California. Cal.

“His name is uh, Cal, um… Cal.”

“Cal?”

“That’s right,” I lie. “Yup. Cal.”

“Cal? Cal what? What’s his last name?”

Jesus, Rachel. Let it go!

I look at her dumbly. Crap. “His last name?”

“Grey, you’re being really weird about this.”

Again, my eyes scan the dining hall, landing on a girl who just happens to be in my economics class—and I just happened to have borrowed notes from her. Brianna Thompson.

Thompson it is.

“Sorry, I just zoned out for a second. His last name is, um, Thompson?”

“Asking or telling?”

“Telling.” I give my head a firm nod. “Yup. Thompson. His last name is Thompson.”

Cal Thompson. I roll the name around in my mind, deciding that I like it. Sounds believable.

Legit.

The lie works, because eventually they leave me alone and we go back to our meeting agenda, finish our committee work, and finish our lunch.

An apprehensive knot forms in the pit of my stomach as I swallow the last bite of my spinach chicken wrap.

Little do I know, the lies that so easily rolled off my tongue today will soon become entirely too real.

Calvin

“Cal. You there, man? You’ve gotta come check this out,” my roommate Mason calls from his bedroom, the music blaring from his Bose sound system. Combined with the background noise of the television in the living room, the noise pollution almost drowns out his request.

Unfortunately for me, I’m not that lucky, and he calls for me again. “Come here, man. Seriously.”

Christ, he’s a pain in the ass. “Hold your fucking horses; I’m in the middle of something,” I call back.

Yeah. I’m in the middle of something: stuffing my face with a sub sandwich and washing it down with a cold beer. I swipe the other half of my sub off the counter and wrap it in a napkin before sauntering, unhurriedly, to Mason’s end of the apartment. I lean nonchalantly against his doorjamb, taking another huge bite of sandwich and chewing slowly.

“What.”

He cranes his beefy neck towards me in the doorway, irritated. “I said come check this out. Jeez. Why are you standing there? Where’s your sense of urgency?”

Rolling my eyes, I venture in a few feet. “If this is more porn, I’m going to be fucking pissed.”

“Whatever. Trust me, this is worth our time.”

“Our? No. Don’t say our.” Skeptically, I sidle up next to his desk chair, and he turns his computer monitor on its base to face me. He has his Twitter feed pulled up, and his beefy forefinger pokes the screen, pointing to a particular Tweet.

It’s too damn bad I can’t focus on anything with his loud, crap R&B music blasting out of his speakers.

“Would you turn that shit down a notch?”

Mason sighs but clicks a few buttons with his mouse, shutting the radio off. “Okay. So, check it. I follow my cousin Jemma, who goes to State, on Instagram and Reddit and shit.”

I roll my eyes. “Okay.” Get to the point.

“Anyway, Jemma is in this sorority, right? Hottest chicks on campus. I went once to visit when they had family weekend—don’t ask me why.” My roommate pauses, and for a second I’m hopeful he won’t continue talking.

But guess what? He tells me why.

“My Aunt Cindy—Jemma’s mom—had her panties in a twist about everyone going. Come to think of it, she probably wanted me there to hook me up with a nice girl and—”

I emit a very irritated and exasperated sigh. “Jesus Christ, Mase, where are you going with all this? Make your fucking point.”

“Sorry. My point is, I follow Jemma on Twitter, right?” Oh my effing God. “Her sorority has this big fancy dance thing coming up. They do it every year. Anyway, some dude named Grey must be helping them plan this event, right? Cause it’s a big deal. And see here?” Mason stabs his index finger on the computer monitor again, pointing to another Tweet.

“I swear to all that is holy, if you don’t make your point I’m going to lose my shit.”

“Some Grey guy tweeted your name as his date. Check it.”

I lean in to scan the screen closely, my brows furrowing into an angry line when I read the tweet in front of me.

Holy shit, the bastard is right.

@JemmaGemini Tweeted: Theta Gala season is here! Host with the most @grey_vkeller and date @calthompson3192 are now selling tickets! Get yours here (click on link) #state #sorority #philanthropy #ThetaGala15

My fists clench at my side. “What. The. Actual. Fuck.”

“Wait, hold on—there’s more. That was just yesterday.” Mason moves his mouse around, clicking until the screen scrolls down. Up pop’s Grey Keller’s profile and history. “Check this one out.” He points to the monitor.

“I’d be able to if you’d get your fucking finger out of the way,” I snap, leaning in closer until my face is inches from the screen. “I can’t see.”

“You can ask nicely, you know…”

My jaw clenches shut tightly, and Mason moves his finger.

We peer at the Tweets, heads bent together.

@Grey_VKeller Tweeted: missed you @calthompson3192 at #StateTailgate knock them dead at your game, honey buns! #thompsonforthewin

@Grey_VKeller Tweeted: nothing beats @starbucks and @calthompson3192 on these cold rainy days #blahs #raingoaway #soylatte #boyfriend #boyfriendsweater #hugs

@Grey_VKeller Tweeted: what @calthompson3192 needs is a #queereyeforthestraightguy as he tries on suits for #ThetaGala15

There are more, but Mason is reading them out loud over my shoulder, and his commentary is starting to get on my last nerve.

“Did that hashtag say Queer Eye for the Straight Guy?” he asks the silence. “Hey. What’s worse than having a stalker?” Mason asks with a smirk, answering his own question when I give him a dark scowl. “Being stalked by a guy. Hey. Do you think he’s come to any of our matches and we just didn’t know it?”

“How did you find these?”

“I told you, my cousin Jemma. She retweeted these, and even though it’s a bogus Twitter account—I checked—your name still stuck out at me.”

“That is so messed up.”

“Sucks to be you, man.”

“Shut the fuck up, Mason.”

“I’m just saying. He’s out there watching you, and you didn’t even know it. That’s gross, dude.”

That’s the very last thing I want to think hear, so I prod my roommate sharply in the shoulder with my elbow, narrowly missing his head.

“Shut the fuck up already!” I repeat irritably. “I can’t hear myself think.”

“But I turned the radio off.”

“I meant shut your yap.”

“Sorry. Just thinking out loud.” Then he mumbles, “You’re being a real bitch about this.”

“Not. Helping.”

“Noted.” But then he adds, “But you admit he could be watching you at our games.”

I narrow a steely gaze at him. “How do we even know it’s a guy?” Great. Now I’m using the royal we.

He shoots me an impatient look. “What are you, a moron? Grey is a guy’s name, bruh. That’s how we know it’s a guy.”

@Grey_VKeller Tweeted:@calthompson3192 counting down the days until #ThetaGala15 and I see your handsome face

@Grey_VKeller Tweeted:@calthompson3192 last night was wonderful. Wish you lived closer so I could see you more often #sexy #stud

“This Grey dude must be blind,” Mason says beside me, and I give him another nudge—this time in the back of the head. “Ow, what the hell, man?”