Dear Love, I Hate You (Easton High)

That would explain why it was so last-minute.

“He’s wasting his time, you know,” I comment.

“Who is?”

“Finn. He can throw all the parties he wants, Dia’s never taking his ass back.” I’m annoyed with myself. Dia just flat out told me drugs were more important to her than our friendship, and I’m still rooting for her happiness.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that, Harper.”

“You’re kidding, right? Finn cheated on her. He cheated. Sure, they were both too chicken to admit they were ever dating in the first place, but you don’t come back from cheating.”

“He didn’t, though,” Xav corrects me.

My jaw drops.

“What?”

“He didn’t cheat on her. Dia just thinks he did.”

I’m about to swamp him with questions when loud, piercing sirens split my ears in two. Xavier and I jump, our gazes darting to the rearview mirror and the red and blue lights flickering behind us.

Cops.

We’re getting pulled over.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Xavier huffs before parking his truck on the side of the road. My anxiety spikes.

What if my mom finds out about this?

What if we get brought back to the station?

And what the hell are they even stopping us for? Xavier wasn’t driving recklessly. Maybe we went a bit over the speed limit but nothing crazy. If my mom discovers I was in a car with a boy, getting a ride home from a party, to make matters worse, I’ll be confined to my room until graduation.

She’ll make me quit my job, too.

She made it clear she thinks I’m wasting my time working at the library. “It’s not like you need the money anyway,” she said once, gesturing to look around the three-story house my sister paid for. I’ll become the real-life version of Cinderella, only allowed out of the house for school and to run Ash’s errands.

At least, I still have Dia.

It hits me.

No, you don’t.

She left you, too, remember?

“Vee?” Xavier’s voice halts my downward spiral.

I snap back to reality, looking up to meet a set of gorgeous, aqua eyes. Only then do I notice how fast I’m breathing. My chest is raising up and down, my hands shaking like leaves.

Not. Enough. Air.

“Vee, what’s going on?” he asks again when I don’t reply.

Not because I don’t want to.

Because I can’t.

The words on my tongue explode into tiny fragments, lodging themselves deep inside my throat. That’s when I understand that I’m having an anxiety attack. And I need to get a grip before the police officer reaches the car.