I Love You, I Hate You: Part 1

Mom’s struggles aside, last year truly was terrible. We moved to a house within walking distance of the hospital. Dad wanted us close, in case anything were to happen to mom. He wanted us to spend as much time together as possible, even going as far as getting a job in the Emergency Room there. The house was...okay, but the neighborhood was a shit hole. Last year alone there were six drive-by shootings, eight drug busts, and two pedophile stings.

My high school wasn’t any better. It was overcrowded, with not nearly enough resources. The teachers were tired. The kids were vicious. And I was the preppy Florida girl with a target on my back. I learned to fight out of necessity because the weak don’t survive. Sophomore year was okay. People realized I wasn’t a pushover and more or less left me alone. But junior year was the worst. Mom died. My boyfriend photoshopped my head on a naked body and spread the pictures around school because I wouldn’t sleep with him. My friends abandoned me and I was slut shamed the rest of the year.

It sucked.

I was struggling enough without my mom, but to lose my friends. My boyfriend. My reputation to protect me. It was too much.

I lost the will to fight those last few months, which only made the bullying worse.

My body trembles in Logan’s arms. Tears uncontrollably flowing out of me. He rubs my back with soothing a “shhh.'' It's been a long time since I’ve ugly cried like this. I didn’t realize how much I was holding in. It feels good to let it all out. I exhale a shaking breath and smirk up at him.

Piano keys start playing from Logan’s phone. He whispers, “Dance with me.”

Not waiting for my res

ponse, or for me to ask how he started the music, we sway under the moonlight. Logan holds me tight against his chest. When the chorus starts, he pushes me back, his hand in mine, and spins me round before pulling me in again. He keeps my hand in his, and wraps the other around my waist, leading me with big steps around the sand in a horrible version of a waltz or tango or some fancy dance.

I look up to the sky, my self-pity tears turned to leaking laughter. Logan pushes me back again, spinning me as I trip over my feet, then pulling me in for a clumsy dip. The dude in the song sings the chorus again with what sounds like an actual church choir and Logan stills. He cups my cheeks, fingertips tucked into my hair, and tilts my head to look up at him. “I’m sorry for every moment before this one.”

I shrug because what do I say to that? I forgive you? You can’t forgive someone you were never mad at. “That was a beautiful song. What was it?”

A smile tugs at Logan’s lips. “It’s called Because of You.”

“I didn’t peg you for a pop music kind of guy.”

“Can’t help what songs speak to the soul.”

My lips fall open a fraction of an inch, catching Logan's attention. He averts his gaze, staring out at the horizon, releasing a heavy breath. Silence falls between us again. This time isn’t as comfortable as before but it’s not entirely uncomfortable either. It feels like there’s more to be said, but not tonight. I yawn involuntarily and Logan’s grin stretches even wider.

“Let’s get you home.”

20

Danika

Unknown number: Come over.

I close my spiral notebook inside my Biology textbook and lean onto my side to grab my phone off the nightstand. I pause the music playing from my iTunes app and stare at the screen. I haven’t given my number to anyone besides Sarah since moving back, not even Gunner and can’t for the life of me figure out who this is. I hope it’s not written on a bathroom stall somewhere.

Me: No

Unknown number: Why not?

Me: Because I don’t make a habit of going to people’s houses I don’t know.

Unknown Number: My bad. It’s Logan

Interesting. We’ve hit the texting stage. I guess that means I can officially call us friends now. Not that I had any doubts we were.

Me: Still a no.

My phone dings again, almost instantly. Instead of a verbal protest, Logan sends a Gif of Bugs Bunny with big pouty eyes, ears down, tears rolling off his cheeks. I roll my eyes and toss my phone on my pillow beside me. I need a few more hours to myself or I’ll never pass tomorrow’s test. No sooner than I’ve flipped my textbook open again, another text comes through.

Logan: I’ve got pizza.

So persistent.

Me: I don’t eat cheese. Sorry.