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

A head nod.

I want to be angry that they went with the lie so easily, and there’s definitely a sense of heaviness threatening to bubble in my veins, but I focus on something else to beat those darker feelings down for the moment. “They were better after I was gone?”

His Adam’s apple bobs. “Define better,” he murmurs, repositioning so he’s sitting straighter. “They still fought, but it was nowhere near as much. I’m not totally clueless. I know you were the reason I didn’t have to deal with them for so long. I remember all the times you’d make sure I ate or took the fall if I did something bad so I wouldn’t get into trouble. You were always doing that for me even when I was a brat, and I still—”

His abrupt stop makes me lean forward in curiosity. “What, Porter? Say it.”

His knee starts bouncing. “You were always making sure I was okay, and all I could be was angry at you for leaving. And I know you weren’t happy. I heard you tell Mom all the time how much it irritated you that they spent money on me for sports or other stuff. Part of me should have been happy you were going to live with someone who probably had the time to get you what you wanted and needed, but it was like you didn’t care what happened to me anymore when you disappeared.”

It’s impossible to swallow or speak, so I don’t even try.

He drops his head backward onto the couch cushion. “I’m not angry anymore. Confused, maybe, but not angry.” Picking up his head, he offers me a comforting look. “I overheard Mom talking to Dad about Gertie dying. Heart attack, I guess. Anyway, she said they’d have to figure out what to do. I thought they were talking about funeral arrangements and when they’d get you home, but Mom said something I’ll never forget.”

My heart drums loudly, vibrating my ears. And it nearly stops when he says, “Mom told Dad that you were right about something. That you were always better off on your own. And Dad didn’t say anything. He didn’t agree or disagree, he just sort of stared at her, shook his head, and left. He was always leaving, like he didn’t want to be there anymore either.”

I grind my teeth, holding back the emotion rising up my throat before grounding out a cold, “When?”

“When, what?”

My fingers ball into fists, hidden between my crossed legs, squeezing so hard it physically hurts. “When did Mom say that? When did Gertie die?”

Porter hesitates, his eyes trailing to think of the time frame. “A couple years ago now.”

A couple… “When I was eighteen?”

There’s a pause, then a single nod.

When I was eighteen.

When I was doing shady things for shelter.

When I was lying on a cold tile floor with cuts through my arms because I needed help and didn’t know how I could ask for it after believing they’d never want me.

She thought I was better off.

Maybe she even believed it.

I want nothing more than to show my brother what better off looks like. The pink lifted scars on my skin will be a reminder of how my life turned out because she thought I could do better than her.

But Porter doesn’t deserve that.

To see my weakness.

My anger.

It’s not at him.

“Ivy?” he asks quietly, brows furrowing at my long silent streak.

I shake my head again, trying to gather my words and struggling to string together thoughts. Eventually, I blow out a breath. “I’m here and alive, aren’t I?”

It’s a false confirmation that she was right because my little brother doesn’t need to hold my choices against me or blame her for not trying harder.

After all, I told her I could do better.

And I am here.

And I am alive.

Even though I probably shouldn’t be.

Even though I don’t always want to be.

“So, you and Aiden…?” his voice trails off, and I realize now why my answer matters to him so much.

He needs to know I’m okay.

Happy.

“We’re figuring it out,” I tell him softly, offering the best smile I can without showing the heavy emotion behind it. “It’s difficult when he’s probably going away soon. We haven’t talked much about it.”

I finally feel like I have my best friend back, and I don’t want to say goodbye again. But I know it’s not that simple. He’s had the same dream his whole life, and he’s so close to finally achieving it. Who am I to hold him back?

“Do you love him?” my brother asks.

No hesitation. “Yeah, I think I do.”

I jerk when a hand comes down on mine, and when I look up Porter is sitting in front of me with sheepish eyes, offering me what little comfort he can since we’re practically strangers now. “I think Mom will be happy to know that. She’s mentioned you a couple times, saying she hopes you’re doing well. Talks about you when she’s baking. Her cookies aren’t as good as the ones you made. When I told her that she started laughing until she cried, and when I tried to apologize she told me not to.”

I’m not sure why he’s telling me this, and I’m afraid to read into the meaning of his little story, so I choose to brush it off.

“I’m sorry I didn’t believe in you like you always did in me, Ivy. I wish I could go back and say something to Mom and Dad. Maybe if we talked to them about things it could have been different.”

“You have no reason to apologize and every right to be upset,” I tell him. Because I didn’t say goodbye.

In a way, he’s right.

I didn’t want to deal with him anymore.

Taking care of him.

Handling the fighting.

The toxic words.

She’s better off on her own.

I could tell Porter the things Mom and Dad told me over the years—the reason I had enough and decided to leave. Where would that leave us? If they acted put together for him, no