by Jenna Scott
I feel it in my entire body.
But then he looks away, hand falling as he whispers, “Good night.”
This boy I used to know so well is completely blocked off from me now. I can’t tell what he wants, or what he feels, or what he’s thinking. All I know is that there’s a knife twisting in my heart, because all of this—Hunter being here, walking me home, joking with me, touching me—it hurts.
And yet I can’t deny that I still want him.
How I find the courage to do what comes next, I don’t know. But before I can lose my nerve, I lean forward and brush my lips across his cheek. “Good night, Hunter.”
Then I turn on my heel and rush inside the building.
I don’t let myself look back.
Chapter Fourteen
Camilla
The second I leave Hunter, this complete emptiness falls over me. It’s a strange, heavy thing, and it only gets heavier as I slowly walk up the stairs to my floor. It’s like I’ve gone so long without Hunter acting like his old self that now that I’ve had a proper hit, I’ve relapsed.
“Camilla! You’re back late,” Olivia says the second I walk into the common room, the smell of microwave popcorn washing over me. “I was just about to Netflix. Do you want to watch Dumplin’, or something else? You pick.”
She pats the couch but I shake my head. “I can’t. I’m beat. Raincheck, okay?” I love my roommate, but right now, I just want to be alone.
After reheating a few slices of leftover pizza from our minifridge, I change into some cozy fleece pajamas and climb into bed to drown my sorrows in mozzarella and watch some Crazy Ex-Girlfriend. But the CW rom-com isn’t enough to lift my spirits—not even a little—and at some point I end up passing out.
When I wake up, it’s to silence. My phone says it’s almost 3 a.m. I try to fall back asleep but fail spectacularly. All I can think about is Hunter. His sort-of apology. Did he mean he was actually sorry about what he did, or just sorry things ended badly between us, but not in the sense that he was taking responsibility for it? Or did he mean he’s sorry that our relationship is over, but not that he’d want to try again?
I can’t get my brain to turn off. I feel like a mouse in a maze, but every dead end is just Hunter, Hunter, Hunter. Jesus. That boy gives me a special kind of OCD. In fact, now that I’m studying psychology proper, I even have a name for it: ruminations.
That’s what I’ve been doing nonstop ever since I saw his face again. Ruminating. On what we had, on what could have been. And there’s never a satisfying conclusion. No real closure. No way to force myself to just let it all go like everyone is telling me to do. It’s distracting as hell, and the first semester at my dream school is the exact worst time to be dealing with it. The good memories are bittersweet, but the bad ones? They’re poison. Plus, I have no idea what his intentions are now that he’s enrolled in my History class and offering to walk me home at night.
I debate texting Isabel for help, but even knowing she’s a regular night owl, I don’t want to chance waking her up on a school night. Getting to morning classes is probably hard enough for her already.
Maybe I should just write it all down. Get it out of my head. It might not be enough to silence my inner demons for good, but maybe it will help to put words on paper. Paper I can then hide in the back of my desk drawer or set on fire. I’ll try anything to break the pattern of repetitive thoughts that’s eating me alive.
At my desk, I pull out a notebook and twist the blinds so the streetlamp outside comes in through the window. Then I open to a blank page, take a deep breath, and try to focus on everything I want to pour onto the page.
Hunter, I start, but suddenly my hand freezes as I realize what I really need to do.
Write not about him, but to him. Speak directly and without holding back, pour myself into a letter that’s soul-baring, gut-wrenching, and painfully honest.
A letter I’ll never, ever give him.
Dear Hunter,
I know you don’t need the ego boost, but the truth is this: I have always been drawn to you.
It’s like you have your own gravitational pull—and whether it’s fate, or luck, or pure coincidence; whatever I do, wherever I go, I end up crashing back into you.
The scratchy sound of pen on paper is almost like ragged breathing in the silence, tears starting to sting my eyes as my heart splits wide open.
Is it funny or sad that the first time you looked me in the eye was when I caught you fucking some other girl in your pool? It was both humiliating and downright maddening. I went to bed hungry for you that night. That hunger never stopped.
And then Ms. Spencer made us partners in Debate class, and from then on, it was all over.
Remember when you dragged me out of Matt’s kink closet party and dialed a Lyft home for me because I was drunk? I didn’t know if you were doing it because you thought I was in actual danger, or because you were jealous of Emmett. Either way, it told me something. That you cared. Which was a shock. The only reason I even went to that party in the first place was to prove to Hillary and all her snobby little minions that I did belong Okay, fine. I was also hoping you’d be there. I guess I got what I wanted, even if it didn’t turn out the way I might have expected.
It’s not just that I was attracted to you like all the other girls at school. I mean, it would’ve been all too easy to say no to you if all I saw in you was your handsome face, or that ripped body. Those unreal abs. But I’ve seen plenty of hot guys and it never really did anything for me. With you, though? It was different. Because I saw how warm and caring you were with Harrison.
And later, with me.
You threw that party in the pool house once when I was babysitting, remember? I hope you do, because I will never be able to forget what happened that night.
Once again, I walked in on you with some girl. You had your hand up her skirt and even though it was dark, I could tell she was riding your fingers. Of course I ran back to the house. Because I couldn’t Which is where you found me, upstairs, crying. I can still remember how you brushed away my tears.
And what you did to me next. It was the first time someone ever touched me like that. Obviously, I had no choice but to stay away from you afterward. You seemed more than happy to do the same. To let your friends make fun of me and call me “the help.”
Imagine my apoplectic state when next thing I know, my mom tells me we’re moving into your parents’ pool house. To say I was humiliated would be the understatement of the century. Still, I was determined to ignore you like you ignored me. Until you insisted on giving me a ride home one night, only to take me to your favorite spot instead.
The lighthouse. It was so beautiful up there, and I was shocked you’d brought me to such a personal place. When you kissed me for the first time, it was everything. Your gravity field came into full effect. I lost my will to resist you.
Even when you said we should just go day by day. As if you had no interest in anything beyond the casual. Why is it always so hard for you to voice your true emotions? If you hadn’t finally come clean with me, we never would have started dating. Although maybe that would have been for the best.
When I think back on us, what trips me up most are the small moments, not the relationship as a whole. Those are what make it so hard to let you go. Driving to school in the mornings in your BMW, holding hands over the stick shift. Sneaking kisses in the janitor’s closet. You feeding me sushi. Night swims. Watching movies with Harrison.
God, the fucking way you’d smile at me. Still do.
And then there was the day my mom tore me apart. Saying she wished she’d walked away like my father did, that having me ruined her life, that I should forget Stanford. Mom had hit me plenty of times before, but when she slapped me across the face…I don’t know. It felt different. Like something inside me broke.
I wanted to run away, and you, Hunter, were my safe place. You held me in your arms when I was shattered, and I realized that I’d been holding bac
k with you because the future was uncertain. That all we had was the present, and that I wanted to enjoy it with you.
I will never forget giving myself to you. Not because it was my first time, but because it was you. It was—you were—everything I wanted. And no matter what we’ve been through or what happens with us in the future (or not), I’ll never regret how I lost my virginity.
The very next day, I found out what you’d done to keep me from leaving you after graduation. Ruined my chances at the Reed Scholarship, and at Stanford, by lying to your father and having him pull strings with the committee. I thought I’d never forgive you.
That’s when I moved in with Isabel and her parents. Did you know I spent the next two weeks in agony, barely able to get out of bed? Isabel was both a saint and a nurse to me over spring break. My plan was to stay at her house until I left for college in the fall, even if I ended up at City College. I figured I could use my savings and find a roommate near the SDCC campus, even if it meant I wouldn’t be far away enough from you to really start over.
But I fucked up, Hunter. I went home to pack up the rest of my stuff. And when I walked out of the pool house, you were there. And you told me you loved me. The nerve. Words I’d wanted to hear from you so bad, for so long, and I finally got them after we broke up, when you had enough alcohol in your blood to rival a bottle of tequila.
I walked away, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I couldn’t forgive you for the scholarship, but damn, if I didn’t miss you. Constantly.
Then spring formal came, and you looked so fucking good—you always do—we didn’t even get out of the parking lot and ended up doing it in your car. Afterward, you brought me to a hotel, and we spent an amazing night together. Almost like our bodies were wordlessly healing the wounds we’d inflicted on each other.
I swore we’d be casual after that. Exclusive, but not serious. Not when I was determined to go away for college, and you had no intention of leaving La Jolla.
Only one problem with that little plan: I still loved you.
And you loved me. My heart nearly burst every time you’d say it again. Keeping my hands off you was impossible.
Then you took me to Disneyland—Disneyland!!!—and it was all so perfect. Even Isabel was impressed with your efforts. Everything was perfect.
You hung out with me and my friends, despite your past jealousy of Emmett. You respected my wishes and my boundaries. You studied really hard and pulled up all of your grades so you could graduate. I was so proud when you got that diploma. Obviously, as your personal tutor, I considered your success my success.
But after graduation, we argued.
You wanted me to stay in La Jolla so desperately, and I wanted to go just as badly. In the end, we agreed to try long-distance, and I was stupid enough to believe we could make it.
Until a couple weeks later, when you found out about the rumors from my last school, and about Emmett’s mom helping me get the Stanford Women’s Alumni Group scholarship, and accused me of things that were fucking horrible. And 100% not true. God, Hunter.
Did my words, my heart, my history of brutal honesty mean nothing to you? I never slept with that teacher. I wasn’t hooking up with Emmett behind your back, especially not to get help with the Stanford scholarship. I never used you for money or gifts or status. Not ever. That’s not who I am. Despite what my mother might wish for me.
You broke my heart, Hunter. Again. And that was the End of Us.
Do you want to know something that makes me sick? My heart is still broken. I’m still not over you. It’s been months, and I’m still in pieces. And you have the nerve to follow me all the way here, and it’s like we’re almost back to what we were before that honeymoon phase back in high school. Mixed messages. Hot and cold. My brain, totally scrambled. And now, as if things weren’t bad enough, I have to contend with the fact that our parents are together. That if it keeps on going, we’ll end up having some hellishly awkward holidays soon, and I don’t think I can take much more of this.
The problem isn’t that I hate you, Hunter. It’s that I still love you. And I always will. That’s the truth.
Yours,
Milla
Tears fall on the page, smearing some of the ink.
I fold the letter up as many times as I can and shove it to the very back of my desk drawer, where no one will find it. Then I collapse into bed and cry myself to sleep.
Chapter Fifteen
Camilla
I don’t know if the letter actually worked or if it’s a placebo effect, but when I wake up the next morning, I feel like a huge weight has been lifted off me.
For once, I spend some time actually choosing an outfit instead of just pulling on my least-dirty pair of jeans and a random hoodie. Since it’s fall, I opt for a muted floral print dress with a cropped olive jacket on top, and brown ankle boots borrowed from Olivia. Then I line my eyes, dust some mineral makeup across my face, and swipe on a bit of tinted lip balm. When I check myself out in the mirror, I’m pleased to see I look as confident as I feel.
Olivia is sitting on the floor in the common room with her makeup spread out all over the coffee table. She’s simultaneously drinking coffee and applying dramatic layers of eyeshadow. Pink, purple, gold.
“Oooh. Your eyes look like a sunset,” I tell her.
“Perfect. That’s exactly what I’m going for,” she says, looking up at me. “Wanna wait for me and we’ll grab bagels on the way to class?”
Pouting, I say, “I wish, but I have to run and get these graded tests back to my Lit professor’s office.”
“Oh, boo,” she says, shoulders slumping. “Well, there’s coffee at least.”
“I can smell it, and you’re a goddess,” I say, going over to the coffee maker to fill up my insulated unicorn travel mug—a gift from Isabel’s mom that has majorly come in handy. “I’ll catch up with you later though, and maybe we can grab dinner?”
Olivia brightens. “Yes! I have to tell you all about Alliance. So many cute guys.”
“Can’t wait,” I say, heading out the door in a rush.
When I step outside the building, though, my feet come to a halting stop.
Casually stretched out on one of the benches out front is Hunter. Impeccably dressed in that laissez-faire preppy style of his, hair perfectly tousled, the angles of his cheekbones stark in the morning light. The top few buttons of his rugby shirt are open, the sleeves pushed up halfway between wrist and elbow. Drool.
As he picks up his bags and walks toward me, I can’t help ogling him. The tan, flexed forearms. The breadth of his shoulders, his trim waist.
“You’re up early,” I say, not hiding my surprise.
“Not so much,” he says, shrugging. “This is my life now. I swim from five-thirty to seven-thirty every morning.”
“Jesus.”
“You get used to it.” He holds out a small paper bag. “I brought you breakfast.”
For a second, I’m stunned. He’s holding out the bag like a peace offering.
“Thanks.” I take the bag and peek inside, and my jaw nearly drops when I behold the treat he’s picked out. I don’t remember ever telling him my favorite muffin on campus was lemon blueberry. “Jackpot! How did you know?”
“Ran into Ortega at the café. He told me lemon blueberry was your favorite.”
“He did me a solid.”
We start walking toward the main part of campus, and I pull half the paper off the muffin before biting into it, immediately going into a food-related fugue state.
“Mmmm, yes. The food of the gods,” I moan orgasmically through a mouthful.
Realizing that Hunter’s watching me a little too closely, my cheeks go warm.
“That good, huh?” he asks with a hint of a smile and a raised eyebrow.
I take a swig of coffee from my travel mug and smack my lips afterward. “It’s amazing. Ten out of ten, best muffin on campus, hands down. Want a bite?”
“You go ahead. I’ll get two next
time,” he says.
“What’s this bribe for, anyway?” I ask, teasing but also genuinely curious. “I already agreed to give you my History notes.”
“What makes you think it’s a bribe?”
“You have no reason to bring me breakfast. Unless you’re starting a new family tradition? With our parents dating, you are practically my brother now.”
Clearly I meant it as a joke, but Hunter’s smile disappears and his posture seems to stiffen instantly. “I’m not your brother,” he says, all seriousness.
I have to laugh at his extreme reaction. “I know. I was just kidding.”
“Good, ‘cause I’d rather drive off a cliff than spend Christmas break at home with you as siblings,” he mutters.
That has me thinking all kinds of worrisome things—what happens if we do end up at the Becks’ together during winter break?—so I down some more coffee and finish the muffin. But it’s too late to stop the spiral in my brain. Does the stepsibling possibility bother him because he might want to get back together? Or because of what we’ve done in the past? Or am I simply reading too much into things again?
Before I can say anything else, a voice yells out, “Hey, Camilla! Hunter!”
We look over to find Monica and Allison from our History study group walking our way across the main quad.
“What’s up?” I ask, trying to act cool and like I’m not close to self-immolating.
“You two going to Zach’s party tonight?” Allison scrolls through something on her phone. “We’re trying to figure out how much stuff to get. Some upperclassmen are on booze duty and I’m gonna be grabbing snacks from the Munger Market.”
“That place is super overpriced,” Monica points out.
“Yeah, but it’s on campus and they have curbside pickup,” Allison points out. Then she turns back to me and Hunter. “Anyway, will you be there?”
