A Quick Fix

Steve stood frozen, caught in the crossfire of three smoldering glares—Kerry’s dark, defiant eyes, Amber’s piercing stare laced with her intoxicating cotton candy aura, and Savannah’s bold, chest-thrusting display demanding his attention. The tension crackled like static, each girl staking her claim with a silent, venomous *he’s mine*. Steve’s mind teetered on the edge of overload, memories of past social pressures—awkward high school crushes, Shana’s betrayals—flooding back and threatening to paralyze him. Then, like a dam breaking, his voice burst out, raw and impulsive: “Why don’t we all grab some food?”

The words hung in the air, a clumsy lifeline tossed into the storm. The girls froze, their scowls softening into **** acceptance, though the undercurrent of rivalry lingered in their tight lips and narrowed eyes. None were thrilled, but they relented, and Steve exhaled a shaky breath, his gulp barely audible as they fell into step around him. The quartet moved through the fluorescent-lit hallway of Westbridge Community College, their footsteps echoing in sync as they exited the building and crossed the quad toward the cafeteria. The autumn air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of fallen leaves, but Steve was too distracted by the trio’s presence to notice.

The cafeteria buzzed with the usual lunchtime chaos—students jostling for trays, the clatter of plates, and the hum of overlapping conversations. The daily menu was a smorgasbord of options, from greasy pizza to questionable sushi, though popular dishes often vanished by noon. Steve, ever predictable in his “basic bitch” food preferences, made a beeline for his go-to: a chicken sandwich loaded with extra pickles and a cup of warm, gooey cheese sauce to drizzle over it, swapping out ketchup or mayo for that melty indulgence. He grabbed a side of fries with another cheese cup for dipping, the comfort of routine grounding him amid the surreal morning.

Kerry, true to her edgy vibe, opted for a grilled chicken salad, her black-painted nails picking at the greens with deliberate care. Savannah, radiating her bold energy, piled her tray with an array of tacos—spicy beef, carnitas, and a vegetarian option for good measure, her hazel eyes glinting with satisfaction. Amber, ever the wildcard, mirrored Steve’s order down to the extra pickles, flashing him a dimpled smile as she declared, “I wanna try what you’re having.” Her cotton candy scent wafted closer, sending a shiver through him.

They claimed an empty table, the girls instinctively arranging themselves in the same formation as in class: Kerry to his left, now a voluptuous vision of gothic allure; Amber to his right, her overpowering sweetness making his head spin; and Savannah in front, subtly arching her back to emphasize her double-Ds, a not-so-subtle bid for his gaze. As they ate, the conversation flowed, each girl taking turns peppering Steve with questions, their voices weaving a delicate dance of curiosity and competition.

“So, Steve, what kind of music are you into?” Kerry asked, twirling a forkful of salad, her tone casual but probing.

“Electronic stuff,” he replied, dipping a fry into his cheese sauce. “Dubstep, trance, house—sometimes jungle. I like happy music, y’know? Lifts me up when life’s dragging.” The girls nodded, though their expressions betrayed their disconnect—Kerry’s heavy metal obsession, Savannah’s love for twangy country ballads, and Amber’s devotion to glossy modern pop clearly didn’t mesh with his vibe.

“You drive?” Savannah chimed in, her taco poised mid-bite.

“Yeah,” Steve said, warming to the topic. “Got a Mitsubishi Mirage I’m modding out. Upgrading the suspension, tweaking the engine—trying to make it sporty, fast as hell.” His eyes lit up, and the girls leaned in, drawn to his enthusiasm, even if cars weren’t their thing.

The conversation rolled on, light and easy, as they polished off their meals. With time to kill before their next classes, they lingered, swapping stories and laughs, though the undercurrent of rivalry simmered just beneath the surface. When the group finally parted ways—none sharing the same next class—Steve said his goodbyes, turning to head across campus. As he did, Savannah’s hand darted out, giving his ass a quick, brazen grope. He froze, a jolt of heat shooting through him, but before he could react, she was gone, blending into the crowd. Neither Kerry nor Amber noticed, their attention elsewhere, and Steve’s lips curved into a bemused smirk.

Alone now, his thoughts drifted to Shana. Curiosity—and a touch of sadistic glee—prompted him to pull out his phone and search her social media. The newest post loaded, and his breath caught. There she was, gaunt and ghastly, her skeletal frame draped in a trendy crop top that only highlighted her sallow, pitted skin and hollow eyes. She posed with a **** smile, but the comments were brutal: *“Girl, you okay?” “You need a doctor, fr.”* Steve scrolled back, his heart racing. Older photos, from when she was chubbier—closer to the size she’d been when they dated—showed her radiant, her auburn hair glossy, her cheeks full and glowing. The world had rewritten itself to align with his curse: Shana’s beauty had always peaked with her curves, but now, her obsession with thinness had turned her into a walking nightmare. Steve’s laugh was low, maniacal, his pulse pounding with the thrill of his ****.

As he pocketed his phone, his eyes caught a flash of yellow on the cinderblock wall beside him. A Post-it note, pristine and waiting. “Hey you!” he blurted, grinning like a madman, heedless of the students passing by with raised eyebrows. After the morning’s chaos and the lunch showdown, he knew exactly what to write. He snatched the note, his pencil flying across it: *Any woman who is into me understands they will probably have to share me and doesn’t see other women as competition but as support for being with me.*

He crumpled the note and tossed it to the ground, expecting the familiar vanishing act. But it landed with a soft *thud*, sitting stubbornly on the pavement. Steve’s stomach plummeted, a cold sweat breaking out across his skin. Had Postie rejected him? Was this his last wish, squandered? He bent to retrieve it, fingers grazing the paper—just as it blinked out of existence. A relieved chuckle escaped him. “Good one, Postie, good one…”

The *whoosh* hit, that reality-warping wave rippling through the air. Across campus, in the minds of Kerry, Savannah, and Amber, a subtle shift took root. The jealousy that had fueled their glares dissolved, replaced by an unshakable calm. Sharing Steve? Perfectly normal. Desirable, even. They weren’t rivals—they were allies, united in their pursuit of someone so *perfect*. The new truth settled seamlessly, as if it had always been their reality.

Steve straightened, oblivious to the change but buzzing with anticipation.