I’m one of those weird millennials who doesn’t like social media much, except when using it for stalking purposes. And fine, on occasion, I like Instagram. But I mean, let’s be real—pretty much everyone in my age group is addicted to social media. The reason? They don’t know how to live their life without it. Think about it. If someone took the Internet away, or their phones away, and threw them in a dumpster fire, or if the President of the United States banned all social media for life, I’m sure a ton of people in their early to late twenties would up and die. Just flat out not exist any longer.

I’m sure there would be a ton of people of all ages who would freak out and rather die than live without social media and/or their phones. That’s how dependent our society has become.

I was raised differently. I know, I know I sound like that typical girl who’s all, “But I’m soooo different. Not like other people at all. I’m special.” Like I just mentally accused Rhett of acting on our brunch date.

But when you grow up broke, when you don’t have much food to eat in the fridge, cell phones and the Internet are a total luxury, one I never had until I was sixteen, the summer before my junior year. That’s when I got my first crappy little phone with its crappy little plan, and I was so damn happy I thought I would burst. I believed my new phone would become my new best friend. The connection to a whole other world I was always seeking, yet somehow never realized it until now.

Then I discovered what a time suck my phone became and that it’s really hard to function on social media when you’re not very social.

As in, I didn’t have a lot of friends. I still don’t. Friends are hard to come by. I have one I can count on, but I don’t talk to her that much. I’m too busy planning my revenge. She’s busy living her actual life. We have different priorities right now.

Ha ha, I’m so funny, but you know what I mean.

Anyway, I have all the accounts I should. Facebook (never use it). Twitter (don’t understand it, don’t want to understand it), Instagram (my favorite), Tumblr (used to be my favorite, now I don’t know what to do with it), Pinterest (biggest time suck in all the land) and Snapchat (half the time I don’t know what I’m doing).

But you see, I don’t want to share my life with anyone else, especially virtual strangers. No one cares that much about my pitiful life, am I right?

I was shocked to see Rhett followed me on Instagram the afternoon of our brunch date, and that he added me on Snapchat that night. I followed him back on IG, scrolling through his feed and immediately getting bored.

I’ve already scrolled through his feed before. Countless times. He has a public profile, which made it easier for me to stalk him. He shows off on IG, how great his life is, where he travels, all his friends, all the girls. We get it, your life is perfection.

I couldn’t add him on Snapchat before we started talking, though, since it tells you every person who adds you and I couldn’t risk it. I didn’t want him to think I was some stalker set out to get his fine ass, like every other girl on campus who lusts after him.

But when he added me a couple of days ago, I went ahead and added him right back. Not that I could see much. Snapchat allows you to post on your story, and some people do it excessively, but not Rhett. There were no stories from him to look at, and he hadn’t even snapped me back after I added him, for whatever reason, I don’t know.

I’m not the kind to make the first approach, but in this moment, I decided to hell with it, and I sent him a snap. A selfie of me, making a face, my tongue sticking out. Below my face, I typed, what are you up to? and then sent it.

Rhett immediately snaps me back, a selfie of him and the words. Not much. How bout u?

I decide to tell him the truth, something I’m not used to.

Bored.

He takes the conversation to chat. Same. Though I should be doing homework.

I should be too. One thing I shouldn’t be doing is talking with him. Or…

Maybe I should. I keep automatically throwing up these walls, mentally listing all the reasons why I shouldn’t talk to him or see him or spend time with him. When that’s exactly what I should be doing—spending time with him. How else am I going to get closer to Rhett?

What I really need is for him to take me to Daddy and Stepmama’s house so I can meet them. Look that woman straight in the eyes and silently defy her to not recognize me.

That’s my ultimate goal.

My phone dings, letting me know Rhett said something, and I check it.

I want to see you again.

I stare at the words he just typed, unsure as how to answer. He’s bold. He just asks for what he wants and isn’t afraid of the consequences. I’m not used to that. My father was weak. He didn’t know how to ask for what he wanted. If he did, I wonder if he’d still have my mother in his life.

Chewing on my lower lip, I wonder how I should answer him. My fingers hover over the cracked screen, fingernails tapping. I’m sitting on the saggy couch in my living room, textbooks scattered around me, the sun slowly going down, making my shack of a house grow darker and darker. Reminding me just how alone I really am.

I’m pretty busy this week. This isn’t a lie. I have class, I have to work Wednesday and Thursday nights. Friday night I’m off, but Saturdays are always busy, so I never get time off then.

Too busy to go out to dinner with me?

Maybe.

I add a winking emoji to let him know I’m flirting. Hopefully he takes the bait.

Come on. You need to go out and have fun sometime, right?

He adds a winking emoji right back.

Okay, good. He’s flirting. This I can work with. It’s a lot easier to do this over Snapchat versus in person.

But I do need to play hard to get.

You’re so right. But I’m just really focused right now.

There. That answer should work.

Focused on having no fun? I smile despite my annoyance. He’s persistent, I will give him that. You doing anything Friday night? Or is your schedule too full?

It’s like he reached into my brain and saw my schedule for the week.

Actually, I’m free.

Not anymore. You’re going out. With. Me. :)

There’s been this ball of nerves resting in the pit of my stomach since my text conversation with Rhett on Monday night. Anticipation and dread about my dinner date with him on Friday. He’s been consistently snapping and texting me since I agreed to go with him, and I respond dutifully. I’ve started to wait for his snaps, my heart racing every time the notification sounds.

Since I don’t really talk to anyone else, those notifications are all from him. I’ve discovered a few things about Rhett Montgomery. Intimate, personal things I didn’t pick up on when I did my online stalking.

One, he’s very chatty. He will send me these long-winded texts and I respond to him with a yeah, or sure. I bet that drives him crazy. But it’s like the guy has a lot to say, and it’s not total bullshit either. He’s…God, I can’t believe I’m admitting this, but he’s interesting.

He’s also smart. I like talking to him. He makes good conversation, and he’s never boring.

Protective. Always asking me if I’m okay, if I’m safe, like he actually cares. He doesn’t even know me, but that doesn’t matter.

Kind. Rhett’s also kind, it complements his protectiveness. He’s nice to the rude server at the restaurant, he talks about his friends and family in a way that I can feel his love for them. That sounds corny, but it’s true.

Flirtatious. Very flirtatious. He says things that allude to his attraction toward me. He likes me. He’s into me. I know this because that’s exactly what he says. Plus, the last couple of nights, he’s sent me photos of him just out of the shower, hair wet and no shirt on, his dark gaze smoldering as he stares into the camera. From what I can tell he has a broad set of shoulders and a nice body.

He’s hot. There’s no denying it.

It’s hard for me to trust if all this flirtatious protectiveness is real, though. It feels too good to be true. Phony.

That’s what I keep telling myself. He’s fake. No one can be that sweet, that sexy, that interested in a girl he barely knows. It’s got to be an act.

Got to be.

I had to break down and let Rhett pick me up at my house, after he kept telling me again and again he wanted to come get me.

You don’t have a car. You’ll have to ride the bus to meet me at the restaurant, he told me when I asked where he was taking me. Let me come get you.

I just told myself that when he arrives at my house, I have to meet him out front, so he can’t come inside. Not that I have anything to hide—my true identity isn’t obvious, I’ve hidden everything I own that refers to Jennifer Fanelli, not that he’d have a clue who that is.

And not that there’s much to Jennifer Fanelli in the first place.

Truthfully? I don’t want him to see my meager belongings and judge me for it (he’d never judge you for it, he’s the perfect almost boyfriend!). Everything I own came from a thrift shop, Walmart or Target, and some of my furniture I even found on the side of the road, like the scratched-up coffee table and the dresser in my bedroom with the drawers that don’t open all the way.

Thank God for Savannah. When I spotted the furniture, I called her up to meet me in front of the house with the dresser and coffee table waiting on the sidewalk. She helped me shove the furniture in the trunk of her car, the both of us laughing the entire time as we tried our best not to break anything.

She’s my first real friend here, yet I’m not real with her. Not at all.

I go all out for the date, wearing my best jeans and an old pair of black slip-on Vans that still look decent. I splurged and bought a new black long-sleeved T-shirt. So simple, yet it looks pretty good on me—everyone looks good in black, right? Savannah recently cleaned out her makeup stash so I used some of the stuff she gave me, adding layers of mascara to my eyelashes and slicking on the berry-colored lipstick until my lips shine.

Checking my reflection in the mirror, I tell myself I look good. Good enough. I blew my dark blonde hair straight and I’m wearing the tiny diamond earrings my dad said belonged to my mom. They’re not real—she got them on QVC or the Home Shopping Network, he couldn’t remember—but she left them behind when she left us, and I’ve kept them with me my entire life.

For some weird, stupid reason, they make me feel closer to her.

By the time I hear a car pull up in front of my place, I’m already out the door and locking it, leaving the front porch light on, the dingy yellow glow better than complete darkness when I return home. It’s cold out—a storm is supposed to move in tomorrow and I sort of wish for a coat, but it’s too late now. No way am I going back inside. Rhett might follow me in.

“Hey.” Rhett is already out of his sleek black car and jogging up the front walk toward my front door. “You’re ready, huh.”

“Why do you sound so disappointed?” I’m teasing him, but I also want to know his answer.

He stops just in front of me, tall and broad, clean and fresh. I can smell his soapy scent, appreciate his floppy damp hair, the appreciative glow in his eyes no doubt matching my own. There’s no denying Rhett is attractive, and for the briefest moment, I wallow in his dreamy good looks. “I was hoping to meet your roommate.”

I blink at him, trying to compute what he said until it finally sinks in. “I don’t have a roommate.”

He frowns, his dark brows furrowed. Damn it, he’s extra cute when he does that. “Are you serious?”

“Why are you so surprised?”

“Everyone I know has a roommate.”

“Including you?” I already know the answer to this question.

“Yeah, including me.” He looks at my dark house, his brows still furrowed. “So you live here alone.”

“I sure do.”

“How can you afford it?” His gaze meets mine.

“Look at this neighborhood.” I hold up my arms, waving at the houses nearby. My voice is full of amusement, but deep down inside, I burn with shame. “It’s not the best side of town, so rent is cheap.” Well, not that cheap, but definitely less expensive than his neighborhood, I’m sure.

“Looks dangerous.” He sounds almost…angry. On my behalf?

Probably.

Like I said, too good to be true.

“It’s not that bad.” It’s awful, but it could be worse. My neighbor is kind of shady, pretty sure he’s a dealer, but I mind my own business.

Now Rhett’s examining the neighbor’s house, the street, the entire neighborhood. “I don’t like thinking of you alone here, especially at night.”

I’m so tempted to roll my eyes, but I keep myself in check. “You don’t like thinking of me alone anywhere.” I grab hold of his hand—ignoring the electricity that sparks between us when our skin touches—and we start walking toward his car. “You shouldn’t worry so much.”

He lets me lead him. “It sounds like you need someone to worry about you.”

“I can take care of myself.” I send him an irritable look, but it fades when I see the way he’s smiling at me.

“I like this independent woman thing you’ve got going on, but it’s okay to let someone take care of you every once in a while.” His smile grows. “You should give it a try sometime.”

“With you?” I raise my brows, trying to ignore the way my heart beats rapidly against my chest, or the hot flush that sweeps over my skin.

“Maybe.” He winks, actually winks as he lets go of my hand and opens the passenger-side door for me. I climb inside the expensive sports car, the leather-tinged-with-Rhett scent enveloping me the moment he shuts the door.

It takes him maybe ten seconds to get into the car, but I’m already irritated by then. Saying I should let him take care of me, who the hell does he think he is? I refuse to depend on anyone but myself. I am the key to my own destiny, and I will never forget it.

“I hope you like Italian,” he says as he starts the car with a push of a button, something I’ve never seen before. The engine purrs, he revs the car with a steady push of the gas pedal and then we’re off, peeling down the street with a squeal of brakes, Rhett shifting the car into gear smoothly, like some sort of goddamn professional.

I’ll look back on this night later and remember this is the moment I realize I’m in way over my head.