Dear Love, I Hate You (Easton High)

“I… Thanks for the save.”

“Anytime.” Xavier clears his throat, rubbing at the back of his neck, and for a fragment of a second, I wonder if he felt whatever that was, too.

“So… what do we do now?”

“The only thing we can do.” He shrugs. “Wait.”

I watch as Xavier plops down on the floor, back against the wall, and braces his forearms on top of his knees. A silence as thick as they come enfolds us. For the first time since I stepped into the classroom, it occurs to me that my texting buddy is right there.

My snarky pen pal.

Right. Fucking. There.

Xavier is Zac.

Zac is Xavier.

Why won’t it register?

“Sit down, Vee. We’re going to be here a while.” Xav gestures to the spot next to him, and I swallow hard. He’s right. This isn’t over yet. Might as well get comfortable.

Flustered, I sink down by his side and press my bent knees to my chest. Xavier pulls out his phone to check his locked screen once. Twice. Then a third time less than five seconds later.

I can’t believe how quickly this night turned into a load of shit. But what I definitely can’t wrap my head around? How quickly Xavier suggested that I go first. Dude didn’t even hesitate. He just agreed to take the fall if he had to, no questions asked.

Oh Xavier, what the hell were you thinking?

“What do you mean?”

My breath catches in my throat at his response.

I whisk my head to see him staring at me curiously.

Shit, I said that out loud, didn’t I?

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you just got in trouble for a prank not even a month ago.”

“And?” He arches an eyebrow.

“And you’re here,” I say like it’s obvious. “On senior prank night, practically begging to get in trouble again. Either you’re really careless or really dumb. No offense.”

He grins. “Damn, Harper. You’re kind of blunt. No offense.”

He’s avoiding the question.

“But am I wrong?”

“Look.” He sighs. “I wasn’t even planning on coming, but Finn and I have been talking about this night since freshman year, and I…” He pauses. “I guess I’d rather be anywhere than at home these days.”

The pit in my gut evolves into a stomachache. Every detail “Zac” told me about his mom through text crashes over me in slow, gradual waves. How she’s cheating on his dad.

How he heard her while she…

The thought makes me nauseous.

“Want to talk about it?” I ask, the guilt gnawing at my conscience. I hate having to pretend like I have no idea what he’s referring to. I feel like an impostor, digging around a “stranger’s” world, collecting jars of secrets I don’t deserve.

“Not even a little,” he says without a fuck given.