This Love (This Boy Book 3)

by Jenna Scott

  Sure, I’m happy to be friendly with my professors to some extent, and seek them out during office hours. And any extracurricular activities related to academics are definitely on the table. But I have a solid boundary now, and there’s no way I’ll cross it.

  As I walk down the amphitheater steps, I see Emmett waving at me from the third row, and I slide into the empty seat beside him.

  “Morning,” I say, still a bit out of breath.

  “Almost thought you wouldn’t show.” He smiles. “Please tell me you finally hit up an actual party last night, and no, study group doesn’t count.”

  Rolling my eyes with a smirk, I say, “Do you think I’d actually even attempt to socialize without you? Trust me, when I’m ready to dive into the party scene full throttle, you’ll be the first one to know.”

  “I appreciate that. Happy to be your wingman.”

  Laurens is still busy setting up the projector, but I drop my voice to a whisper as the rest of the class begins to quiet down and prepare for the lesson.

  “And as a matter of fact, I stayed up late to finish the paper that’s due today.” I stick my tongue out at him.

  Emmett groans. “Milla…that paper isn’t due til next week. Laurens gave us all an extension, remember?”

  Crap, he’s right. The urge to slam my forehead against the table is nearly unsurmountable, but I keep it to a facepalm. This says a lot about my current mental state: I can’t even keep track of my academic calendar. That’s a first for me.

  “Well, at least it’s done now, and I won’t have to worry about it.”

  “Meaning…you’ll actually have time to schedule some social activities?” He waggles his eyebrows.

  “I’ll think about it,” I say, and tune into class.

  The speakers mounted in the ceiling start to spill the familiar strains of John Williams’ “Hedwig’s Theme,” and the Hogwarts crest is blown up and glowing on the screen in the front of the room.

  “No freaking way,” I whisper to Emmett, my pulse kicking with excitement.

  “Although we’ll be taking a deep dive into the classics this semester, I thought we might jump into something a little more contemporary for our unit on adolescent lit,” Professor Laurens announces. A few cheers go around the auditorium. “I can’t be teaching a course called “Literature that Shapes Today’s Generation” and pretend JK Rowling doesn’t exist, even if recent politics want to get in the way.

  “Which brings me to our next topic of discussion, regarding how—or if—we should separate art from the artist. It’s a slight detour from HP itself, but we can’t pretend literature exists in a vacuum. So let’s riff on this for the first half of class, and then we’ll get back to Harry, Hermione, and Ron.”

  “And Professor Snape!” a goth girl in the front row calls out.

  “And Luna Lovegood,” adds a guy just behind me.

  “You got it. I dig the enthusiasm.” Professor Laurens smiles. “And heads-up, I’ll be assigning an essay where you’ll deconstruct one of the books in the series through the lens of some major school of thought. Maybe it’s a Marxist deconstruction of the Half-Blood Prince, or a Feminist view of Goblet of Fire. Either way, let’s get those mental gears turning.”

  I’m practically bouncing out of my seat. I can’t believe this is a real class I get to take for college credit. I’m technically a psychology major, but my love for books has me second-guessing myself and wondering if switching to English would be a dumb move. After all, I can see a future where I’m a social worker or a clinical psychologist, working to help kids and families. But I’m not sure what I can do with an English degree, and I need to be able to support myself after I graduate.

  Professor Laurens is so great at engaging the students that it takes zero effort to focus, and I get through the rest of the class without thinking about Hunter once. It’s nice to feel like my old self, the person I used to be before my first love destroyed me.

  Before we’re dismissed for the day, Professor Laurens announces, “Oh, one more thing. I’d like to invite any of you who are interested to apply to be a TA for this class. You’ll be working directly with me preparing lectures and grading papers and running errands, that kind of thing, and I’ll also need assistance with my panel at the LA Book Awards. You can apply online.” He begins to pack his laptop.

  “Is it paid?” someone calls out from the back of the room.

  Laurens nods. “Technically it’s a paid position, but it’s not money in your pocket. It goes toward tuition reimbursement. So that’s a factor.”

  A series of groans echo around the room, but now my interest is piqued even more. Despite my scholarship and savings, I’m still struggling to cover all my school expenses. This job could go a long way toward relieving some of that financial stress.

  Not only that but working as a teacher’s assistant would be invaluable for my future CV, and I know I’d love working with Professor Laurens. Not to mention helping him put together a panel for the LA Book Awards. How cool is that? I’ve dreamed of going since the moment I found out they existed, but you have to be a member of the literary circle to get an invite. It’s like the Oscars, but instead of actors and directors and film people, the awards go to authors and editors and all kinds of other literary stars.

  The other thing is, it’d be a welcome distraction. If I get immersed with work, I won’t have to think about the devil lurking in the shadow of my thoughts: Hunter Beck.

  “Are you thinking of applying?” I ask Emmett as we walk to the café together so I can get an iced tea, and he can start his barista shift.

  “Nah. I mean it sounds cool, but I’m already working part-time, and if I tried to TA, it’d be too much.” He rubs his eyes behind his glasses. “You are though, right?”

  Guilt tightens my chest. The only reason I’m here at Stanford is because Emmett’s mom helped me get a scholarship, and yet here he is working just to have a bit of extra money for himself. Had he gotten the scholarship instead, he wouldn’t have to be slinging coffee, and he could be a TA for Laurens.

  “I’m sorry,” I find myself saying.

  Emmett shoots me a surprised look. “About what?”

  “I just…feel bad about you needing to work and missing out on opportunities like this. If the scholarship had gone to you…”

  “Milla.” He stops walking, and grabs my shoulders, turning to face me. “Board members’ children don’t qualify for the scholarship you got. And even if they did—my parents made the choice to pay for my college so other people can get financial aid.”

  I know all this. I’ve heard it several times, both from Emmett and his mom. Still…

  “I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t here with me,” I say.

  Emmett smiles. “I’m sure you’d manage. This is nothing compared to surviving high school. And for what it’s worth, having you here helps me too. There’s no one else I’d rather trade essay critiques with.”

  He gets a light punch in the arm for that one. “Pff. I’d still trade critiques with you if we went to different colleges.” We start walking again.

  “But seriously, we should go to a party at some point. You deserve a little fun. It’s part of the whole college experience.”

  “Maybe this weekend? I don’t know. You’re starting to sound just like Olivia,” I say. “Oh! Speaking of, she said to tell you hi. And she called you a cutie.”

  Blushing, Emmett says, “Tell her I said hi back.”

  “When are you going to grow a pair and just ask her out?” I tease. “With all these hellos going back and forth, I feel like I’m enabling some kind of long-distance 1800s courting ritual. We all live in the same dorm! Just come over to ‘loan’ me a book or something and then casually ask her to grab dinner or coffee.”

  He rubs the back of his neck nervously. “Yeah. I don’t know. I just need to work up to it.”

  “You better work fast,” I warn, glancing down at my buzzing phone to see a barrage of texts from my roo
mmate, sprinkled with lots of happy cat face emojis. “Her Alliance audition was today, and judging by these texts, it looks like she’s probably going to be insanely busy going to dance crew practices soon.”

  “Thanks for the heads-up.”

  We get to the café and Emmett goes to clock in while I look over the food that’s left after the morning rush—no lemon blueberry muffins left, which, shame—and settle for a slice of matcha cake to go with my tropical iced tea.

  I still have half an hour until my next class, so I sit at an outdoor table in the sunshine with my snack and my books and get some reading done. Somebody pinch me, because Stanford is so dreamy I can hardly believe it’s real.

  When I get back to Roble Hall later, I grab my PJs, a towel, and my shower caddy, and head down the hall to the bathroom. There’s just something about a hot shower—maybe the fact that I can actually relax in there—that always helps me think.

  As I zone out under the spray of steamy water, I go over my TA application in my head, mind racing with ideas about how I should begin, what I should say to convince Mr. Laurens I’m the best candidate. I’m nervous, but also excited—and by the time I’m sitting at my laptop thirty minutes later, I know exactly what to write.

  Chapter Three

  Camilla

  After my TA application e-mail is sent, I rip open a congratulatory package of chocolate-covered Pocky and juggle texts with Olivia (Alliance is supposed to make their final decisions next week, but she’s sure she nailed the audition) and Isabel (FIDM is her own personal heaven, and she texts me tons of photos of the period costume sketches she’s been making for her Drawing and Rendering for the Theater class).

  I’m halfway through a reply text when my phone rings, and I’m shocked to see MOM on the screen. We haven’t spoken since the first day I got here, which was weeks ago. I assumed that my move to Stanford was the beginning of the end for us—or the beginning of both of us going our separate ways, at least. She didn’t exactly support my decision to go to an expensive “useless” college, and I didn’t exactly appreciate her lack of support.

  My finger hovers over the decline button.

  I don’t really want to talk to her, but at the same time, I can’t bring myself to ignore the call. She might be a nightmare, but she’s still my mom. And as much as I may have issues with her, she never abandoned me—the same can’t be said about my father, whomever (and wherever) he is.

  Taking a deep breath, I bring the phone to my ear. “Hey, Mom.”

  “Huh. I thought you weren’t going to pick up. Seeing as how you’ve apparently been too busy with all your fancy college classes to call your mother.”

  We’re off to a great start, as expected. “Yeah, umm, I’ve just been super busy with homework.” And it’s not like you attempted to call me before now, either.

  “I’ve been busy too, you know. Things at work have been a lot more difficult with your absence.”

  I don’t bite. If I start asking for details, this call will turn into one big pity party for Mom, and before I know it, I’ll be promising to come home and leave Stanford for good. It’s hard not to hang up on her, but shame on me for thinking a conversation with my mother could be anything other than a guilt trip.

  She’s still working as a housekeeper for Hunter’s family, and against my sense of self-preservation, I find myself wondering how my ex is doing and what he’s been up to since we graduated from Oak Academy…probably for the thousandth time in the last three months. Harry, too—I know Mrs. Beck had to have found a new babysitter since I left for college. Unless my mom is still pulling part-time nanny duty.

  But as much as I’m dying for insider intel, there’s no way I can ask my mom about Hunter and Harrison. She’ll just dangle the information like a carrot on a string and use it to manipulate me into doing something for her. Or else she’ll act like it’s oh so generous of her to share what she knows and then lord it over me later, when she needs to cash out a big favor. I know how she works.

  “How’re you settling in, Mil?” she asks, and that’s when I catch the slur in her voice that creeps in when she’s three glasses into the evening. “I bet that fancy place has some damn nice dorm rooms. I mean they better for seventy thousand a year, right? Can’t remember the last time I made that much in a year…”

  “Roble Hall is great. My roommate and I have bedrooms on opposite sides, and there’s a common area in between for studying and TV. Otherwise…everything’s fine,” I say, even though I know she doesn’t actually give a shit how things are going here. In fact, I have no idea why she called me in the first place.

  When I said goodbye to Mom the day I left La Jolla, her final words were, “Don’t screw things up over there like you did here.” Is she just checking in to see if things have blown up in my face yet? So she can gloat? So she can smirk as I crawl back to her with my tail between my legs? Not going to happen.

  “How’s your roommate?” she asks.

  “Nice. She goes out a lot. She’s a dance major.”

  “You should be going out with her.” There’s a pause, and I hear the faint sound of ice clinking against glass. “I’m sure that school is full of rich boys for you to sink your hooks into. This is your chance to lock one down and get yourself set for life.”

  Rolling my eyes, I tell her, “I’m here to get a degree, not meet boys.”

  “Oh, Camilla, honestly. Your best years will be over by the time you graduate, and you already blew your chance with Hunter.”

  My stomach clenches, and I taste bitterness on my tongue. “Mom—”

  “Have you talked to him lately?”

  “No, and I don’t want to.” The strength goes out of me, as it does every time I think too hard about him. I flop onto my bed, facing the ceiling, readying myself for the inevitable gold-digging advice that’s about to come out of my mom’s mouth.

  “I’m sure it’s too late to get him back, anyway,” she says with a sigh. “Young men don’t want the cow when they’ve gotten the milk for free. You have to make them want, you have to make them wait, and you have to keep some mystery—”

  “I have to go,” I say.

  “You lost a really good catch, Mil,” Mom rambles wistfully. “If you’d’ve just taken my advice, we’d be set for life already. You wouldn’t need to go to college, or even work. Mr. Beck’s real estate company could’ve set you up with a little house…”

  “I really do have to go, Mom,” I repeat. “Talk soon. Bye.”

  Without waiting for her response, I hang up. My heart is racing, anger and adrenaline pumping through me so hard that I know sleep will be futile.

  I don’t know what’s more upsetting—my mom’s overall shittiness or the painful fact that Hunter hasn’t bothered trying to reach out. If he regrets his cruel final words to me, or how badly things ended between us, he’s shown no signs of it.

  All summer long I hid out at Isabel’s house and sometimes at Emmett’s, dragging myself through the agony of my breakup, avoiding parties, refusing to even set foot in the mall or at popular hangouts like The Spot just in case Hunter might be there. Meanwhile I was secretly hoping he’d call or text me, even just to say something cliché like “good luck at college next year” or “I hope we can still be friends.” But I heard absolutely nothing. I died a little more inside every day that passed.

  It’s not like I couldn’t have reached out myself, but the thing is, the person who needs to make things right is him. So as much as I might miss him, as much as I might have wished we could be friends someday, I’m determined to never speak a word to Hunter Beck ever again, unless he expresses at least a little bit of remorse.

  I’m still stewing when I hear the door to the common room swing open. A second later, Olivia bursts into my room. Glowing, of course.

  She stops dead in her tracks as she looks over at me. “Damn, Milla. What’s with the face? Did something bad happen?”

  “Just a call from my mom,” I say. “We don’t have the best relat
ionship.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  She doesn’t ask me to elaborate, which I appreciate, since I don’t want to devolve into a blubbering mess over the unfairness of having a mother who would rather support a bottle of Jack than her own daughter’s aspirations.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I tell her. “I wanna know all about Alliance.”

  “OMG, it was freaking incredible!”

  Olivia swipes the Pocky off my nightstand and starts talking a mile a minute, regaling me in great detail about every dance move she pulled off during her audition and how floored the members of the dance crew were.

  I try to follow along and act as excited as Olivia is, but I’m honestly still so angry that all I can think about is getting the hell out of here and getting stone-faced drunk. It doesn’t escape me, either, that this is exactly how my mom acts. She tries to drown her stress and her problems in an endless cycle of intoxication—hiding from her failures and herself. The difference is, this is not an everyday thing for me—not even a monthly one, and I tell myself that just for today, I can drink until I forget.

  “Wasn’t there a party tonight?” I ask, interrupting Olivia’s technical descriptions of all the other dance routines she saw during the audition.

  “Yeah, over at Sig Delta Gamma.” She raises a curious eyebrow at me. “Don’t tell me you want to come with.”

  I shrug. “Would you mind?”

  “Girl, please! I thought you’d never ask!” Hopping off the bed, she jumps up and down a little. “Let me pick an outfit for you. This is going to be so much fun!”

  I try to perk myself up as she drags me to her room to rifle through her clothes.

  “It’s your first college party, right?” She flips through hangers, tossing dresses over her shoulder at me as she talks. “’Kay, so let’s go over some safety rules. One, never drink anything a guy hands directly to you. Two, use the buddy system. That means you have to keep a friend within your line of sight at all times, in case you need help. And three, don’t leave a party with someone unless you want to sleep with them. Not that it’s a guarantee it’ll happen, but it’s kind of implied. Which, there’s nothing wrong with that. But make sure you’re consenting. Cool?”