≈ the vault nightclub, friday 13th september 2024. with @just-foster
‘Fake it ‘til you make it’ was bullshit. Phoebe was trying to have a good time when out with a small group of girls from her seminar, though she could admit obsessively checking her Instagram was probably not the way to go about things.
She should have blocked Foster on everything, should have just deleted him and truly moved on. But she noticed he was always one of the first people to view her story, whether it be a song shared from Spotify, a quote, or a little candid shot of Misty sleeping. Unless he was at work, then he’d view it last. So, it came as a surprise that this Friday — when he should have been finishing up dinner service — his username was the first one to have popped up on the view count of her story: a picture of a line of glasses perched on the wall surrounding the dance floor area. An idea struck her then, and she asked one of the girls she was out with to take a picture of her outfit when they were taking a fresh air break in the smoking area.
It wasn’t something she usually would have worn. In fact, Phoebe was convinced it was some old Halloween costume, or perhaps cheer outfit. Regardless, the top with the glittery ‘P’ drew her in immediately when she saw it on the hanger in Thrift Haven, and the matching mini-skirt was just an added bonus. She had felt self-conscious at first, constantly tugging the garment down where it barely rested over her ass, or using her faux fur shawl to drape over her, but as the night continued — and as more alcohol hit her system — she felt herself grow more confident.
After the mini photoshoot was completed, she uploaded the picture, tagging her location and the Taylor Swift song she was quoting, and obsessively waited for some sort of Foster interaction to come. Nothing. She uploaded another story, a crowd shot of the dancefloor, which he had viewed about ten minutes later. But after looking through the comments and likes on the physical post, it wasn’t like he had even seen it. But she wouldn't stop checking.
Eventually, the girls managed to get her onto the dancefloor. She didn't really recognize the song playing, but it was an easy enough beat to move her hips to, and she soon found herself almost fully forgetting about Matty Foster and whether or not he had seen her Instagram post. However, then a new problem arrived. In the shape of a man in an ill-fitting linen shirt that only seemed to highlight his sweat patches, mimicing her movements just a little bit of the side to the group of girls. In response, they moved. He followed, eyes on Phoebe the entire time. After a couple of songs, she began to grow sick of this behavior, deciding to get a drink and hopefully lose him in the crowd. But the guy managed to stay hot on her heels, approaching her as she leaned across the bartop.
"What's your name?" He asked, question innocuous enough, but there was something uncomfortable about his gaze.
"I'm not interested." Phoebe responded, turning back to try and get the bartender's attention.
"Oh come on, dollface, don't be like that. I saw you shaking it out there. You're a real tease..."
Phoebe bit back a reply, determindedly staring at the shelf of liquor behind the bar. The guy still continued, stepping closer. Grabbing her shoulder, lurching her body into his direction.
"It's rude to ignore people y'know. C'mon, you love the attention, don't cha? And there's no need to play hard to get..."
Phoebe huffed out an irritated breath, tugging away from the man and glaring. "I'm. Not. Interested." She repeated slowly, as if the issue was him misunderstanding her in the first place rather than his inability to take 'no' for an answer.
He didn't budge, the grasp on his shoulder even tighter. Around them, everyone partied on. And the dread settled in Phoebe's stomach, praying that someone, anyone, was witnessing this and would step in to help.
