Ugly Love

by Colleen Hoover

  My head falls against the door again. I have a feeling the next few months are going to be full of inconvenient favors, since he knows he's doing me a huge one by letting me stay here. Dishes? Check. Corbin's laundry? Check. Corbin's grocery shopping? Check.

  "What do you need?" I ask him.

  "Miles kind of needs your help."

  "The neighbor?" I pause as soon as it clicks, and I close my eyes. "Corbin, please don't tell me the guy you called to protect me from the drunk guy isthe drunk guy."

  Corbin sighs. "I need you to unlock the door and let him in. Let him crash on the couch. I'll be there first thing in the morning. When he sobers up, he'll know where he is, and he'll go straight home."

  I shake my head. "What kind of apartment complex are you living in? Do I need to prepare to be groped by drunk people every time I come home?"

  Long pause. "He groped you?"

  " 'Grope' might be a bit strong. He did grab my ankle, though."

  Corbin lets out a sigh. "Just do this for me, Tate. Call me back when you've got him and all your stuff inside."

  "Fine." I groan, recognizing the worry in his voice.

  I hang up with Corbin and open the door. The drunk guy falls onto his shoulder, and his cell phone slips from his hand and lands on the floor next to his head. I flip him onto his back and look down at him. He cracks his eyes open and attempts to look up at me, but his eyelids fall shut again.

  "You're not Corbin," he mutters.

  "No. I'm not. But I am your new neighbor, and from the looks of it, you're about to owe me at least fifty cups of sugar."

  I lift him by his shoulders and try to get him to sit up, but he doesn't. I don't think he can, actually. How does a person even get this drunk?

  I grab his hands and pull him inch by inch into the apartment, stopping when he's just far enough inside for me to be able to close the door. I retrieve all of my things from outside the apartment, then shut and lock the front door. I grab a throw pillow from the couch, prop his head up, and roll him onto his side in case he pukes in his sleep.

  And that's all the help he's getting from me.

  When he's comfortably asleep in the middle of the living-room floor, I leave him there while I look around the apartment.

  The living room alone could fit three of the living rooms from Corbin's last apartment. The dining area is open to the living room, but the kitchen is separated from the living room by a half-wall. There are several modern paintings throughout the room, and the thick, plush sofas are a light tan, offsetting the vibrant paintings. The last time I stayed with him, he had a futon, a beanbag chair, and posters of models on the walls.

  I think my brother might finally be growing up.

  "Very impressive, Corbin," I say out loud as I walk from room to room and flip on all the lights, inspecting what has just become my temporary home. I kind of hate that it's so nice. It'll make it harder to want to find my own place once I get enough money saved up.

  I walk into the kitchen and open the refrigerator. There's a row of condiments in the door, a box of leftover pizza on the middle shelf, and a completely empty gallon of milk still sitting on the top shelf.

  Of course he doesn't have groceries. I can't have expected him to change completely.

  I grab a bottled water and exit the kitchen to go search for the room I'll be living in for the next few months. There are two bedrooms, so I take the one that isn't Corbin's and set my suitcase on top of the bed. I have about three more suitcases and at least six boxes down in the car, not to mention all my clothes on hangers, but I'm not about to attempt those tonight. Corbin said he'd be back in the morning, so I'll leave that to him.

  I change into a pair of sweats and a tank top, then brush my teeth and get ready for bed. Normally, I would be nervous about the fact that there's a stranger in the same apartment I'm in, but I have a feeling I don't need to worry. Corbin would never ask me to help someone he felt might be a threat to me in any way. Which confuses me, because if this is common behavior for Miles, I'm surprised Corbin asked me to bring him inside.

  Corbin has never trusted guys with me, and I blame Blake for that. He was my first serious boyfriend when I was fifteen, and he was Corbin's best friend. Blake was seventeen, and I had a huge crush on him for months. Of course, my friends and I had huge crushes on most of Corbin's friends, simply because they were older than we were.

  Blake would come over most weekends to stay the night with Corbin, and we always seemed to find a way to spend time together when Corbin wasn't paying attention. One thing led to another, and after several weekends of sneaking around, Blake told me he wanted to make our relationship official. The problem Blake didn't foresee was how Corbin would react once Blake broke my heart.

  And boy, did he break it. As much as a fifteen-year-old heart can be broken after the span of a two-week secret relationship. Turned out he was officially dating quite a few girls during the two weeks he was with me. Once Corbin found out, their friendship was over, and all of Corbin's friends were warned not to come near me. I found it almost impossible to date in high school until after Corbin finally moved away. Even then, though, the guys had heard horror stories and tended to steer clear of Corbin's little sister.

  As much as I hated it then, I would more than welcome it now. I've had my fair share of relationships go wrong since high school. I lived with my most recent boyfriend for more than a year before we realized we wanted two separate things out of life. He wanted me home. I wanted a career.

  So now I'm here. Pursuing my master's degree in nursing and doing whatever I can to avoid relationships. Maybe living with Corbin won't be such a bad thing after all.

  I head back to the living room to turn out the lights, but when I've rounded the corner, I come to an immediate halt.

  Not only is Miles up off the floor, but he's in the kitchen, with his head pressed against his arms and his arms folded on top of the kitchen counter. He's seated on the edge of a bar stool, and he looks as if he's about to fall off it any second. I can't tell if he's sleeping again or just attempting to recover.

  "Miles?"

  He doesn't move when I call his name, so I walk toward him and gently lay my hand on his shoulder to shake him awake. The second my fingers squeeze his shoulder, he gasps and sits up straight as if I just woke him from the middle of a dream.

  Or a nightmare.

  Immediately, he slides off the stool and onto very unstable legs. He begins to sway, so I throw his arm over my shoulder and try to walk him out of the kitchen.

  "Let's go to the couch, buddy."

  He drops his forehead to the side of my head and stumbles along with me, making it even harder to hold him up. "My name isn't Buddy," he slurs. "It's Miles."

  We make it to the front of the couch, and I start to peel him off me. "Okay, Miles. Whoever you are. Just go to sleep."

  He falls onto the couch, but he doesn't let go of my shoulders. I fall with him and immediately attempt to pull away.

  "Rachel, don't," he begs, grabbing me by the arm, trying to pull me to the couch with him.

  "My name isn't Rachel," I say, freeing myself from his iron grip. "It's Tate." I don't know why I clarify what my name is, because it's not likely he'll remember this conversation tomorrow. I walk to where the throw pillow is and pick it up off the floor.

  I pause before handing it back to him, because he's on his side now, and his face is pressed into the couch cushion. He's gripping the couch so tightly his knuckles are white. At first, I think he's about to get sick, but then I realize how incredibly wrong I am.

  He's not sick.

  He's crying.

  Hard.

  So hard he isn't even making a sound.

  I don't even know the guy, but the obvious devastation he's experiencing is difficult to witness. I look down the hallway and back to him, wondering if I should leave him alone in order to give him privacy. The last thing I want to do is get tangled up in someone's issues. I've successfully avoided most forms of
drama in my circle of friends up to this point, and I sure as hell don't want to start now. My first instinct is to walk away, but for some reason, I find myself oddly sympathetic toward him. His pain actually appears genuine and not just the result of an overconsumption of alcohol.

  I lower myself to my knees in front of him and touch his shoulder. "Miles?"

  He inhales a huge breath, slowly lifting his face to look at me. His eyes are mere slits and bloodshot red. I'm not sure if that's a result of the crying or the alcohol. "I'm so sorry, Rachel," he says, lifting a hand out toward me. He wraps it around the back of my neck and pulls me forward toward him, burying his face in the crevice between my neck and shoulder. "I'm so sorry."

  I have no idea who Rachel is or what he did to her, but if he's hurting this bad, I shudder to think what she'sfeeling. I'm tempted to find his phone and search for her name and call her so she can come rectify this. Instead, I gently push him back into the couch. I lay his pillow down and urge him onto it. "Go to sleep, Miles," I say gently.

  His eyes are so full of hurt when he drops to the pillow. "You hate me so much," he says as he grabs my hand. His eyes fall shut again, and he releases a heavy sigh.

  I stare at him silently, allowing him to keep hold of my hand until he's quiet and still and there aren't any more tears. I pull my hand away from his, but I stay by his side for a few minutes longer.

  Even though he's asleep, he somehow still looks as if he's in a world of pain. His eyebrows are furrowed, and his breathing is sporadic, failing to fall into a peaceful pattern.

  For the first time, I notice a faint, jagged scar, about four inches long, that runs smoothly across the entire right side of his jaw. It stops just two inches shy of his lips. I have the strange urge to touch it and run my finger down the length of it, but instead, my hand reaches up to his hair. It's short on the sides, a little longer on the top, and just the perfect blend of brown and blond. I stroke his hair, comforting him, even though he may not deserve it.

  This guy may deserve every single bit of the remorse he's feeling for whatever he did to Rachel, but at least he's feeling it. I have to give him that much.

  Whatever he did to Rachel, at least he loves her enough to regret it.

  chapter two

  MILES

  Six years earlier

  I open the door to the administration office and walk the roll sheet to the secretary's desk. Before I turn and head back to class, she stops me with a question. "You're in Mr. Clayton's senior English class, aren't you, Miles?"

  "Yep," I reply to Mrs. Borden. "Need me to take something to him?"

  The phone on her desk rings, and she nods, picking up the receiver. She covers it with her hand. "Wait around another minute or two," she says, nodding her head in the direction of the principal's office. "We've got a new student who just enrolled, and she also has Mr. Clayton this period. I need you to show her to the classroom."

  I agree and plop down into one of the chairs next to the door. I look around the administration office and realize this is the first time in the four years I've been in high school that I've ever sat in one of these seats. Which means I've successfully made it four years without being sent to the office.

  My mother would have been proud to know that, although it leaves me kind of disappointed in myself. Detention is something every male in high school should accomplish at least once. I have the rest of my senior year to achieve it, though, so there's that to look forward to.

  I retrieve my phone from my pocket, secretly hoping Mrs. Borden sees me with it and decides to slap me with a detention slip. When I look up at her, she's still on the phone, but she makes eye contact with me. She simply smiles and goes about her secretarial duties.

  I shake my head in disappointment and open up a text to Ian. It doesn't take much to excite people around here. Nothing new ever happens.

  Me: New girl enrolled today. Senior.

  Ian: Is she hot?

  Me: Haven't seen her yet. About to walk her to class.

  Ian: Take a picture if she's hot.

  Me: Will do. BTW, how many times have you had detention this year?

  Ian: Twice. Why? What'd you do?

  Twice? Yeah, I need to rebel it up a little before graduation. I should definitely turn in some homework late this year.

  I'm pathetic.

  The door to the principal's office opens, so I close my phone. I slide it into my pocket and look up.

  I never want to look down again.

  "Miles is going to show you the way to Mr. Clayton's class, Rachel." Mrs. Borden points Rachel in my direction, and she begins to walk toward me.

  I instantly become aware of my legs and their inability to stand.

  My mouth forgets how to speak.

  My arms forget how to reach out to introduce the person they're attached to.

  My heart forgets to wait and get to know a girl before it starts to claw its way out of my chest to get to her.

  Rachel.

  Rachel.

  Rachel, Rachel, Rachel.

  She's like poetry.

  Like prose and love letters and lyrics, cascading down the

  center

  of

  a

  page.

  Rachel, Rachel, Rachel.

  I say her name over and over in my head, because I'm positive it's the name of the next girl I'll fall in love with.

  I'm suddenly standing. Walking toward her. I might be smiling, pretending I'm not affected by those green eyes that I hope will one day be smiling just for me. Or that red-as-my-heart hair that doesn't look like it's been tampered with since God created it specifically with her in mind.

  I'm talking to her.

  I tell her my name is Miles.

  I tell her she can follow me and I'll show her the way to Mr.

  Clayton's class.

  I'm staring at her because she hasn't spoken yet, but her nod is the nicest thing a girl has ever said to me.

  I ask her where she's from, and she tells me Arizona. "Phoenix,"

  she specifies.

  I don't ask her what brought her to California, but I do tell her my father does business in Phoenix a lot because he owns a few buildings there.

  She smiles.

  I tell her I've never been there but I'd like to go one day.

  She smiles again.

  I think she says it's a nice town, but it's hard to understand her words when all I hear in my head is her name.

  Rachel.

  I'm gonna fall in love with you, Rachel.

  Her smile makes me want to keep talking, so I ask her another question as we pass Mr. Clayton's room.

  We keep walking.

  She keeps talking, because I keep asking her questions.

  She nods some.

  She answers some.

  She sings some.

  Or it sounds that way.

  We get to the end of the hallway, right when she says something about how she hopes she likes this school because she wasn't ready to move away from Phoenix.

  She doesn't look happy about the move.

  She doesn't know how happy I am about the move.

  "Where's Mr. Clayton's classroom?" she asks.

  I stare at the mouth that just delivered that question. Her lips aren't symmetrical. Her top lip is slightly thinner than her bottom lip, but you can't tell until she talks. When words come out of her mouth, it makes me wonder why words are so much better coming from her mouth than any other mouth.

  And her eyes. There's no way her eyes aren't seeing a prettier, more peaceful world than all the other eyes.

  I stare at her for a few more seconds; then I point behind me and tell her we passed Mr. Clayton's classroom.

  Her cheeks grow a shade pinker, like my confession affected her in the same way she's affecting me.

  I smile again.

  I nod my head toward Mr. Clayton's class.

  We walk in that direction.

  Rachel.

  You're gonna fall in love w
ith me, Rachel.

  I open the door for her and let Mr. Clayton know that Rachel is new here. I also want to add, for the sake of all the other guys in the classroom, that Rachel is not theirs.

  She's mine.

  But I don't say anything.

  I don't have to, because the only one who needs to be aware that I want Rachel is Rachel.

  She looks at me and smiles again, taking the only empty seat, all the way across the room.

  Her eyes tell me she already knows she's mine.

  It's just a matter of time.

  I want to text Ian and tell her she isn't hot. I want to tell him she's volcanic, but he would laugh at that.

  Instead, I discreetly take a picture of her from where I'm seated.

  I send the picture in a message to Ian that says, "She's gonna have all my babies."

  Mr. Clayton begins class.

  Miles Archer becomes obsessed.

  *

  I met Rachel on Monday.

  It's Friday.

  I've said nothing to her since the day we met. I don't know why. We have three classes together. Every time I see her, she smiles at me like she wants me to talk to her. Every time I work up the courage, I talk myself down.

  I used to be confident.

  Then Rachel happened.

  I gave myself until today. If I didn't work up the courage by today, I'd be giving up my only shot with her. Girls like Rachel aren't available for long.

  If she's even available.

  I don't know her story or if she's wrapped up in a guy back in Phoenix, but there's only one way to find out.

  I'm standing next to her locker, waiting for her. She exits the classroom and smiles at me. I say "Hi" when she walks up to her locker. I notice that same subtle change in her skin color. I like that.

  I ask how her first week was. She tells me it was fine. I ask her if she's made any friends, and she shrugs as she says, "A few."

  I smell her, subtly.

  She notices anyway.

  I tell her she smells good.

  She says, "Thank you."

  I push through the sound of my heart pounding in my ears. I push past the sheen of moisture developing on my palms. I drown out her name, which I keep wanting to repeat out loud, over and over. I push it all down and hold her stare while I ask her if she'd like to do something later.

  I keep it all pushed away and make room for her response, because it's the only thing I want.

  I want that nod, actually. The one that doesn't require words?