Dear Love, I Hate You (Easton High)

I know she hates me.

But I’d prefer she hates me from the safety of her bedroom.

I’m careful to avoid anyone I know for the next forty-five minutes. I skirt around Dia once or twice. The last thing I want is for her to see my teary eyes and drop everything until I tell her what’s wrong.

I even hide from Xavier’s make-out buddy at some point.

I’ll admit I was surprised to see Lacey out and about so soon.

Guess Finn was right about the “quickie” part.

I don’t see Xavier anywhere, to my great relief. Five bucks says he hit up Brie, since Love didn’t show up. An hour of triple-checking every room later, I’m left to wonder if Ashley already went home. Then I remember there’s one room I haven’t checked yet.

The garage.

Definitely a long shot, but I’m desperate enough not to care.

I pad down the dark, deserted hallway I think leads to the garage that’s interconnected with the house, trying to summon distant memories of the only time Dia gave me a tour of Finn’s palace.

I exhale in relief when I spot the double doors in the distance.

Please be there, Ash.

Eager to get this garbage party over with, I grip the knob and burst into the well-lit garage like I own the place.

Then I see him.

And everything falls apart.

Starting with the protective barrier I built around my heart.

He’s just sitting there, on the concrete floor.

He has his back against the furthest wall of the heated garage as he throws a small ball against the opposite wall, catching it over and over. There must be over five luxury cars parked in here, but I pay them no mind, gawking at my pen pal.

The stranger I spilled my darkest secrets to.

The boy I came so close to falling in love with.

I almost fell for a boy who still wants his ex. What kind of fool does that make me? I’m itching to scream in his face. Tell him what a huge disappointment he turned out to be. Tell him I wish he’d been the Zac I imagined in my head.

But I can’t.

He still has no idea who I really am.

Xavier looks up at me through thick eyelashes. He seems sad—no, he seems miserable. He doesn’t acknowledge me in the slightest, throwing the ball against the wall once more and catching it effortlessly.

I drum up an excuse. “Sorry, I was just… looking for some quiet. I’ll go.”

I spin on my heels, but I’ve barely opened the door an inch before he says, “You don’t have to.”

My hand still clutching the knob, I cast a dubious glance in his direction.

“Got plenty of quiet to go around.” He gestures to the empty garage. I should go and never look back. Bandage up my bruised ego and walk the hell away, but against all expectations, I shut the door and ask him a very dangerous question.

“Are you… okay?”

Why is it dangerous?