"I don’t—" I stuttered. "I don't want to find some guy. I'm going to the best school to study, and get a good job. Earn a good living. And that happens to be over five hours away. Neither of us can afford frequent round trips."

All my reasons felt like feeble excuses. So, I just dropped it.

I've been away for a week, and I'm already dealing with a headache over my actions. I'm glad I didn't tell him Darius Keller was young, and rather handsome, too. I would never hear the end of it. As I was speaking about a roughly six-year-old kid and her uncle, I know he pictured a middle-aged man. I'm probably a shitty girlfriend for not giving the details, but it's not worth the argument.

I mostly told him about my day to gush over my new notebook, and it turned into a whole thing.

He wasn’t jealous back in school. He was popular, as a hockey player also excelling in art, while I was the weird loner nerd always studying. But since that first argument about my going away, he's been territorial as hell.

It's not just that I don't like it, I also don't get it. There have been girls drooling over him for ages and I never cared. Why would it matter, even if some stranger had spoiled me with dubious intent? I wasn't going to act on it.

Besides, someone like Darius Keller does not need to buy anyone's affection. Not with his looks and the clear appearance of wealth.

I find myself entering the name in my search bar on impulse. None of what I see, or read, is all that surprising.

He's the son of Arlo. Yes, that Arlo, the top model. He might have peaked about twenty years ago, when he was in his twenties himself, but he occasionally features on the covers of magazines, and he's still drool-worthy.

I see it in him, the golden blond looks, the confidence, the camera-ready smile.

Predictably, both he and Octavia have modelled for his father's brand since they were in diapers. I follow toddler, children, teenager, and more recent ads, growing sexy, moody, topless in the last few years.

When I close the browser, I am certain the two-hundred-dollar gift was spare change, inconsequential to someone like him.

Noah sent another few demanding messages in the meantime. But after a break, he finally wrote one last text.

Noah: I'm sorry. I know it's probably nothing. But it's hard, you know? You're so far away.

Me: I get it. I wouldn't want a pretty girl to buy you things, either.

Noah: Wait. Is he pretty?

I sigh.

At least, it's the last I've seen of that man. Top models and heirs to fashion empires do not hang out with the likes of me. It's a miracle we existed in the same space for a while. He might as well be from another planet.

* * *

Oh, fuck.