Page 145 of The Charlie Method

“No, it’s not,” Blake hisses, while Harrison chuckles on my other side.

“Is this the boyfriend?” he asks, his sour mood seeming to fade courtesy of the spectacle below.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” she replies through gritted teeth.

The next player’s sign says “AM.”

Blake sinks lower into her seat.

“SMITTEN,” reads the third sign, followed by “WITH” and “YOU,” until the players are all holding signs that spell out:

I AM SMITTEN WITH YOU, BLAKE LOGAN

Isaac Grant then comes bursting through the paper Briar U banner like he’s breaking the finish line tape in the Olympics. He jogs up to the deafening screams of the crowd and stands in front of the poster-holding teammates.

Then he points directly at Blake and shouts, “I’m smitten, angel!”

The fans explode into cheers and whistles, while Blake’s cheeks turn a deeper shade of crimson. She buries her face in her hands, mortified.

“This guy is insane,” she mutters.

“Yeah, but also kind of romantic,” I admit, despite myself. “Like, in a ridiculous, over-the-top, completely unnecessary way.”

Blake peeks out from between her fingers, clearly torn between being touched and wanting to crawl under a rock. “Is he gone?”

“Yup.”

She raises her head, then glares at me when she realizes Isaac is still standing there, his eyes locked on her.

With a sigh, she gives him a little wave, and his entire face lights up. The boy is smitten all right.

I don’t miss the jealous scowls from every female in our vicinity. “Uh-oh, the claws are coming out,” I tease her. “As in you’re in grave danger from the members of the Isaac Grant fan club.”

“They can have him,” she mutters. “I don’t like attention.”

“Well, get used to it.” I pat her on the back.

“Nope. It had better not become a regular thing. I don’t know if I can handle this level of public humiliation on a weekly basis.”

I laugh, despite the lingering doubt in the back of my mind about Isaac’s sincerity toward Blake. The love bombing is a red flag, for one. And yes, Isaac is good-looking, charming, and clearly willing to go to great lengths to impress her, but I can’t help but wonder if it’s all just for show. Grand gestures are nice, but they don’t always mean what we want them to mean.

Beside me, Harrison’s expression has sobered again. I don’t want him to feel like he’s my shameful secret. Ironically, the reason I haven’t told my parents about him has nothing to do with him. It’s my shit. My fear about upsetting them.

Instead, I’m only upsetting Harrison. The tension between us is back, and I don’t know how to defuse it.

I call Ava when I get home from the game. Not just any call—avideocall. It’s something my sister and I rarely do, so I’m not surprised when she greets me with a deep furrow of concern in her brow.

“Hey,” she says warily. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” I answer. “But also not really.”

That gets me a wry smile. “What’s going on?”

I lie back against the headboard, knees up. Resting my phone on one knee, I reach for the stuffed bunny on my pillow and pull him toward me. Tiger. Tokki.

God, even my childhood bunny has a double life.

“Charlotte?” Ava pushes.

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