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

budge from where it locks with mine. “That’s because you were a lot nicer when we were younger. Now you’re just…”

“Yes?”

“A pain in the ass.”

He smirks. “Been called worse.”

“I have no doubt about that. I’m sure your mom has been on the giving end of those remarks because she’s always been good at calling you out on your bullshit.”

We let the traffic and radio fill the quiet space between us for a few drawn out moments, before I close my eyes and say, “I loved you a lot back then. More than I should have. You weren’t just a safe place for me to run to, you were…everything.”

A second passes. Two.

Then, “Ivy.”

“It’s okay,” I tell him quickly, not willing to hear him. “I know you didn’t feel the same way. What I felt was probably infatuation anyway. I wouldn’t know what real love was even if it smacked me upside the head.”

“That’s not true.”

“My parents didn’t love me.”

He’s silent, as if contemplating an argument but not willing to voice it.

“Maybe they did,” I relent, heavy doubt weighing down my words. How many times did I choose to be optimistic because it was better than believing the worst? “Everyone says love is better shown in people’s actions, not words. I don’t even remember the last time Mom and Dad told me they loved me much less showed it.”

Aiden takes a deep breath. “People express love in a lot of different ways. If they didn’t tell you, maybe they showed you in ways that are hard to accept.”

“By fighting?”

“By letting you leave.”

My eyes scan his serious face, trying to figure out where his mind is. That’s when something hits me…

He let me leave too. He let me climb out his window after the longest hug we’d ever shared and watched me disappear.

He’d given me time.

I’m not sure how I find my voice, but eventually I reel in my thoughts and inhale a small breath to relieve my stinging lungs. “Is that your way of saying you loved me, Aiden?”

The hand tucked around mine squeezes again but doesn’t release like before. He holds on like he needs to, like he’s afraid I’ll go somewhere if he doesn’t. “I never stopped, Ivy. Just because you left didn’t mean I could forget what we’d been through. All those times we’d meet in the woods or explore the town or hang out in my room until you had to go home and check on Porter. We always found our way back to each other. When you left, I focused on perfecting football and being the best at the game to distract myself from everything.”

I lick my lips. “And?”

He gives me another glance, eyes barely roaming over my stricken face, before turning back to the road and saying, “And look where it brought me. Right back here to you.”

It’s not an I love you.

But it’s so much more.

The words I want to say back are stuck to my tongue, clinging on for dear life. I want to tell him I’m glad he’s back in my life, and that the way my limbs buzz and heart races and lips always want to stretch into a stupid smile when he’s around is at the tip of my tongue. Something holds the words captive in my mouth like a rope lassoing and pulling them back down my throat until I’m choking on them.

When Aiden realizes I have nothing to say, he turns the radio up, unthreads our fingers, and white knuckles the wheel with both hands.

Tell him, I demand.

In the silence are answers left unspoken between us, but it’s nearly impossible to discern which ones we want to hear and which we convince ourselves to.

I’m not even sure how to sort fact from fiction anymore because I’m so used to self-sabotaging myself before anyone else can.

Tell him, the voice in my head repeats.

But tell him what?

That I’ll miss him when he leaves?

That I’ll be waiting for him?

I’m not sure he even wants me to.

So I settle on saying nothing.

Nothing at all.

Aiden sets our things down on the couch in the middle of the huge hotel room, unfazed by the expensive-looking furniture we’re surrounded by. According to Coach Pearce, who met us in the lobby, all the players are bunking together in one of these massive rooms except us. Someone pulled his attention away as we got our keys, but I felt the middle-aged man’s eyes on me, except there was something oddly praising about the way they flitted over me unlike at the bakery.

I’m examining the beautiful view out the windows by the queen bed when Aiden reemerges from the bathroom. “Coach wants all the guys to meet in the lobby soon.” His tone is distant as he digs through his bag and pulls out a jersey. I think he’s about to exchange it for the sweatshirt he’s wearing, but instead he tosses it at me. I barely catch it when he says, “You have ten minutes to get ready.”

I blink. “What? I thought I’d stay—”

“You’ll have company to show you where to sit.” His no-arguing attitude makes me scowl. “Don’t give me that look. You may not like it, but it’s what you need right now. Maybe you’ll even thank me later.”

Dread threatens to suffocate me, wrapping around my heart and trailing up to my windpipe. “What does that mean?”

He gestures toward the jersey. “Put that on and maybe I’ll tell you.”

The material wrinkles in my clenched hands as I watch him walk toward the door. “You know I need more than that.”

Aiden’s spine straightens, his hand letting go of the doorknob to turn and face me with anger across his shadowed features. “That’s your problem, Ivy. You refuse to let anybody try convincing you otherwise. Peoples’ needs change. Put on the goddamn jersey and trust me.”

He doesn’t offer me any room to reply before storming out and slamming the door shut behind him. The picture on the wall rattles with his exit, leaving me gaping at