Uncomfortable

Chapter 1

Krystal

Buzz Buzz. Buzz Buzz. Buzz Buzz. My phone is in my backpack, but I’m pretty sure the whole class can hear it vibrating. The damn thing has been going off intermittently for the last twenty minutes. Even though someone is clearly desperate to get ahold of me, I’ve been ignoring it, not wanting to draw Professor McGee’s attention. I’m sitting near the back of the lecture hall, but still. I don’t want to tempt fate. Last week, she kicked a girl out of her class because she had her phone—facedown—on her desk. And I heard she failed a guy last semester because his phone rang during the midterm. Advanced Algebra is a pre-req for… well pretty much every class I need after this. If I fail this one class, it will set my entire college career back by a semester.

So, I ignore my phone, and ignore it again when it buzzes three minutes later. I pack my stuff up while Professor McGee is giving her closing instructions on the homework, and as soon as class finally ends, I grab my backpack and shoot out into the hall, pulling my phone out the second I clear the door.

Holy s**t. Twelve missed calls, twenty-seven text messages, and ninety-six—my phone vibrates—ninety-seven Insta notifications. I consider myself a likable enough person, and I have a fair amount of friends, but my phone and social have never blown up like this. Before I can check any of my messages or notifications, my phone rings again, and my best friend’s picture and phone number take over my screen. I answer and press the phone to my ear.

“Hey, Mir. What’s going on?”

“Oh, Krys. Thank goodness! Are you okay?” Miranda’s voice is high-pitched and thick with worry.

“Uh… yeah… I’m fine.” Less fine than I was before I answered her call. What the hell is going on? “Why?”

“You don’t know?”

My heart speeds up at her words. My brain has finally picked up on the fact that something is most definitely wrong. And whatever it is, obviously has something to do with me.

“What’s going on, Miranda?”

Her muffled curse cuts through the phone, followed by a long pause before she answers. “You need to check your Insta.”

My heart sinks. “Hold on,” I tell her as I pull the phone away from my ear and open the social app. I’m up to 106 notifications now, most of them comments on a post I’m tagged in. I navigate to the post. The image loads quickly, and my stomach turns sour even quicker. It’s me. Naked. Sprawled across my ex-boyfriend’s bed. I know exactly when the photo was taken. I posed for it myself—back when Ryan and I were still together, back when I thought we’d be together forever.

He took several pictures that night, all with varying degrees of nudity. This was the only full frontal. I was spread-eagle on his bed in his room at the Zeta house, baring all and smiling sweetly for the camera.

The poster placed the tiniest of heart-eye emojis over my n*****s and a slightly larger heart between my thighs, but enough of me is showing to leave me burning with adrenaline, panic, and shame. I don’t even bother looking at the comments. I don’t want to know what people are saying about me.

Why would Ryan post these? And not from his regular Insta account, I notice through the haze of embarrassment. He created a fake account just to post nude photos of me? And then he tagged me in them so all the world would know it was me.

“Krys… are you okay? Krys! Hello?” Miranda’s faint voice floats up from the phone in my hands. I all but forgot I was still on the phone with her. Tears prick my eyes as I lift the phone back to my ear and hurry away from the other students loitering in the hall. I am, for sure, going to be sick, and if I don’t get outside in the next twenty seconds, I’m going to blow chunks all over the linoleum floor of the Bradford building. I rush for the exit and barely make it to the edge of the sidewalk in time to heave my half-digested muffin and curdled latte into the grass.

“Where are you right now?” Miranda presses. “I’m coming to get you, and we’re going to get drunk.”

I stand up straight and wipe my mouth. Emptying my stomach settled it a little but did nothing to calm my nerves. The fingers of my free hand shake as I press them to my temples and close my eyes. How do I fix this?

Cutting off Ryan’s balls would be a good place to start.

“Wait an hour and pick me up outside the Zeta house. We’re going to have a body to hide.” I hang up on her and tuck my phone into my pocket. Then I square my shoulders and head for my ex-boyfriend’s frat house.

I have no way of knowing exactly how long it takes me to walk to Greek Row. It feels like I fly there, fueled by anger and betrayal, and before I know it, I’m standing outside the frat house yelling for Ryan to “Come out and face me like a man.”

My shouting draws looks from people passing by, but I don’t care. At least they are staring at me with my clothes on.

Finally, one of Ryan’s fraternity brothers comes outside and stands, arms crossed, in front of the door. The message in his stance is clear: Get off my lawn. But I’m not going anywhere until I see Ryan and he takes those pictures down.

“Where’s Ryan?” I demand.

“Look I don’t know you or what’s going on, but you need to leave.” His voice is deep and calm and even, everything I am not right now.

“Not until he grows a pair and comes out here.”

A muscle in the guy’s square jaw ticks, but his stance and expression are impassive. He’s not budging.

“Listen, I’m sure you’re a decent guy. Or maybe you’re not. I don’t really care. But if he doesn’t come out here, I’m going in, and it’s going to get ugly.”

“Okay, crazy.” He says dismissively, and for the first time since I saw the picture of myself in the buff, I stop to take stock of the situation.

What is confronting Ryan really going to do? Do I really think he’s going to take the picture down? Maybe I’m hoping this whole thing is a misunderstanding. Maybe he was looking at the picture because he missed me and accidentally posted it.

Under a fake account.

I shake my head and glare at the guy standing between me and Ryan. He’s impossibly tall, almost as tall as the door frame, and muscled from head to toe. His dark jeans hang loosely around narrow hips, underlining his white T-shirt, which is molded to tight abs, solid chest muscles, and bulging biceps. Even the forearms crossed in front of his chest are well defined, and one sports a colorful tattoo sleeve. His golden-brown eyes are the exact color of his skin, accented by thick, dark lashes and a five o’clock shadow that matches his dark-as-midnight hair.

He’s watching me warily, muscles tense, like he’s waiting for me to completely lose it. And I can understand why. I may actually be on the verge of a complete meltdown.

I take a deep breath and smooth my hands down my sides to keep from balling them into fists. “Please, I need to talk to Ryan. It’s important.”

He considers me for a moment, then sighs. “Wait here. I’ll see if he wants to come out.” Then he steps back inside the house and slams the door in my face.