Payton Moormeier

We went to the same school. He was the king—leather jacket, ripped jeans, a perpetual half-smile, and a look that made girls' knees weak. Everyone wanted to be near him, but I didn't.

“Hey,” he said one day in the hallway, blocking my way. “Why aren’t you looking at me?”

“Because I’m not interested,” I replied and walked around him.

He wasn't used to being rejected. At first, he'd get mad, but then he'd start noticing me more often. Sometimes he'd just stand in the aisle, wait for me to pass, and watch silently. I'd pretend I didn't see.

At graduation he came up again:

— Do you even know my name?

• Murmayer. Or something like that.

He chuckled.

• Remember this. It will come in handy later.

Then came life, university, strangers. We didn't see each other, but he didn't delete me from his contacts. Sometimes he'd like my old photos, but I ignored him.

The message arrived during the day.

— "Hello, are you busy?"
— "I bought a new car, check it out))"

Then came the video. A black BMW, the roar of the engine, the gleam of the headlights. Beautiful, expensive, and vulgar.

I wanted to ignore it, but for some reason I answered.

— "Well, congratulations"

— “Would you like to go for a ride in the evening?”

• "with me)"
  — "I won't pester you, honestly)"

I rolled my eyes. Same old tricks as in school.

• "Murmayer, get lost. I don't care about your partying."

— "It's a pity..."
— "And I've already made plans for you)"

My heart sank. Plans? Why all of a sudden?