Your Rival Saw Me Naked

Book 2, Chapter 31

“Smile,” Chase says, and his fingers clamp around mine like a reminder.

“I am smiling,” I whisper.

“No,” he replies without looking at me. “Smile like you mean it.”

I widen my mouth until my cheeks ache. The front path of campus is a river of bodies—new backpacks, loud greetings, shoes scuffing concrete, the smell of cheap coffee and sun-warmed grass. Chase swings our joined hands just enough to be seen. It looks natural. It looks practiced. It looks like we’re happy.

“Zoey!” A girl from my literature class rushes over. “You and Chase? Like… together-together?”

“Yeah,” I say, quick, bright. “Official.”

Chase dips his head and kisses my temple. “Morning.”

She grins. “I’m so happy for you. You guys are a whole comeback story.”

When she leaves, Chase exhales. “Inspiring. Jesus.”

“At least she’s being nice,” I say.

“People like neat endings,” he replies. “They don’t like the part where it’s still messy.”

My phone vibrates in my pocket—Instagram notifications stacking. I posted a picture on the front steps before we left the house. His arm around my waist, my face angled toward him like I’m safe. Caption: Last year. New start. Comments already pour in.

A professor intercepts us near the main building. “Zoey, welcome back.”

“Thank you.”

“And Chase,” she adds, careful-soft. “I’m glad to see you here.”

Chase flashes a perfect smile. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

“You look settled,” she tells me, as if my relationship status is a medical chart. “This is your last year. Make it count.”

“I will,” I say.

“It’s nice to see you both in a better place,” she finishes, eyes on our hands.

“We’re good,” Chase says.

When she leaves, he mutters, “Better place. Like it’s a destination.”

We reach the fork where our buildings split. I slow. “Lunch? Like we planned?”

Chase checks his phone. “Yeah. I’ll text you.”

“You always say that,” I reply.

“And I usually do,” he says, then lets go of my hand. “See you.”

No kiss. No glance back. He disappears into the crowd.

In the lecture hall, the air is too cold. I sit upright, write the date at the top like it’s a vow. Final year. Final grades. Miles is three rows down, laughing like consequences don’t exist. Amber sits near the window, posture perfect, eyes sharp. I feel both of them without even trying.

After class, I text Chase. I’m done. Where are you? No reply.

I find him by the vending machines, hood half up, leaning against the wall like he’s bored by gravity.

“There you are,” I say, trying not to sound relieved.

“There I am,” he replies.

“You said lunch.”

He stares at the vending machine. “Right. I forgot.”

“Forgot?” My voice cracks.

“It’s not personal,” he says fast. “My head’s loud today.”

I swallow the questions I want to ask. “Okay. Let’s eat.”

Outside, we share fries on a bench. I talk because silence feels dangerous. “My schedule’s brutal,” I say. “Capstone, seminars, everything.”

“You’ll ace it,” Chase says. “You’re built for grades.”

“That’s not a compliment.”

He lifts a brow. “How is it not?”

“It makes it sound easy,” I say. “It’s not. I work.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters. “Gold star.”

“Chase.”

“What?” He laughs, thin. “I’m joking.”

“It doesn’t feel like a joke.”

He leans back. “Everything feels like a test with you.”

“Because it matters,” I say, softer.

He sighs. “See? Intense.”

“Caring isn’t intense.”

His eyes go flat for a second. “Everything is intense with you now. Like you’re trying to outgrow the world.”

The sentence hits my ribs. I force a smile and look down at my hands. “I’m just trying to graduate.”

“Mm,” he hums, like that’s not what he meant.

After lunch he drifts behind the library to smoke. The benches back there are cracked, the ivy thick. He lights a cigarette, inhales, and the smoke wraps around him like a curtain.

“You don’t have to come with me everywhere,” he says, exhaling.

“I’m not following you,” I reply. “We’re together.”

He glances at me, expression tired. “Yeah. But you’re always asking. Always planning.”

I stare at him, not knowing what to answer.

He doesn’t answer. He steps closer like he might, then kisses me instead—quick, distracted, like sealing an envelope.

“I’m tired,” he murmurs. “Please. Don’t make it a thing.”

I nod because my throat won’t work.

Back on the main path, Chase’s hand finds mine again. His posture straightens. His face changes. He becomes the version everyone likes. The version I posted.

At home that night, I sit on my bed with my laptop open and my calendar glowing. Deadlines. Color-coded blocks. Control disguised as planning. My mother texts: First day. Focus. Don’t embarrass yourself.

Chase doesn’t text at all.

I change into pajamas and still feel like I’m wearing the day. In the bathroom I stare at my reflection longer than I mean to. My face looks fine. My hair is fine. My body looks like a problem I haven’t solved. I pinch at the softness near my waist and immediately hate myself for doing it, like Amber’s eyes followed me home and stayed in the mirror. I promise myself I’ll skip dessert tomorrow, then hear my own thoughts and feel sick.

My phone lights up again—not Chase, just more strangers approving the picture. I open our chat anyway and type, You okay? I erase it. I type, Did I do something? I erase that too. Finally I hit call.

He answers on the third ring. “Yeah?”

“Hi,” I say, stupidly relieved to hear his voice. “I just… today felt weird.”

A pause. Then, “I’m with my mom.”

“Oh.” My stomach drops. “Sorry. I didn’t know.”

“She’s on my case about school,” he mutters. “Same speech. Same bullshit.”

“I get it,” I say. “I just wanted to check in.”

“Zoey,” he exhales, and I can hear the strain like a hand over the speaker. “I told you. Don’t make everything a thing.”

“I’m not,” I insist. “I’m trying to be normal.”

“That’s the problem,” he says softly. “Normal feels fake.”

My throat tightens. “So what are we supposed to do?”

Another pause. “Just… keep going,” he says. “Okay? I’m tired.”

“Okay,” I whisper, because I don’t know what else to give him.

He hangs up first. I set the phone down and sit very still, ashamed of needing more. Outside, laughter drifts from the street, and I swallow it like medicine I hate.

#chapter Chapter 32The chess club room smells like dust and old paper, the kind of place no one wanders into by accident. I stand in the doorway for a second longer than necessary, fingers tightening around the strap of my bag.

“You coming in, or are you just here to judge?” a voice asks.

I look up. A girl with dark hair pulled into a low, messy ponytail sits at one of the boards, elbows on the table, chin in her hands. Her eyes are sharp but not unkind.

“Sorry,” I say. “I’ve never… been here.”

“None of us have,” she replies. “That’s kind of the point.”

I step inside. The room is quiet in a way that feels intentional, like everyone agreed not to compete for attention. A few people glance up, then back to their boards. No whispers. No stares.

“I’m Zoey,” I offer.

“Ellen,” she says. “You play?”

“Not really.”

She shrugs. “Neither do most people. Sit.”

I take the chair across from her, feeling my shoulders loosen despite myself. She sets up the pieces slowly, deliberately.

“You don’t look like a chess club person,” she says.

“What does a chess club person look like?”

She tilts her head. “Less tired. More invisible.”

I laugh quietly. “I’m working on invisible.”

She slides a pawn forward. “Good luck. People only notice when you change.”

The game is slow and mostly silent. She explains moves without condescension, like she assumes I’m capable even when I mess up.

“You overthink,” she says at one point.

“I do that with everything.”

“Figures.”

When the session ends, I don’t feel drained. I feel… steady.

Afterward, I wander into the book club meeting down the hall. The room is brighter, louder, filled with overlapping opinions.

“And I just think the narrator is unreliable,” someone says.

“That’s the whole point,” Amber’s voice cuts in smoothly.

I freeze before she sees me.

“Well,” Amber continues, “some people need everything spelled out.”

Her eyes flick to me. I smile reflexively.

“Zoey,” she says sweetly. “Didn’t know you were joining.”

“I didn’t know you still read,” I reply before thinking.

A few people snicker. Amber’s smile tightens.

“We’re discussing structure today,” she says. “You might find it… challenging.”

“I like challenges,” I answer.

She looks me over. “I’m sure.”

I sit anyway, keep my comments brief, careful. Amber interrupts me twice. I let it go both times. When the meeting ends, my head throbs from restraint.

Outside, I find Ellen sitting on the steps, reading.

“Book club?” she asks without looking up.

“Yeah.”

She closes her book. “You survived?”

“Barely.”

“Let me guess,” she says. “Someone made you feel like you didn’t belong.”

I snort. “Is it that obvious?”

“Only because you’re still here.”

We walk together toward the exit.

“You friends with Chase?” she asks casually.

I hesitate. “We’re dating.”

“Oh.” She nods. “Does he know you’re here?”

“Yes.”

She stops walking and looks at me. “Does he like it?”

I open my mouth, then close it. “He thinks it’s… try-hard.”

Ellen snorts. “Of course he does.”

“He didn’t mean it badly,” I add quickly.

She raises a brow. “Didn’t he?”

At home that evening, I mention the clubs to Chase while he scrolls on his phone.

“Chess?” he repeats. “Seriously?”

“And book club.”

He laughs. “Wow. You’re really leaning into the academic thing.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” he says. “Just… you don’t have to prove anything.”

“I’m not proving,” I reply. “I like it.”

“Sure you do,” he says lightly. “Just don’t turn into one of those people.”

“What people?”

“You know,” he shrugs. “The ones who make school their whole personality.”

I feel that familiar tightness in my chest. “It’s my last year.”

“And?” he asks. “You’re already ahead of everyone.”

I look at him. “That doesn’t mean I stop.”

He sighs. “You’re exhausting sometimes.”

The word lands heavier than it should.

Later, in bed, I stare at the ceiling and think about the chessboard, the way the pieces only move when you choose to move them. About Ellen’s blunt honesty. About Amber’s smile.

I think about how quiet it felt to sit somewhere no one expected anything from me.

My phone buzzes. A message from Ellen. You were bad at chess. Come again tomorrow.

I smile despite myself and type back, Deal.

Across the room, Chase sleeps with his back to me.

I wonder when I started feeling more awake outside this bed than in it. I lie there longer than I mean to, listening to Chase’s breathing even out, the room settling into that heavy nighttime quiet that makes thoughts louder. The glow from my phone fades when the screen locks, and I place it face down on the nightstand like it might accuse me of something if I keep looking.

In the dark, my body feels too present. Too outlined. I pull the blanket higher, then lower it again, restless.

“You okay?” Chase mutters, half-asleep.

“Yeah,” I say quickly. “Just thinking.”

“About what?” His voice is muffled, already drifting.

“Nothing important.”

He hums, rolls onto his stomach. The space between us feels wider than the mattress should allow. I stare at the ceiling and think about Ellen’s voice, the way she spoke without dressing her words up, like honesty didn’t have to be sharp to be real.

The next day, I find her in the cafeteria, sitting alone at the corner table with a book open beside her tray. She looks up when I hover.

“You’re late,” she says.

“I didn’t know we had a schedule.”

“We do now,” she replies. “Sit.”

I drop into the seat across from her. Around us, the room buzzes—laughter, clattering trays, Miles’ voice carrying from somewhere too close for comfort.

“You look tired,” Ellen says bluntly.

“So do you.”

“I always do,” she shrugs. “Difference is, I don’t pretend otherwise.”

I poke at my food, appetite shrinking. “Does it ever get easier?” I ask before I can stop myself.

“What?”

“Feeling like you don’t fit where you’re supposed to.”

She considers me for a moment. “I think it gets quieter. You stop asking permission.”

That sits with me all afternoon.