After leaving the restaurant with my buddy, I casually asked him about who he had on staff that night.

Because honestly, I couldn’t take my eyes off that waiter.

“Oh, that’s our best server, Evan White.” He answered, oblivious to my obvious infatuation. “He’s a student at the University of Michigan; he’s on the swim team or somethin’. A good guy all around.”

After I heard the name, I could barely pay attention to the rest of our conversation. All I wanted to do was find out more about this man who’d hooked my interest with a single look.

As soon as I got into the backseat of my car and my driver started the journey back to Ann Arbor, I tore into my phone. I searched the name “Evan White,” but it was dreadfully common.

However, once I paired his name with the only other bit of information I knew about him— the fact that he attended the same university I did, I was able to unearth his Instagram page.

He had Six-hundred thousand followers. Damn, that was impressive! Eagerly, I clicked into his account to explore.

Excitement flooded through me as the car accelerated down the highway. The grid of pictures that greeted me on his page were all of him shirtless, in his speedo, either near a pool, swimming through the water, or showing off his gloriously delicious body.

Damn, I thought to myself privately, letting out a small breath, It should be illegal to be that good-looking.

I was even more delighted to find that they were all pictures of him swimming. There were a few of him standing in a group and posing with all of his hot teammates, but even then he stood out as far more handsome than the pack.

My heart began to race with excitement upon noticing one simple thing: There were no pictures of him with women anywhere in his profile.

Could he… could he possibly be gay? Was this a dream come true?

A frown crossed my face as I clicked on his most recent picture; an image of him clearly staged, just getting out of the pool, showing off his abs and tousling his hair with a towel. Though the picture made me drool, the caption underneath read,

My lip curled up into a grimace and my eyebrows came together.

Hoping that was a fluke, I read through another post. The next one was an image of him on a beach, and the camera had a full shot of his bulbous, toned ass in a speedo. His torso was twisted, and he was pulling down the waistband of the speedo to show his tan line.

My eyes narrowed as I read through that post, then zoomed in on that last hashtag. Ladykiller?

Not only was he probably the most self-absorbed ass I’d ever seen, he was also straight.

I took a glance at the comments. They were mostly from women, complimenting how hot he was and leaving little heart and kiss emojis. There were at least half a dozen that asked if he was single.

He didn’t reply to any of those, I noticed. But I had to remind myself that I didn’t care.

This Evan White was deeply in love with himself. And there was nothing worse than pretty guys who knew they were pretty.

Mindlessly, I clicked the home button to return to my customized feed and was greeted by a barrage of nearly naked men. As I scrolled through the flesh-colored posts, my thumb halted the reel when I glimpsed something bright blue and orange. Looking closer, I noticed it was a new piece by my artistic idol, Fiona Gabon!

She rarely posted at all, but when she did it was always something sublime. This image was of her looking at the camera kindly with her head resting in her hands. Behind her and dwarfing her small form was a massive painting of electric blue and sizzling orange that looked like it would engulf her.

Nice work, Fiona, I admired, letting out a low whistle as my eyes traced the delicate curls and swirls of the masterpiece.

One of the first comments was someone asking how much the piece was.

Fiona commented “2.4m”

And then shortly after that, “Sold, sorry!”

My breath caught. Though it wasn’t uncommon for Fiona Gabon to sell multi-million dollar pieces straight off of Instagram, this was the first time I’d seen it happen within a few minutes.

Still in awe, I scrolled past the post and continued my mindless browsing through the tiny windows into other people’s lives.

I wished I hadn’t.

Next on my feed was a picture of him. The man that had wrapped barbed wire around my body, mind, and heart for the past four years. And he had his arm around some other guy.

My teeth clenched as a cocktail of emotions brewed in my gut. Picking my thumbnail cuticle with my free hand absentmindedly, I looked down at the comments, expanding each one.

I had to know.

Sure enough, he responded to a question with, “Finally found the love of my life!” Followed by a few star emojis.

My pulse quickened and I blinked a few times.

I’d forgotten to unfollow him, I realized.

Quickly, I remedied my costly mistake. But it was too late — I’d already stepped in an emotional bear trap.

Trying to clamber out of my spiral, I began staring out the window and willing myself to think of something — anything else.

Something my sister had taught me was, when it felt like I was being overwhelmed with negative shit, to close my eyes. She told me to imagine throwing a big fishnet over all the feelings metastasizing in my mind, capturing them all like they were small wild animals thrashing about. Pull it tight, and then throw it over a cliff into the waters of my subconscious.

And just like that, my mind was back to my goal of achieving artistic fame like Fiona’s, whirring away at how to angle myself next semester; during my very last semester as a student. There was always a massive project assigned during the end of November, and students were supposed to work on it throughout the entire spring semester. Everything was due a week before graduation.

I’d heard of some students that got a failing grade right before the ceremony, and failed to earn their diplomas.

I could only imagine what my mentor, Professor Washburn, had in store for me. She was notorious for assigning nearly impossible final projects to students, especially the ones she liked.

Anyway, with the upcoming semester-long project looming, I didn’t have time to be thinking about guys. Especially not conceited asshats like Evan White.

I was certain that I’d never see Mr. White again.