Dear Love, I Hate You (Easton High)

My head is killing me, I’m scared I might puke at any moment, and I’m wearing nothing but basketball shorts and a T-shirt, but I still tumble toward the stairs.

He’s too nice right now.

Too… Zac.

Why can’t he be mean?

Why can’t he the asshole who loved me until he “pulled out”?

It would make hating him so much easier.

Unfortunately for me, Xavier’s parents just had to be fancy and opt for a spiral staircase—in other words, I’m going to break something for sure—but it doesn’t deter me one bit.

“For fuck’s sake, Vee, you can barely walk,” Xav growls when I sway down the stairs without a care. He’s at my side in seconds, gripping my waist and helping me to the first floor one step at a time. I shiver at his touch, his bare torso flush with my back, but I blame it on the nausea.

“I didn’t need your help,” I grumble once downstairs.

I almost trip over my own feet the next second.

Fuck you, too, Universe.

Xavier scoffs. “I can see that.”

“Can I have my dress back?”

“Kitchen’s this way.” He flat-out ignores me, gesturing to the closest room with his chin. “How do you like your eggs?”

Stunned, I watch him stroll to the kitchen.

Pretend like he didn’t ruin me—ruin us.

Something tells me I could argue with him for hours and his stubborn ass still wouldn’t let me leave until he gets his way. Takes me a minute to accept defeat. It’s just one meal. One meal and he’ll drive me home. One meal and I’ll go right back to hating him. It’s not the end of the world…

Right?

* * *

One awkward, silent breakfast and a much-needed shower later, I’m padding out of the bathroom with wet hair and a refreshed mind.

As much as I hate to admit it, Xavier was right. Rushing back home to my mom looking like a hobo would’ve been a dumb move. Might as well beg her to disown me while I’m at it.

It must’ve taken me over five glasses of water and two plates of scrambled eggs before I could even begin to feel like a human again. Extra-strength pain killers also came in handy. Good thing Xavier was nice enough to lend me a spare toothbrush. I couldn’t bear the taste of cheap beer and tequila a minute longer.

Xavier looked like he wanted to say something multiple times throughout breakfast but never did. He seemed at war with himself. Like he was debating on a life-or-death situation.

He’s holding back.

Withholding something.

I just don’t know what.

Tugging at the hem of Xavier’s T-shirt and pulling the baggy sweatpants he loaned me above my waist, I meet him in the living room. He stands off the couch when he sees me, squeezing his phone in his back pocket. He’s still shirtless. And I still can’t stop eyeing his scar. I make my way over to him before my staring becomes obvious.

“Okay, Mom, I ate, showered. Can I get my dress back now?”

He doesn’t laugh.

Or smile.