Dear Love, I Hate You (Easton High)

I can tell he wants to ask me what that was about, but he doesn’t push it.

“Thank you,” I whisper. “For what you did.”

His eyes lift to my face. “The ride or the intervention?”

“Both,” I admit. “But more so for the intervention.”

“You’re welcome. Leave me a review on Yelp,” he jokes, and I snort out an embarrassing pig laugh. It’s one of those ridiculous oink snorts. The kind that’s impossible to miss, and Xavier is trying so hard not to laugh he looks like he’s in pain.

Our eyes lock.

r /> His blues ask, “Are we just going to ignore that?” My cheeks burn with embarrassment. So, not only did I go through a solid anxiety attack in front of this guy, I also have to laugh like a pig when he’s around?

Oh hell no.

Running on impulse, I snatch his license from the cup holder.

“What do we have here?” I turn the tables on him.

His smile fades instantly.

Not laughing anymore, are we?

“Don’t you dare,” he warns, but his tone is playful. It takes me back to our countless games of tag in Finn’s backyard when we were kids. The never-ending banter. Makes me think that maybe… the only thing that’s changed between now and then is we’re ten years older.

“Let’s see that picture, shall we?” I threaten, and he stretches his arm out to try and steal it back from me. I shriek in between laughter, dodging his hand just in time. I tilt my body toward the passenger door, but before I can get a good look at his license, I hear him unbuckle his seat belt.

Oh, he’s not messing around.

His long, brawny arm reaches all the way to my side, and he swipes the license from my hands without blinking.

Just like that.

Like taking candy from a baby.

Not that I’m shocked. He’s taller than me. He’s stronger, too. I know I don’t stand a chance, but that doesn’t stop me from unfastening my seat belt and pouncing to retrieve the license. He won’t let go of it, fighting me off with a disarming smile that would probably leave me dazed in any other situation.

We wrestle until Xavier accidentally crushes the steering wheel with his elbow and a piercing honk roars through the night. I’d go off on him for risking to wake up my mom if I weren’t laughing so hard.

Wait.

That’s not a bad idea.

“Shit, you woke up my mom,” I blurt, and he falls for it, just like I knew he would, lowering his guard and glancing toward my house. I jump at the chance to pluck the license from his fingers and take a good look.

If victory had a taste, it would be sweet.

So why does this taste so sour?

Why do I feel like I’m going to be sick all over his leather seats?

It’s not the picture’s fault.

Sixteen-year-old Xavier looks adorable, as expected. No, what flips my stomach upside down and clogs my throat with panic…

Is his middle name.

The name I never saw coming.