs.
I exhale—long and tired—and reach for my laptop. The memory surfaces without my permission: a girl, a café, coffee on my shirt, six months ago.
I shove the laptop into my bag and zip it shut. This is drama. Pure, unnecessary, manufactured drama, and I want no part of it.
I get to my feet.
"Where are you going? You want to ditch him?" Harlen's grin is unbearable.
I give him a look that should, by rights, wither him where he sits. It doesn't.
All three of them dissolve into laughter, and I roll my eyes—at them, at the situation, at the general state of the universe—and turn to leave.
"Lucy!"
Raymond's voice cuts across the lawn like a bell.
I stop. Because what else is there to do?
I've been spotted. The crowd has seen me stop. Leaving now would be its own kind of drama, and I refuse to give anyone that satisfaction.
I arrange my face into something neutral and wait.
He reaches me in what feels like a ceremony, each step deliberate, his followers spreading out around him like ripples. Up close, he is exactly as handsome as he always is, which is the most useless thing about him right now.
"Hey, Raymond. Is there a problem?" I ask when the dramatic male is finally within hearing distance.
I pretend I have no idea he's the one who has been sending flowers weekly—a farce made easier by the fact that he remained anonymous, or rather, because I chose to keep him that way by never calling the contact number included in the love notes.
Because really, I think I'm far too old for this.
And secondly? I'm definitely not interested.
Sadly, it seems the golden boy is about to push the buttons of rejection by going public with his crush.
"Not at all, Lucy. I just…"
I watch him lick his lower lip. I watch him lower his eyelids intentionally. I watch him step closer, his body positioning itself in a way that is meant to be alluring and captivating.
While that might make other females go gaga, I'm not just any female. I cock a brow as he takes his precious time to complete his statement.
"I like you," he finally finishes, looking at me with hopeful eyes.
"I like you, too," I respond without hesitation.
His smile is a beautiful thing, trust me—so beautiful that I feel a sudden tinge of guilt for being the one about to steal it away in the next second.
"But I'm not interested," I add flatly. "I guess you are here to ask me out with flowers?"
He looks down at the bouquet as if he's suddenly confused by their presence in his hands. "You don't like the flowers? I can get something else… it was just too hard to know your favorites, considering you wouldn't contact me…"
I nod like a sage, my hand patting my handbag slowly. "Raymond, I love the flowers. The variety shows your thoughtfulness. But I'm not interested."
"Why?"
His face takes on an ugly shine now, twisted by the sting of disappointment. I smirk, unable to help myself.
"Because I'm just not interested. It's as simple as that."
"You—"
The rest of whatever he has to say is cut off by a wild shriek.
I don't even have to turn my head to the right to know who is barreling through the increasing crowd of students. I already know.
It's her. The bitch who loved a man who probably didn't even notice her.
"Raymond! What is going on here!"
Her voice is a shrill thing that has my face scrunching in distaste. Must she shout to get a man's attention?
Raymond, for the most part, looks stunned. He seems to get confused easily; that much I've noticed.
"Who are you?" he asks.
I join my friends and a good portion of the crowd in letting out a collective, singing "Oohhhhh."
The bitch—Mildred is her actual name, but I'll stick with bitch—stamps her feet on the ground, her hands balling into fists at her sides.
"Pretending not to know me now? You despicable fool! Why didn't you say the same when I had your dick in my mouth last night!"
My eyes widen as the crowd goes "Oooohhhh" again.
I cock my head, a notable smile playing on my face, and look at Raymond. He licks his lower lip again, this time while glaring at Mildred.
"I have no idea what you are talking about," he says.
The bitch chuckles, but it's a sarcastic, biting sound. "Really now, Raymond? Are you sure you want to stand by that? Are you sure you want to lose a possible slot in the JBAs?"
My eyebrows shoot up even further, mirroring the reaction of the crowd. The JBAs is the most prominent basketball league across more than ten human regions.
My smile widens; I see exactly what is happening now.
I watch Raymond stutter, trying to defend or deny—whatever it is he's doing that is making his face get redder by the second.
"Raymond…" I drawl, patting my handbag again. "I think you should give the bi… Mildred… the flowers. That way, you can get sucked off at least every night this week and still get a spot at the JBAs. I'm sure she would be so appreciative."
There are shouts and howls following my statement. My friends are laughing so hard they're shaking, but the couple just stands there looking like red-faced chicken butts.
Mildred steps forward, fuming, perhaps preparing to talk back or lash out. But Amara steps in front of me—my girl is a wild-ass heroine, standing tall like some African warrior princess.
I still suspect she might be one, or perhaps she's just a fantasy come to life.
"Get the fuck out of here with your fuckboy," Amara snaps.
Raymond looks at me, wanting to say something—maybe a half-assed apology—but he thinks better of it. He just says "Fuck," because he is rightly fucked, and walks out of the gathering with his flowers.
Mildred meanwhile fumes a bit longer, glaring at me and my friends, but at the end of the day, she stalks out of the space to lick her wounds in private.
Surely, before the day is over, her picture will be all over the campus site as a dick-blower.
Or was it sucker?