If You Could See the Sun (33)

“Oh,” Peter says. Then Chanel’s words seem to actually register; his face flushes. “Oh. I mean—I wouldn’t call myself an expert, but—”

“Come on, you don’t have to be modest with me.” Chanel leans in closer, long lashes lowered, and I don’t know whether to laugh or cringe or applaud her commitment. “You’re talented as hell, and you know it. Everyone knows it.”

Peter just turns redder.

Suddenly, Chanel pulls away. Places a hand on her hip and studies him. “So you’ll do it with me?”

“Do...what?”

She arches a delicate brow. “Come up with a list of good DJs, of course. I’ve already got a few names on my laptop, if you want to come check it out now.”

For a brief moment, Peter hesitates, like he suspects this might all be a prank. But it turns out Chanel’s feminine charms are pretty persuasive, because he rises from his chair, still trying to conceal his pajamas from view, and says, “Uh, sure. I guess. Let me just—let me get changed first.”

“Great! I’ll wait outside.”

Chanel beams at him and struts out the door, and I quickly avert my gaze as Peter starts tugging off his shirt. I listen to the squeak of the wardrobe door, the soft clatter of plastic hangers as he searches for something to wear, to his muttered curse—“Aish!”—when he bangs his leg against the corner of his bed.

Then he’s gone, and I’m left standing all alone in his room.

I’ve never really been inside a boy’s dorm room before—apart from Henry’s, of course—and the more I stare around, the more I realize Henry’s taste in interior decoration must be an exception.

There are three giant computer monitors and headphones set up over the desk, rainbow lights flashing from the gaps between the keys. Protein bar wrappers littered everywhere. Two posters of some NBA star and that popular Chinese idol so many guys seem to love—Dilraba Dilmurat—plastered over the gray walls. Socks and underwear strewn across the floor in crumpled balls.

When I inhale, I catch a strong whiff of peanut butter, and something that might be cologne.

Wrinkling my nose, I search through the mess for Jake’s phone. I spot it only minutes later, half tucked beneath his pillow. A small sigh of relief escapes my lips. For some reason, I’d thought this part would be a lot harder.

But then I enter the numbers 1234, and the phone buzzes.

The words wrong passcode flash over the screen.

I frown. Try again.

Wrong passcode.

My mouth runs dry. I’d watched Jake type in those exact numbers just this Monday, which means he must’ve changed his passcode sometime yesterday. A few more wrong attempts and I’ll be locked out of his phone for good.

But his new passcode could be anything.

I try to ignore the slow creep of despair. I can’t mess this up. I can’t. There’s no saying whether I’ll ever have the chance to access Jake’s phone again, or if it’d even matter two or three days from now, when Jake’s already sent those cursed photos out.

Besides, Henry and Chanel have already done their part. Now they’re counting on me to do mine, and more than anything else—more, even, than the idea of failure—I hate letting people down.

Okay, think, I urge myself. What numbers might be relevant to him?

I pull out my own phone, wait for what feels like an eternity for my VPN to connect, and do a quick search through Jake’s Facebook. Then I enter the date of his birthday.

Wrong passcode.

Shit. I chew on the inside of my cheek so hard I taste blood. Desperate, I Google a list of the most common iPhone passcodes, and try the second option after 1234: 0000.

Still nothing—and only one attempt left.

No, it’s fine. It’s fine. I force my breathing to steady. Don’t you dare panic. Just—just imagine you’re Jake Nguyen. You’re a straight-C student who spends his weekends clubbing and says “lol” out loud and doesn’t drink anything besides protein shakes and alcohol. You think you’re super hot because you’ve got an undercut and use a shit ton of hair wax. You’re the kind of asshole who would keep the nudes of your ex-girlfriend and threaten her with them. You... I scan the room for more information, and suppress a groan. You apparently also have an opened box of extralarge condoms sitting right on your nightstand.

Now, if you were to change your passcode, what would it be?

An idea comes to mind. A ridiculous, absolutely laughable idea.

I almost hope for Jake’s sake I’m wrong as I type in the numbers 6969, but the phone doesn’t buzz this time.

And just like that, I’m in.

I shake my head, a laugh and a sigh jostling in my throat. Rainie really should’ve broken up with him sooner.

I’d feared it would take too long for me to find the actual photos, that Jake might’ve created some secret file for them or hidden them using a cryptic code he alone could decipher, but when I click into his photo album, my eyes immediately find a folder named with only the peach butt emoji.

Classy.

Rainie’s nudes show up at once, along with photos of two other girls I’ve never seen before. I delete them all, then make sure to clear them out from the “Recently Deleted” folder too.

I’m about to put the phone away when I hear footsteps. Then, Jake’s voice, slightly muffled through the door—