Dear Love, I Hate You (Easton High)

Love: You have no idea.

Zac: What happened?

Love: You go first.

Zac: Just been stuck at some lame-ass party and debating on drowning myself in the punch bowl. You?

My breath hitches, scraping at the back of my throat.

A party?

As in… this party?

Love: Theodore Cox’s party?

Please say no.

Zac: Yeah. How’d you know?

Fuck.

Love: Because I’m here, too.

He stops replying for a bit, and it doesn’t take a genius to know he’s probably just as freaked-out as I am. We’re closer to each other than anticipated.

Much closer.

And here I thought this anonymity pact would be child’s play.

Zac: So, we run in the same circle then?

Love: Looks like it.

Zac: I didn’t know you were popular, L.

Love: Who says that I am?

Zac: Don’t bother. You got invited to the cool kids’ party. The jig is up.

Love: So? Maybe I snuck in through the back door.

Zac: You mean the locked back door? Fat chance.

Love: How do you know it’s locked?

Zac: Tried to take a piss outside earlier. Backyard’s off limits.

Damn it.

For what it’s worth, his presence here most likely means he’s part of the basketball team or friends with a player. Whatever it is, he’s got to be popular—even if it’s just by association. Or maybe he’s a stoner? I wouldn’t put it past Theo. I know he tends to invite whoever can keep the grass coming.

Before I can text back, Zac tops it off with an emoji of two hands high fiving each other.

Love: What was that?

Zac: Just me high fiving myself.

Love: For what?