This Love (This Boy Book 3)

by Jenna Scott

  Not to be a dick but I really don’t like the fact that you feel the need to tiptoe around at college because of him. That d-bag isn’t worth it.

  Sighing, I text back, I know. It feels like high school all over again.

  He doesn’t text back, so I put my phone back in my pocket.

  “So?” Olivia says. “Is he going?”

  “Yeah. He didn’t say when, but he’ll be there.”

  “Cool. Pat and Dana are coming too, maybe in an hour or so.”

  I rack my brain trying to remember the names and faces from the night of the frat party. “Dana with the curly hair and Pat from Mississippi?”

  “Yup,” Olivia says.

  “Bleurgh, I’m so embarrassed I just ran off that night without saying goodbye. Do your friends all think I’m lame?”

  “Nah. They loved you. Besides, we’ve all pulled an Irish goodbye before.”

  The building is lively when we get there, with various arcade machines set up for people to blow all their quarters on. There’s a cash bar too, and I get a seltzer water with lime while Olivia goes for something called a Sonic the Hedgehog—which is just a mix of vodka and blue Monster energy drink. How she managed to not get carded when she’s underage and this isn’t a frat party, I’ll never know.

  “What should we play first?” I ask Olivia.

  “I don’t know. Let’s see what’s free!”

  We end up playing a few games of Pong—or rather, Olivia wipes the floor with my ass playing Pong, because she just so happens to be insanely good at it.

  “My brother went to one of those game colleges, and he made his own Pong,” she explains as she demolishes me yet again. “I could play this game in my sleep.”

  “How did he make his own version of Pong? There’s not much to it.”

  It’s basically just electronic ping-pong. The only reason it’s still around is probably because it’s the very first video game ever invented. Nostalgia.

  She shrugs. “His had some insane power-ups, and you could move horizontally.”

  We leave the machine so other people can use it, and wander around some more. It’s a lot more crowded than I expected, so we end up just watching people play some of the more fun games like Dance Dance Revolution and a two-person shooter where you go through a haunted house and try to blow away ghosts.

  Finally, we get to a back corner with a couple of couches pushed in front of a TV set up with Mario Kart. Four people are playing, but the Switch can handle up to eight players, so Olivia and I stand off to the side so we can join in once the race is over. It’s definitely something I can handle—I always had a great time playing with Harrison.

  “Camilla. I didn’t expect to see you here!” A voice I recognize has me turning around. It’s Luke, the other TA. He’s wearing a blue T-shirt with a symbol on it, dark jeans, and a pair of black Chucks, looking good as hell. It makes me wish the book talk hadn’t put me off him.

  “Hey, Luke,” I say. “My roommate actually dragged me here.”

  I introduce him to Olivia, who sneaks me a funny, knowing look.

  “So what are you girls up to?” Luke asks.

  “Waiting to get in on this game of Mario Kart. We played some Pong before, and Olivia trashed me.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself. It was your first time playing it.” Olivia gives me a friendly shoulder bump. “You can have any game of your choice if you want to challenge me for a rematch.”

  I point to the TV screen. “That’s what the Mario Kart is for.”

  Olivia laughs, and pats my head. “Oh, sweet summer child. You do not want to mess with me and Mario Kart.”

  “You do not want to mess with me and Mario Kart,” I reply. Kart and Odyssey are basically the two games I’m decent at, thanks to Harrison. “The kid I used to babysit was obsessed. We played constantly.”

  We turn back to the Mario Kart area, and Olivia strikes up a conversation with the people playing—only to find out that it’s not a sudden death rotation that’s happening; instead, a tournament is starting in a few minutes.

  “Should we?” Olivia asks.

  I shrug. “Why not?” It’s not like we have anything better to do. And at least I’m marginally good at Mario Kart, so I may just enjoy myself until the die-hard players knock me out in the first or second round.

  Olivia goes first and gets through the race. When my turn comes, I take a seat and grab the tiny controller. It feels familiar in my hands, and I select Pink Gold Peach on autopilot. The others pick Wario, Bowser, and Donkey Kong. Earlier elimination rounds are on lower CC cups, and it increases the further the competition goes.

  I guess I’m a better player than I thought, because I make it through to the next round with Luke and Olivia cheering me on. While I step back to let the others play, I check my phone, seeing a message from Emmett that says he’s running late.

  Next round, two of the guys I’m playing against are decent, but I’ve learned from the greatest teacher of all: Harrison. Compared to him, these three guys are cake. One of them can’t even drift.

  Jesus, I guess I do know a lot about Mario Kart.

  Olivia and I hang out together as we wait for the quarterfinal rounds, and she and Luke gang up on me and try to convince me to give more video games a try.

  I’m called up for the next round. After a very tight race, I start to think this is where I’ll get knocked off the tournament. But the second-place guy goes off-road on the final lap, and then first place has no spare banana peels for protection and gets blue-shelled by the player who’s dead last. I use my last mushroom and pull ahead at the last second, which puts me through to the semi-finals.

  In a most unexpected turn of events, I make it to the finals, along with Olivia. The crowd watching us from behind the couches has increased in size and I realize that at some point, Luke must have taken off. But now Pat and Dana are here, cheering and whooping for Olivia and me.

  Inhaling deeply, I zero in on my square of the TV. Elbows braced on my knees, I press the boost button at the right time, and speed through the second course in second place. For the final races, I’m in what I call my exam mode, and all I focus on is the game, and then it’s over and…

  Holy shit, I won?

  I’m in utter shock as the crowd cheers and I find myself crushed in a group hug with Olivia, Dana, and Pat. But as I stand there pretending to be happy, all I can think about is how Harrison and Hunter would react if I told them about my win.

  I realize I’m blinking back tears, and I wonder what the hell is wrong with me.

  Why can’t I enjoy anything? Why can’t I forget someone who hurt me so much and believed the worst about me? I thought being away from La Jolla, and Hunter, and all that weird tension at his house (especially with his stepmom), would be good for me. That college would really change things and give me a chance to spread my wings. But I’m still miserable. It’s like nothing can mend the broken pieces Hunter left behind when he shattered my heart.

  “Olivia?” I say, tugging at her sleeve. “I think I’m gonna go home.”

  “Awww,” she whines, throwing an arm around my shoulder. “Already?”

  That’s when Emmett finally finds me, and gives me the biggest hug of the night. “That was bad ass, Milla. I didn’t know you were so good at Mario Kart.”

  “Neither did I,” I confess, trying to force a smile.

  “Hey, Emmett,” Olivia says, giving him a little wave.

  “Hey,” he says back, and I have a feeling I’m about to enter third wheel territory.

  “Welp, you guys have fun now,” I say, starting to back away. “See you later, Olivia…”

  I’m almost out the door when Emmett grabs my arm and turns me around to face him. “Hey, slow down. What’s wrong?” he asks, dropping his voice low.

  I give him a weak shrug. “I don’t know. Can we go outside for a bit?”

  “Yeah, of course.”

  We end up sitting on the front steps of the building, the noise and
music of the arcade machines and the cheering/cussing people distant enough that we can talk.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry for what?” Emmett asks.

  “You must be sick and tired of listening to me whine about Hunter by now.”

  He groans. “This again? Come on, Milla. That’s what I’m here for. You don’t have to keep that stuff all bottled up. Hell, you’re one of my best friends. When you’re sad, I also get kinda sad. I’m happy to have you lay it on me if it lightens the load.”

  “But I don’t want you to be sad by osmosis.” I sigh.

  “Too bad. Getting sad by osmosis is part of the friendship contract we signed. So spill it.” He’s joking, trying to lift my spirits—but it makes me feel even worse.

  The air goes out of me, and I look down at my shoes. “I guess it just felt good to win that tournament for about five seconds, but then I started remembering why I got so good at that game.” My eyes start to burn, and I close them for a long second. “It’s like the part of myself that could enjoy stuff like Mario Kart is gone. Hunter killed it, and now I don’t know how to get it back.”

  Emmett puts an arm around me and I lean my head on his shoulder.

  “It’s gonna be okay. This stuff takes time. You can’t force yourself to be over him. It’ll happen when it happens.”

  “I keep telling myself that, but it doesn’t help. It was hard enough when I thought Hunter was gone, but now that I know he’s here…and it turns out he’s in my study group for Harmon’s class. Like, fuck. I can’t win.” My words drift into silence.

  “That blows. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “I wish,” I say. “But no. I mean, just having you here helps. So maybe keep on doing what you’re doing.”

  “I can do that.” Emmett says, dropping a quick, platonic kiss on the top of my head.

  “Ugh. Why do you have to be such a nice guy?” I talk as if I’m complaining, but I’m not—Emmett being such a sweetheart is a big reason we’re such good friends.

  “I don’t know. Probably my mom’s fault.”

  “I can’t argue with that,” I say. “And speaking of yo mama, I’d just about murder someone for a batch of her chocolate peanut butter chip cookies.”

  “I’ll let her know a care package is desperately needed. But don’t blame me if she tries to drive up here and deliver them in person. Knowing her, we’ll also end up with dorky monogram sweaters like Mrs. Weasley made in Harry Potter.”

  We both laugh.

  “Thanks, Emmett,” I say.

  “Any time. And seriously, let me know if Beck is making your life hard, okay? I will happily risk injury to my precious hand if you want me to clock him in the face.”

  “But then you might get expelled from Stanford, and I’d be left here all alone.”

  “Eh, but then my mom would roll up with those crack cookies and the repercussions would go out the window.”

  “No doubt,” I say, my mood lifting.

  I ask him how his family is doing, getting updates on all his siblings, and we stay outside a bit longer, just chatting. And for those precious minutes, I almost feel like things are back to normal.

  Chapter Nine

  Camilla

  There’s no escaping my fate. The dreaded day is here. We’re breaking into our study groups for American History, which is being held in the library today so we can get a head start on the group projects that Harmon has assigned. I’m so anxious about having to work with Hunter that I couldn’t even eat breakfast this morning.

  It figures that out of eighty or so people, I’d end up with him. I’ve always theorized that he has his own individual center of gravity, and that I can’t help getting pulled in. Maybe that same gravity has somehow manipulated the odds to push Hunter and me back together. Ensuring that he causes me maximum trouble and pain—which I guess isn’t even that hard for him, since all he has to do is be in the same room as me.

  But once the groups are huddled up at their tables around the library, I realize I’ve worked myself up for nothing. Because everyone except Hunter is here, and class technically started already. Typical of him, not bothering to show up. In fact, it’s so much like our Debate class back in high school, I can’t help being disgusted. Hunter hasn’t changed a bit. He just does whatever he wants, and screw everybody else.

  We introduce ourselves before we start. Monica is a physics major, with a spray of freckles across her nose and a friendly attitude; Allison is a Black artist from Chicago wearing a mudcloth wrap around her dreadlocks; and Zach is from Hawaii, the epitome of a tattooed surfer dude, right down to the tattoos on his brown skin and his flip-flops.

  All of them seem cool, and we start off with a discussion about what we want to do for the group project. As Allison makes a strong case for researching Alexander Hamilton and his role as one of the Founding Fathers in the United States’ inception, I wonder if I’m going to have to pick up Hunter’s slack again.

  About twenty minutes in, we’ve agreed to go with Allison’s idea and have loosely outlined all the information we want to cover in our paper, which is supposed to be twenty-five pages long at minimum. We’re about to start splitting up the subtopics amongst ourselves when I glance over Monica’s shoulder, and my eyes instantly land on Hunter, all swagger as he heads our way. He carries a gym bag, and judging by his wet hair, I guess he’s coming from a late swim practice or a post-workout shower.

  A smile starts tugging at my lips, and I have to school my face back to neutrality. I hate that I’m excited to see him. And why am I glad he’s here anyway? It’s not like he can be counted on to pull his weight in a group.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he says as he slides into an empty chair, and I bite my tongue not to hiss at him.

  “How nice of you to join us,” I blurt sarcastically, unable to hide my exasperation.

  Hunter shrugs. “Someone got hurt in the Avery pool. I stayed with them until the EMTs showed up. Seemed like the right thing to do.”

  Monica and Allison practically melt, and despite myself, so do I. Damn him.

  “No problem, bro,” Zach says. “We’re divvying up subtopics for the paper, and we’re each gonna write at least five pages to combine into one big essay. Allison pitched some Hamilton stuff and we already agreed on it.”

  “Sounds cool,” Hunter says, nodding. “I’m in.”

  “We were just discussing who should tackle the hand Hamilton had in economic policies and his influence in the financial sector,” Allison says. “I’m covering the early biographical stuff: growing up a bastard in the Caribbean, the family tragedies, his first job as a clerk, and his education at Elizabethtown and King’s College in New York.”

  “Who’s researching his work in Congress?” Hunter asks.

  “Monica is,” I tell him. “As well as his military career prior.”

  Monica pipes up, “We still have to split up the presidential years, and his legacy including the Federalist Papers. Plus his impact on US economic principles, which is so huge it has to be its own subtopic. He was the first Secretary of the Treasury.”

  “What about the work he did to end slavery?” Hunter asks.

  “We’ll all be touching on that,” Allison says warmly. “It’ll be a through line.”

  “Honestly, I’d prefer not to get the economic stuff,” Zach says. “Shit puts me right to sleep.”

  “Same,” Hunter says, laughing. “Milla, you can handle it, right?”

  Bristling at his casual use of my nickname, I cross my arms. “Actually no, I’m not going to ‘handle it’ just because you think it’s boring. You showed up late, so you get last pick. I’ll take the legacy section if that’s okay with you, Zach.”

  “Oh, come on. This isn’t a dictatorship,” Hunter says, leaning closer to me.

  “I get that, but who’s to say you’re even going to do the work at all?” I point out.

  “Let’s not argue, okay?” Allison tries to make peace among the two of us, and Mon
ica graciously agrees to trade her portion of the project with Hunter so he doesn’t have to learn all about the founding of the US Mint, Hamilton’s views on liberal capitalism and national debt, and other such thrilling tidbits.

  All of us head over to the electronic card catalog and then split up to hit the stacks and gather research materials. Once I get back to our table, I dive into my books and start taking notes. It takes all my willpower not to look at Hunter, but I don’t need the extra stress of worrying that he’s not doing his part.

  My resistance doesn’t last long, however, and when I glance over to check on him, I’m horrified to see that he’s not reading, but playing with his phone under the table. And no, he’s not looking up historical stuff that would actually help with the project—he’s on Reddit. I assume it’s not a historical one, either, because all I see on the screen are memes and gifs and multicolored posts typed in all caps.

  Again…why did I expect any different?

  “Has anyone ever verified Hamilton’s date of birth?” Allison asks the table. “I keep seeing different dates. Nobody seems to agree whether it was 1755 or 1757, not even on Wikipedia.”

  “You could explain the cases for both,” Monica offers. “I mean, I guess it’s not super important, but…”

  “I think I read that the earlier date is the only one ever legally documented by the courts,” I say. “You might go with that one, just for brevity’s sake?”

  From the corner of my eye, I catch Hunter’s finger stop mid-scroll. He looks up.

  “There were multiple errors on that court document,” he says. “Also, since it was a probate court document—and their job is to settle estates—some people think Hamilton himself lied about his age, because a thirteen-year-old could get a job back then and he likely didn’t want to end up a ward of the state after his mother died.”

  There’s silence all around the table, and nobody is more shocked than me at Hunter’s nonchalant schooling of us all.

  “Those are…actually great points,” I have to admit, astonished he was paying attention even though he’s been on his phone all this time. “I vote for 1757, then.”