Dare You to Hate Me by B. Celeste (classic fiction .txt) 📕

I grip the pen a little too hard in my hand. Did he forget I encouraged his enrollment at Wilson Reed knowing he loved that college? Does he not realize how big he is here? How everyone talks about him? Even if I didn’t know him before, I would have heard his name the second I stepped onto Lindon’s campus and realized he’s a huge deal here.

All I come up with is, “I’m not sure any of that is useful information for me. I only have to share a shower with a few girls and avoid most public places.”

His lips threaten to rise. “Doesn’t surprise me. You were never a people person, Chaos.”

I choose to ignore that comment, focusing back on my papers. “I’m busy. Lots to do today.”

From the corner of my eye that can’t seem to ignore the bulky figure, I see one of his elbows drape across the back of his chair. “We need to talk.”

“I disagree.”

“You blocked me.” His face is suddenly serious, expression darkening as he scopes me out. “I’ve had the same number ever since my parents agreed to let me have a phone, and you blocked it. We used to text all the time when I snuck you your first cell knowing your parents couldn’t afford one for you. How didn’t you recognize it?”

He…? “That was you?” My tone is incredulous. Hurt flashes across his face only for a microsecond before he masks it with irritation instead. I shake my head, not willing to explain that I barely remember my phone number now much less the one either of us had then. “Who has the same number for seven years?”

“I don’t let go of things easily,” he states pointedly, leaving the phone on the table where he dropped it between us. It’s an upgrade from the ones we used to have—changed with the times. When he gave me the box containing the prepaid phone one night, I’d been speechless. He showed me how to use it, where he programmed his number, and how to text.

Slowly, my eyes lift to his. “We both know that’s not true.”

His fingers grip the table as he bends forward, eyes never leaving mine as they narrow at me. “For someone who isn’t holding it against me, you definitely seem to have a grudge.”

Doesn’t he get it? “I’m simply stating a fact. That doesn’t mean it’s a hostile one.”

Now he scoffs, a sound I’m becoming a little too familiar with. “Don’t lie. You were never good at it.”

“Excuse you, asshole. Just because you don’t like when I’m telling the truth doesn’t mean you can be a dick to me.”

“Then how about you actually tell the truth for once?” he spits, eyes hard as they focus on me.

“You want the truth?” I whisper, laughing to myself. I lick my lips, only slightly self-conscious that they aren’t covered in lipstick. I only bothered with basic makeup, forgoing my bright lipstick and dark eye liner in favor of something that simply covered the exhaustion from insomnia. “Fine. The truth is, when I asked my seventeen-year-old best friend if he’d run away with me, I hoped he’d say yes. But I didn’t expect him to. He had a good home and a good life in general. Football. Friends other than me. Loving parents. That annoyingly adorable dog that yapped all the time whenever we tried doing something without him.

“Maybe part of me wanted him to try convincing me to stay, but I also didn’t expect that. Because he knew why I hid in his closet, and how many times I locked myself in mine to avoid the bullshit I always had to hear. He knew the missed birthdays, and the cop calls, and the police reports. That boy telling me no was the only gift I’d ever gotten in life. He let me leave.”

Aiden’s nostrils twitch, and there’s a blanket of something damp forming in those icy eyes I used to be obsessed with. “I’m not angry that you didn’t come along with me, Aiden. I was okay with that. Happy, even. It meant that you were going after your dream to play football. You didn’t risk messing up your life like I did mine because I was sick of being stuck in a rut.” My throat gets thick, cramming with emotion that I swallow. “So, no. I’m not holding anything against you. The only grudge I have is that life couldn’t have given me a better home that I wouldn’t have wanted to run away from.”

With that, I lift my shoulders dismissively and stand up when the washing machine stops spinning. Walking over with a rolling basket to transfer my things to the dryer, I try ignoring the eyes I feel on me, and the heat when footsteps near my back as I throw in a dryer sheet, close the door to the large machine, and shuffle through my wallet to gather change.

Before I can put any in, I hear the telltale signs of quarters being dropped into the slot in front of me. Peeking through my lashes, I see long, tan fingers, sliding in each coin slowly before he says, “I waited. I remembered when you’d locked yourself in your room for a day and a half before your parents ever knocked to check on you. So, after two days passed from when you’d said goodbye, I told my parents you’d left, and they went and told yours. I waited.”

He gave me time.

Almost so quietly I can barely hear myself, I say, “Thank you.”

He inserts the last coin and watches me play with the settings until I have it on what I want, then press the button to start the load. It isn’t until then that he takes my arm closest to him, slowly lifts the sleeve, and flips it around to face him.

My heart pounds when his thumb runs over the scar, and it’s a sensation I can’t describe. I don’t like the touch, but I don’t hate it