This Love (This Boy Book 3)

by Jenna Scott

  He blinks. “…Sarah?”

  She squints at him. “Nice try, pretty boy, but not even close.”

  As she leaves, Hunter turns to me with a sour face, like it’s my fault she just walked away.

  “We’re not together anymore,” he slurs. “Why’d you just cockblock me?”

  “Are you deranged? I didn’t cockblock you—I simply informed that poor girl that you were a manwhore, so she could make her own decision.” My anger hasn’t subsided, and I use it as fuel. “And again, I ask: what the fuck are you doing here? How did you even get in when you turned down every offer you had except for San Diego?”

  Hunter crosses his arms over his chest. “It turned out my dad has friends here, and he got me in, no trouble.”

  I snort in disgust and roll my eyes. “That still doesn’t explain why you left Harrison when you said you had to protect him—”

  “Because I had the opportunity and I decided to take it.” He shrugs again like I’m some madwoman, like he didn’t spend months asking me not to come here because we’d be too far away from each other. Like we didn’t break up because he thought I was coming here to be with Emmett, because he didn’t believe me when I needed him to.

  “I really don’t get you,” I say, shaking my head. “Your brother—”

  “Forget my brother!” he says, standing now. I back up a step. “There’s no need to worry about him anyway. Karleigh’s been staying with her parents, and she took Harry with her. I’m surprised you didn’t hear about it from your mom already.”

  “We don’t talk,” I grind out, though my heart’s in my stomach. Poor Harry. Getting ripped away from his older brother and his dad through no fault of his own, and I know for a fact that his mom barely pays attention to him. “My mother spends most of her free time getting wasted, in case you somehow forgot.”

  “Fair enough,” Hunter says neutrally, but he seems a little deflated now.

  “You know what? Just leave me alone. I don’t want to see your face.”

  He sighs. “I don’t know what you’re so worried about. This campus is big enough for both of us.”

  Is it? The whole world doesn’t seem big enough for both of us.

  “Great. Then you’ll have no trouble staying the fuck away from me. Goodbye, Hunter,” I say, spitting out his name like it’s poison.

  I turn my back on him and stalk out the front door, marching in a direction that I think is generally the right way back to Roble. I don’t go looking for Olivia, and I don’t care about how unsafe it might be for me to walk across campus drunk and alone at night. I’m too infuriated to care, and at least I have my phone on me.

  But no matter how fast I walk in the cool night air or how out of breath I’m getting, I can’t shake the mood Hunter put me in.

  My blood is boiling. It was so easy for him to get into this school when I had to scrape and save and beg and get extremely lucky with a last-minute scholarship. Everything I’ve had to work my ass off to achieve with so much effort and sacrifice, Hunter gets just by existing because his family has money. That entitled piece of shit.

  And yes, I can admit that it’s a kick in the gut knowing that he’s already moved on from me, if that sorority girl was anything to judge by. Even now, after everything I’ve been through, I find myself remembering what it was like to be the one sitting in his lap. The warmth of him when he said he loved me, and the burst of happiness in my chest when I heard those words.

  He ruined all of that—ruined us. Ruined me, and fuck, I want to hurt him right now so he can feel even a fraction of the pain he’s caused. But that’d just show how much I care. How much I still care, despite the fact that I should know better.

  And my poor sweet Harrison. I can’t believe Hunter swore up and down that he’d never leave La Jolla, never leave his brother’s side (which in fact was probably the root of our breakup), and now the kid has no support system while his parents are separated and fighting—and between me and Hunter, I’m honestly not sure who Harry gets more comfort from. But who even cares, because neither of us are there right now at the exact time when the kid needs us most. Dammit. My thoughts are spiraling and I’m totally overwhelmed by it all, a storm of ugly feelings roaring inside me.

  Hot tears spill over my cheeks before I even realize I’m crying. I’m not just angry at Hunter, either, I’m angry at myself. For having all these uncontrollable emotions to begin with, and for not being able to keep it together. Maybe I should have just pretended not to see him sitting there on the couch. Gone back out to the yard and grabbed another drink and had a good ol’ time. Forced myself to move on, even if I was just going through the motions.

  Who am I kidding? I don’t know if I’m even capable of moving on.

  But even if I can’t get over Hunter, I can at least keep taking steps forward. Someday my wounds will heal. I won’t just be pretending to feel better. I’m sure of it.

  Except fuck, I can’t even have a fresh start, far away from Hunter and my past. Stanford was supposed to be my chance to start over with a clean slate. Hunter’s ruining it, just like he always does. He takes everything from me.

  Through some sort of miracle, I end up back in the main quad at the center of campus, and from there I know exactly how to get back to the dorm.

  Now that I’m reoriented, I pull out my phone and find a pile-up of texts and missed calls from Olivia. She’s freaking out, I’m guessing since it was my first party ever and she was supposed to be keeping me happy and safe. I dial her number and she picks up before the first ring even finishes.

  “Jesus, Milla, where are you? Are you okay? Where did you go? I thought you got kidnapped! Or met a hot guy. Did you?” Olivia’s talking so fast it takes me a second to process all the questions.

  “I’m in the quad, I’m okay, no kidnapping and no hot guy,” I say, feeling guilty. “I just wasn’t feeling well, so I left early to go back to the dorm.”

  None of it is a lie, exactly.

  “Oh thank God. I went in to find you and then I couldn’t, and when you didn’t pick up, I thought the worst. I was about to call the campus police. I’m leaving too, now. Liam’s gonna walk me back to Roble, so I’ll be right behind you.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” I say. “I’m just going to lie down. Enjoy the party.”

  There’s a pause. “Are you sure?” she asks.

  “Yeah. I’ll be fine.” My voice cracks and suddenly I’m crying again. I try to clear my throat but it only makes my sobs more obvious.

  “Milla?” Olivia asks, her voice soft. “What really happened? Did someone hurt you? Or say something shitty? I shouldn’t have let you go off by yourself—”

  It all spills out of me like a flood. “My ex was there. With some girl. He’s such an asshole. I had to get out.”

  “Oh no. I’m so sorry,” Olivia coos. “What’s he even doing here?”

  “I guess he enrolled last minute or something. And now he’s going to be popping up around every corner.”

  “Ugh. You sure you don’t want me to come home? We can watch a stupid movie and make popcorn. Or I can get takeout delivered.”

  “No, it’s okay,” I insist. “Honestly, I just need some alone time. Please.”

  After some more prodding, I fill her in on the highlights of my relation-shit and subsequent breakup with Hunter, as well as the broad strokes of my high school experiences at LJHS and Oak Academy—i.e., the rumors about me and my teacher Mr. Harris and the ensuing bullying afterward.

  “First of all,” Olivia says, “to say you went to high school with mean girls would be an understatement. Secondly—and it’s not like you need to prove yourself to anyone, ever—your ex should’ve believed you, pure and simple. And then magically appearing at Stanford after all the shit he put you through? Total dick move.”

  “Yeah. Which is why seeing him at that party was so horrible.”

  It takes a few more tries, but I finally convince my roommate not to rush home and baby me. Once I’m
back at the dorm, I get ready for bed and change into my comfiest pajamas. After that I wash down a few ibuprofen with some Gatorade and saltines—thanks to Olivia’s shenanigans, I have the post-booze drill down pat.

  Curling up under my blankets, I text Isabel to tell her about the whole Hunter debacle, hoping she’s still awake enough to be my rock.

  I finally make it to my first college party, and you’ll never guess who was there.

  Seconds later, Isabel texts back. Um…Captain America? Or wait, no, that Stanford mascot that’s just a guy dressed up as a tree?

  I laugh out loud, though I’m still in a foul mood. I wish. No, it was Hunter.

  Immediately, she replies, WHAT. THE. FUCK?

  My exact reaction, I type back. I guess he’s going to Stanford too now…

  Isabel responds, After you guys broke up because you wouldn’t stay in La Jolla and he refused to leave his brother? He went and FOLLOWED YOU?

  That sour feeling is curdling my stomach again, half booze and half rage. That’s what I said. But he told me he only came here because it was a good school.

  Bullshit, she texts back. Ffs, if I wasn’t swamped with costuming homework, I’d already be driving up there to punch him in the face.

  I wanted to punch him in the face too, I type.

  She sends a series of angry-face emojis and a boxing glove and then, Please tell me that thought manifested into action, because he deserved to get a punch from you.

  I write back, Unfortunately, it didn’t.

  My sight is blurring, tears welling up all over again. I hate this. I shouldn’t be crying over Hunter. He doesn’t deserve my tears. He doesn’t deserve my anger; he doesn’t deserve my anything.

  He looked so freaking good, though. His blonde hair perfectly messy, his teeth extra white against his summer tan, the T-shirt he was wearing clinging perfectly to his toned torso, his fucking amazing arms on display. It’s as if he showed up solely to remind me that once upon a time, I had that.

  My phone buzzes, and I look down at it to see Isabel’s text. Do you want to Facetime?

  I write back, I love you, but no. I just want to get some sleep and then spend the weekend drowning myself in homework and gelato.

  I support this plan of action, Isabel replies. But I’m going to require a raincheck on the Facetime. Sometime this weekend, yes? Get some rest. Xoxoxoxo

  Deal, I text, wiping my tears with the back of my hand. Xo to you too.

  Rolling over, I tuck my phone under my pillow and squeeze my burning eyes shut. It’s still hard to believe this is real. Hunter Beck, here at Stanford, destroying my chances at living my life in peace. He took my heart, my love, my body, my happiness—and now, he’s taken college from me too.

  I’ll never forgive him for this.

  Chapter Six

  Camilla

  There’s nothing like a cup of piping hot black coffee in the morning to give you a nice, motivational kick in the ass. But as I take a long sip of the nectar of life, my brain still feels like mush and my mouth is basically full of cotton.

  So much for preempting the hangover.

  I duck into my Lit class and slide into a seat next to Emmett, wondering if I should have just burrowed under my covers and slept in today. The dorm is safe, a guaranteed Hunter-free zone, unlike the rest of campus—where he could be lurking around every corner. Stanford actually mandates that all freshmen live on campus the first year, but I know there are ways around that rule. Especially if you have money. My gut feeling is that Hunter isn’t in a dorm. I’d bet anything he got some kind of bullshit medical exception and is letting his dad pay for some bougie-ass apartment in Palo Alto. Hence the relative safety of the residence halls.

  Still, I can’t start cutting class, not when I have a scholarship that’s riding on my GPA. My grades and financial aid can’t suffer just because I am. Not to mention that hiding from Hunter isn’t going to solve any of my problems in life, especially not if it jeopardizes the scholarship I worked so hard to get.

  Luckily, despite feeling like roadkill today, I knew I had to get Olivia out of bed. That more than anything is what got me up when my alarm went off. I didn’t want to let her down. And I definitely didn’t want to give her any more reasons to worry about me. After last night, she’s probably going to be twice as attuned to my mental health, and twice as adamant about me having a social life. Which might be exactly what I need, as long as Hunter can be avoided. I’m open to any and all distractions.

  As the class waits for Professor Laurens to stroll in, Emmett taps my notebook with his pen. “Hey. You look like shit. Did you pull another all-nighter for no reason?”

  “Thanks a lot,” I groan. “And no, I didn’t.”

  I wish I had, though. An all-nighter would’ve been the better option by far. I never would have seen Hunter, and would’ve been able to carry on in blissful ignorance.

  “Seriously, you feeling okay?” he asks, brows knitting. The boy knows me too well. I can’t hide anything from him.

  “Hunter’s here,” I blurt. “I saw him at a frat party last night.”

  Emmett frowns. He and Hunter have history. The not-good kind. “What?”

  “Yeah. He’s going to Stanford too, apparently.” I sink farther down into my seat and take another long swig of caffeine.

  “You partied without me?” Emmett asks, sounding hurt.

  I wince, knowing his feelings must be crushed. “Don’t be mad. It was my first time. I thought it would be easier with just me and Olivia, in case it was super lame and I needed to bail early. Which I did. I promise I’ll text you next time.”

  “I’m not mad,” he says. “I’m just surprised you did the whole frat house thing. Doesn’t seem like your scene.”

  “Honestly, it wasn’t as bad as I thought. Until it was. I drank way too much, and started feeling crappy, and then seeing Hunter made everything ten times worse.”

  “I’m sorry.” Emmett frowns. “That sounds really sucky.”

  “I don’t even know why I thought it’d be a good idea. It was a last-minute thing. My mom called and was her horrible self, I went out with the intent to get hammered, and it all kind of backfired. Zero out of ten, would not do again. At least not without you.”

  “Just to be clear, I’m not judging you,” Emmett says, his hand a warm weight on my shoulder. “But I don’t like this at all… Beck coming to Stanford is sketchy as hell.”

  “That’s basically what Isabel said when I texted her. Hunter claims he’s here because,” I lower my voice in my best aloof Hunter impression, “it’s a good school.”

  “Riiiight.”

  “Yeah. Isabel offered to drive all the way up here just to punch him.”

  “She doesn’t have to. I can do it,” Emmett immediately jumps in.

  Imagining it gets a laugh out of me. Nerdy, sweet Emmett walking up to a giant star athlete and clocking him on that diamond-cut jaw. “Thanks. I’ll let you know.”

  The door slams shut, and everyone in the auditorium turns around to watch Professor Laurens make his way up to the podium at the front of the room. I wonder briefly if he’s had time to review all the TA applications, or if the English department is vetting them first. Either way, my stomach is turning with nerves. I want the TA position so badly I can almost taste it. It’s not just the tuition reimbursement, either. All that extra work will keep me busy, and the busier I am, the less I’ll think about douchey ex-boyfriends who followed me to college.

  “So let’s talk about The Book Thief, and Zusak’s inventive use of Death as the narrator,” Laurens begins. “I’m going to assume you’ve all done the reading, and that a pop quiz won’t be necessary before we dive into our discussion?”

  Sounds of agreement echo around the room, though I figure some of the students probably just watched the movie version and skipped the reading. In typical Ravenclaw fashion, I read the book and also watched the movie, and I loved both.

  As the professor moves on from analyzing the functi
on of mortality in the novel and starts calling on people to analyze the relationship between Liesel, the book thief of the title, and Ilsa Hermann, the woman who opens up her library to Liesel, all my exhaustion and stress about Hunter starts to float away. I find myself leaning forward in my chair, hand shooting up to get in on the discussion. Normally, I’m shy in class. Hesitant about voicing my opinions, worried about getting mocked or shot down by other students or even the instructor. But with Professor Laurens, none of that matters.

  I can’t help feeling inspired by the class. Laurens talks about The Book Thief with the same tone Isabel uses when she talks about costuming. There’s passion, and care, and a need to project that love onto others. It’s contagious.

  This is something I’d love to do. Talk about books all day, and what makes certain works special, impactful on readers around the world, worthy of dissection and evaluation and, ultimately, preservation. That he doesn’t look down on kid lit or frame it as inferior to, say, the classics (the way I’d expect a college professor to do) only makes me appreciate the class even more.

  A lot of intellectuals seem to think only high-brow literary work has value and cultural significance. But I say books for children are just as vital. His Dark Materials, for example. The trilogy wouldn’t be half as good without Lyra as the protagonist, her voice, how she sees the world…and how she ends up changing it. It doesn’t need more sophisticated prose or an adult POV—it’s perfect as it is. The Book Thief is the same.

  I’m practically buzzing as the class starts to wind down, and I realize that almost ninety minutes has passed already. How lucky am I, being able to take a class like this as a part of my required psych major curriculum, with a professor who really gets it.

  “Before you all start packing up,” Laurens says, “I’ve chosen two of you as my TAs, so please hang back after dismissal so we can go over a few things.”

  My stomach plummets, my hands going instantly clammy. He’s announcing it today? Now? Right here in class? Don’t freak out. It probably won’t be you. There are so many other great students here. But what if it is me? That’d be so exciting.