Things Liars Say (#ThreeLittleLies #1)(7)

I take a deep breath and exhale.

“To start with, I’m the philanthropy chair of my sorority.” He snorts, and I roll my eyes, quite used to non-Greek students mocking my sorority membership. “A philanthropy is a charitable organization we support through fundraising and donations.”

I take another deep, shallow breath. “Anyway, this year we’re throwing a big gala. The largest one we’ve put on, with the most number of attendees. It’s been… really stressful. I have a committee, but you know how it is. Not everyone is committed. Not everyone pulls their weight. And with everything else we have to juggle…”

Cal listens silently as I continue, my explanation rapidly becoming a vent session.

“…school, grades, jobs, athletics. I don’t expect you to care, but… you get the picture. Anyway, with all that being said, a few of them are, for lack of better words, boy crazy.” I give him a sidelong glance, but he stoically faces forward. “All they want to talk about during the meetings are their dates for the gala, and they won’t stop hounding me about who I’m bringing. So, yada, yada, yada, Cal Thompson.”

As if that explained everything.

“Wait. Did you just use yada, yada, yada as your justification? Who does that?” Cal sputters a little, and stops short on the sidewalk, trying not to laugh but failing, emitting a short, deep bark.

“You don’t like yada, yada, yada?” I shoot him a coy smile. “What’s wrong with it?”

“You sound kind of crazy,” he teases, his eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement. “I guess the bigger picture is, how the hell did you end up using my name? How did you hear about me? We’re not even in the same stratosphere.”

“Whoa, buddy, it’s not like you’re famous. Let’s not get too full of ourselves.” I hand him back the driver’s license and student ID I’ve been holding and give a little shiver when our fingers touch.

“Trust me, I had no idea who you were. I pulled your name out of thin air. In fact, you could say I was inspired. There’s a sign hanging in the dining hall for Farm Fresh California milk. California—Cal. See? So then my friends want a last name, and I’m scouring the room, I see this girl from my econ class, Brianna—”

“Thompson,” we both say at the same time.

“Yes. Brianna Thompson.” I laugh. “So, there you have it, the day Cal Thompson was born. Or in this case, invented.”

“What about the tweets?”

“Well, my friend Jemma is a public relations major and is all about social media. She’s Theta’s PR and Marketing Chairwoman and the one who insisted on the live tweeting. Thinks it’s more ‘relevant.’” Yes, I use air quotes. “Jemma literally makes us Tweet during our meeting to get people excited, which is great! Good for her. I mean, I love her to death, but now it’s getting obnoxious.”

“Jemma is my roommate Mason’s cousin—he follows her on Twitter.”

“Ah. All the puzzle pieces come together.” I keep walking and notice Cal checking out my legs. I pretend not to notice; my steps become jaunty. “What does Mason think of all this?"

He peels his eyes away and looks up, down the street towards my yard. “Mason and Aaron are dipshits and get a rise out of seeing me pissed off. They came today expecting a fight.”

I ball my fists up and put up my dukes, bouncing on the heels of my four-inch wedges. “It’s not too late!”

His dark blue eyes rake me up and down again appraisingly, but not in a creepy, pervy way. “Okay, Mayweather, cool it with your bad self.” Cal considers me then, scratching his five o’clock shadow. “You know, I never thought I’d have my own personal stalker.”

I laugh, relieved that he’s making light of the situation. “Oh, please. If I were stalking you, you would know it. I’d have done a much better job creeping you out than a few measly tweets.” I nudge him with my elbow conspiratorially, startled to realize I’m enjoying our banter and warming to the topic. “Maybe driven past your house… found a few of your classes… crafted myself a tiny Cal doll to cuddle at night…” I cross my arms and hug myself, pretending to squeeze a stuffed animal. “Um, yeah. That part might have sounded crazy.”

“That. Sounded. Terrifying.” He shivers. “Well, the weird thing is— it was actually a total fluke that anyone saw my name in your Tweets because Cal Thompson isn’t even the name I use on any social media online. I haven't used that since high school.”

“It isn’t? Don’t leave me in suspense. What’s your real tag?”

He laughs. “Tighthead Thompson. Tighthead is a rugby thing.”

That explains the gashes, scratches, and bruises.

“Ah. Rugby, huh? We don’t have that on our campus.”

“I’m sure there’s an intramural league here somewhere. Most schools offer at least that. It’s typically only played competitively at smaller schools, and some Ivy League schools.”

“How long have you been playing?” I ask, feeling at ease with him and sincerely wanting to know more.

“Three years by accident.” Cal stops on the sidewalk when we’re standing across the street from my rental but makes no move to cross the street. “I played football for years and just got sick of it. I had a scholarship to a D1 school, but…” His sentence trails off with a shrug. “I just didn’t want that kind of pressure.”