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

is a step toward putting the pieces together again, even if they were never assembled right to begin with.

A throat clears from behind us and the Griffiths are both standing there. I’m not surprised when it’s Emily who says, “We’re celebrating Thanksgiving a little late this year and we’ll have plenty of food once lunch is ready. You’re more than welcome to stay and join us.”

Porter and I exchange a doubtful look before turning to our parents. I refuse to hold any hope because I already know what they’re going to say before Dad confirms it. “I think it’s best if we go,” he tells them, voice low as he tips his head. “But the offer is appreciated. Porter?”

My brother presses into me. “I want to stay here for a little while longer. Just until—”

“You have school in the morning,” Dad tells him firmly, a reminder that I take into consideration too. “And you can’t miss practice. I’m sorry, but we need to leave.”

He looks to me for help, and I want to tell him to stay, but I don’t have that power. “We have each other’s numbers now. We can talk. Text. Whatever you want. I promise, Porter.”

His eyes go to the floor before he nods, but not before I see the guarded caution on his face that reminds me of myself when promises are made.

Aiden unwinds his arms from me and presses another chaste kiss to the back of my head before helping Porter get his things from downstairs.

Like my little brother, I’m afraid this is it, that after they close the door behind them it’ll be like this never happened. But a tiny seed of hope plants itself in my chest when Mom pulls out her phone and asks me for my number. I don’t mean to look to Mrs. Griffith before I read it out, but Mom notices the exchange between me and Emily and hurt flashes in her eyes.

I think back to my conversation with Aiden the night I left. Mom wouldn’t have been okay with me staying next door because she never liked my relationship with Emily Griffith. It was a reminder that ours would never be like that. And maybe I used that to my advantage, to hurt her subconsciously. The more I think about it, the more guilt washes over me.

My eyes go back to Mom where I watch her type something on her phone before feeling mine buzz in my pocket. “If you want to try, then I do too,” she reassures, seeing the doubt etched into my features when she puts her phone back into her purse. “There’s something I think you should know, Ivy. I got a call from St. Mary’s Hospital one night. The nurse said she’d been concerned about why you were there, but she couldn’t express any details. We were on our way when they called the next morning and said you’d left. Your father and I…” Her lips fold into each other as she collects herself. “Your father and I were going to come get you. Bring you home. But we couldn’t find you anymore after that. You didn’t have a credit card or phone or car to track, so we were back to square one until there was nothing we could do.”

I stare at her blindsided by the statement.

St. Mary’s is the hospital in Vermont that I escaped from shortly after what I’d done. It was the beautiful, castle-like establishment I looked over my shoulder at as I ran into the night having a heavy feeling in my stomach that everything was going to change.

And it could have for the better.

If I stayed.

Mom’s eyes don’t go to my sleeves, which makes me think she still has no clue why I was there. “There are things we can do, people we can see if we need the extra guidance. A family counselor or something.”

All I can do is nod, feeling doubt over the insinuated sessions knowing those cost a pretty penny to attend. I’ve looked into counseling before when I was at my lowest, needing somebody. Just because resources exist for people like me who suffer from our own minds doesn’t mean it’s easily accessible. Every time I see a commercial or flyer about getting help, I believe less and less that the people who create them understand what it takes to link those who are suffering to those willing to help without charging a kidney per session.

Finding happiness is easy to some, but happiness is subjective. It costs more than anyone can fathom because the very things that make you feel even the highest high in the moment can also bring you crashing down in the next.

Not all of us want to stay unhappy.

But not all of us have another choice.

Porter stops at the door where Mom and Dad stand speaking in quiet tones to the Griffiths. He turns to me with a sad smile. “I was looking forward to that apple pie.”

I roll my eyes at his weak attempt at lightening the mood. “I’ll make you a fresh one sometime. I’m good in the kitchen.”

“That’s what Mom says.”

My heart flickers to life, thump-thumping as my eyes go to the woman in question. She’s looking at me with a shy smile on her face before turning back to listen to whatever Aiden’s father is saying.

Porter nudges my foot with his shoe, careful not to let his giant boot crush my bare toes. “Thank you for letting me crash here. I know your message wasn’t an invite to barge into your life, but I’m glad I came.”

“I’m glad you did too.” I give him an awkward hug. “Although I’m sure the biggest reason you’re glad you came was because of the boy crush you have on my boyfriend.”

The second it’s out there, my face blossoms with heat. I feel at least three different sets of eyes on me—my brother’s amused ones, Mrs. Griffith’s knowing ones, and Aiden’s. His burn the hottest on my face, but