This Hurt (This Boy Book 2)

by Jenna Scott

  And with the Becks out of town, they won’t be at home, which means I can go get the rest of my stuff. I can’t remember exactly which exotic location in Mexico or South America they were flying to—though I vaguely recall Harry jumping up and down weeks ago about the fact that he’d be going snorkeling and zip-lining—but it’s not anywhere close enough for them to randomly pop up at the house or decide to come home early. That applies to my mother as well. She always goes along on their big trips to pick up after their hotel suite messes and help with whatever else they need. Like taking care of Harry while Mr. and Mrs. Beck do rich-people things that don’t allow for the presence of young children.

  Hunter will be gone, too. Not sure if he decided to take the trip with his family, or go hole up in some ridiculous party town with his fellow dudebros at the Academy, but he’s not the type to take a pass on massive partying and NSA hookups. For all I know, he’s blitzed out of his mind and waking up next to some hot random girl in Cancun right now.

  Just the thought of it makes my stomach cramp and my chest hurt, as it always does whenever I think about him with someone else.

  Ugh. I shouldn’t be feeling this sad, and I definitely shouldn’t be feeling jealous. I should be glad he’s out there ruining someone else’s life.

  “Do you think you could drop me off at the Becks’ on our way home from the fabric run?”

  She lifts a brow. “Sure, but…what for? Do you have a Harry shift? I thought you quit.”

  “I did, but they’re all out of town on vacation. I figure it’d be a good time to finish packing up whatever’s left of my stuff from the pool house. Assuming my mother didn’t just throw it all out.”

  “Ah. Good idea,” she says. “I’ll come with.”

  “Don’t you have to tutor some sophomores this afternoon?”

  She shrugs. “Yeah, but…I can reschedule. I don’t want to leave you there all by yourself.”

  I squeeze her shoulder. “I’ll be okay. Really. It’s no big deal.”

  With a sigh, she says, “Fine. I’ll pick you up as soon as you’re ready. Just text me. And if you need help with any big heavy stuff, let me know and I’ll bring Emmett.”

  And that’s how I end up back at the Becks’, lump thick in my throat as I pass all three of the Becks’ cars in the driveway—they must have taken a private car to the airport—and cut around the side of the house to the back gate, gripping my keys in my shaking hand. Hopefully, this will be my last time here, and I’ll be able to get everything I left behind. Provided my key still works and they haven’t changed the locks at the pool house.

  As I step over an abandoned Spider-Man action figure on the lawn, my heart aches at the thought of Harry. I wonder how he’s been doing. I feel terrible about pretty much disappearing on him, but as much as I care for Harrison, babysitting him would force me to cross paths with Hunter at some point—it’s inevitable. And I still can’t do that. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at him without my heart breaking all over again, so it’s best to just stay away. Maybe when I’m feeling better, I can take Harry out for ice cream or something. Or arrange weekly outings to the neighborhood park.

  I reach the door of the pool house, and the breath I’d been holding escapes when I come face-to-face with its obvious emptiness. The curtains are drawn, the windows are closed, the lights are off. Looks like I was right, and everyone including my mother has gone off on their perfect vacation. No one’s going to know I was here. I doubt my mom will even notice that more of my stuff is missing.

  Since I don’t have any boxes with me, I take a few trash bags to my room and start filling them with the rest of my clothes and books, a shoebox of photos, and a few other small things. In all likelihood, I’ll never see the rest of my stuff again, but I can’t force myself to care. After moving around so much over the years, I learned to keep my possessions—and any emotional attachments to them—as minimal as possible.

  In the end, I’ve barely filled two trash bags. Looking at them just reminds me of how small and insignificant my life has been up until this point. But that’s all going to change, and soon. I have no idea how I’m going to get myself back on track, but I know that I will. I won’t let myself end up a failure. I’ll prove everybody wrong.

  I make sure to lock up and turn off all the lights when I go, and then I half drag, half carry the heavy bags across the backyard. The pool area is awash in sunlight, the water lapping against the edges. Stopping to catch my breath, I pull out my phone to text Isabel that I’m ready to be picked up. A flash of movement winks at the edge of my vision, and I make the mistake of looking over to see what it is.

  The image hits me like a ton of bricks.

  It’s Hunter, in nothing but a pair of clingy, wet swim trunks, lounging on a recliner with a half-drunk bottle of top-shelf vodka in his hand. Red-rimmed eyes, an ashen pallor to his skin. It’s the worst I’ve ever seen him look, even worse than the time he ran out on me and got drunk with his friends.

  “Camilla,” he says, a hint of wonder to his voice, blinking as if he thinks I’m some sort of dream or hallucination. “You came back.”

  I force myself to stay neutral, to say, “I came for my things,” even though I don’t want to utter a single word in reply.

  Just hearing his voice is enough to make me confused all over again, and adding his current shirtless state to the mix is a recipe for disaster. No person can stay impervious to the sight of that smooth, sculpted chest. It’s like going to a museum to see famous works of art in person—you can’t help but stare and examine and wonder how such a masterpiece came to be.

  Hunter puts the bottle down and gets up, struggling with his balance for a second before he steps toward me. My heart jumps to my throat, and I have to swallow it back down as I take a step back.

  “I’m not here to talk,” I tell him. “I’m leaving.”

  “Milla, please.” He comes closer still, lips curved downward, giving me the biggest puppy-dog-eyes I’ve ever seen. “Don’t go. I…miss you.”

  I let out a disgusted scoff. “You should’ve thought of that before you had your dad pull my scholarship.”

  “What else was I supposed to do? I couldn’t bear to lose you!”

  Is he for real? And also, I don’t buy it. Not after I already told him I’d go to UC San Diego just to stay close to him. “Well, congratulations. You lost me anyway.”

  There’s a moment where the only sound between us is the breeze, rustling the palm fronds and making little ripples in the pool water. Then, eyes downcast, he whispers, “I just wanted to make you stay.”

  In my head, I can hear Isabel whispering toxicity. This is a prime example of it.

  “That’s exactly the problem, Hunter. You wanted to make me. And if you had to burn my life to the ground, then why not? So long as you got what you wanted, that’s all that matters, right?” I bite my lip when my voice starts to tremble and lift my chin defiantly. “I’m an actual person, Hunter. I’m not an object, or a doll, or your little puppet that you get to play with however you see fit. We’re done here.”

  Leaning down, I grab the knots of the trash bags and haul them the rest of the way to the gate. Like I should’ve done as soon as I saw he was here.

  When I get the gate open he lets out a short, sad laugh, and goddammit, I’m turning back again, seeing him shake his head. “It’s what I deserve, isn’t it? You were good, too good for me, and I needed you, so of course you had to leave. Everyone good always does.”

  There’s a tug at my chest. The way he looks and everything he’s saying pull at my heartstrings. My fingers itch to bury themselves in his hair, to hold him close and kiss him until he feels better. But screw that.

  “I’m not going to feel sorry for you,” I tell him coldly. “When you hurt people, when you break their trust, when you fuck up so bad there’s no way you can fix it, they walk away. That’s how it works.”

  He staggers over to me, and I’m so torn between the physical craving to let
him touch me and the silent screams of my logical brain to run that I end up not moving. And now our eyes are locked, and it’s all I can do to not throw my arms around him.

  Hunter takes my hands in his, his skin radiating warmth, and looks down at me with glassy eyes, a mix of intoxication and raw emotion that I can’t tear my gaze from. “I love you, Camilla. I love you and I can’t lose you. That’s why I did what I did.”

  The air leaves my lungs.

  Love. He’s saying he loves me, and my eyes start to tear up. I’m speechless. I’d wanted so desperately to hear those words before, but now…instead of filling me with joy and fulfillment and a rush of mutual affection, they’re only making me sad. Because I had to hear it like this. After he ruined my life, after we split up, after he got so trashed he can barely stand up straight.

  It’s not actual love that he feels for me; it can’t be. If he did love me, he would’ve wanted to see me succeed, the same way my friends do. No, he just thinks he loves me because he’s upset that I’m not here for him to toy with anymore. That I’m not at his beck and call 24/7. That he can’t have me whenever he wants me.

  “You’re drunk,” I say, yanking my hands free. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “I do, though,” he says emphatically. “And it’s true. I do love you.”

  When he reaches out to touch my face, I pull back.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I tell him. “You broke us.”

  “Then let me put us back together.”

  God, but I want to let him try.

  “No.” This hurts so much, but I know it’s the right thing to do. I have to get the hell out of here before I break down and fall right back into his arms. “Goodbye, Hunter.”

  With that, I grab my bags for the last time and storm to the curb, where Isabel’s Mini is already waiting for me with the hatchback popped open.

  “Is that all you’re taking?” she shouts out the rolled-down window.

  “That’s it,” I say. “I’m done here.”

  As we pull away, I don’t let myself look back.

  Chapter Eight

  Camilla

  I know it sounds cheesy, but some part of me has always dreamed of having the kind of epic relationship you only get to read about in books or watch at the movies. Where just seeing your person across a crowded room makes you melt, where a single touch can set you on fire, where you can’t imagine going through the rest of your life without that person at your side.

  Now I know it’s all a bunch of bullshit.

  Anything that flames that hot is bound to crash and burn sooner or later, self-destructing in a brutal hellfire of heartbreak, devastation, and agony.

  Having accepted that fact, however, I’m starting to heal. I’m trying, at least.

  Hunter might be an asshole to beat all assholes, but at least he was upset. That makes me feel better. In his own twisted, self-centered way, maybe he did love me.

  Over dinner, I spill the tea between bites of shrimp curry. “And then he had the nerve to say he loved me and use that as an excuse for what he did.”

  Isabel’s fork clatters against the plate. “He what?”

  “Not gonna lie, I actually heard your voice in my head going, that is toxic.”

  “It is! I mean, I get that he’s unfamiliar with the concept of healthy attachment systems, and that’s sad and all, but he can’t expect to just blow up your entire life and then say ‘I love you’ and have it all be water under the bridge. The nerve.”

  “Yeah. He was wasted on top of it. Hence why I shut him down and got out of there. You arrived right on time.”

  “Thank Jesus I was at the Starbucks around the corner,” Isabel says, nodding. “That boy still has a lot of growing up to do. And it’s not your job to sit around and bear the brunt of all his fuckups along the way.”

  I nod and hold on to those words as we finish eating.

  Still, my encounter with Hunter made several things obvious: I still miss him. I still want him. I definitely still have feelings for him, and not the simple kind.

  Thing is, the next morning, I actually feel a little bit better. For the first time, I surprise Isabel with breakfast and not the other way around. She’s so pleased with my banana chocolate chip pancakes that she makes me promise it’ll be a weekly thing.

  As the days goes by, I spend my time loafing, putting the finishing touches on a research project for English (a critique of Jane Austen’s body of work through a feminist lens), and helping Isabel make our outfits for the spring formal—meaning I cut the fabric after she traces the patterns onto it and then watch her work her magic with the sewing machine. She’s confident she’ll be able to push her Enchanted Forest theme through, and if she doesn’t, she says we can rock these dresses regardless. She’s making a jacket for Emmett too, with a touch of floral print at the cuffs and around the collar.

  It’s amazing watching the dresses come together, draped on mannequins in Isabel’s room, looking like they’re almost ready for a catwalk. Mine is made of flowy black fabric, embellished with silver flowers and delicate sequined stems and leaves. It’s really quite pretty, if a bit too short. Isabel’s is more costume-like, with a lime green tulle ballerina skirt topped with a separate halter that has appliqued ferns and greenery curling up toward the neckline and a shrug made of sheer floral fabric.

  “Oh my God, you look so hot!” Isabel squeals when we try them on. “Just a few minor adjustments, and you’re set!”

  “You look amazing too,” I say, fully meaning it. She looks like a flower fairy princess. Which I tell her, because you can never give your friends enough compliments.

  “Aw, thank you.” Isabel blushes, then takes a pin from the plush bracelet on her arm. “Now stay still so I can tailor this to perfection.”

  As I watch her pinch fabric and stick pins to hold everything in place, I look at the mirror in front of us and wonder, briefly, what Hunter would think if he saw me in this. I shove the thought away as soon as it surfaces. Who cares what he thinks?

  For the rest of the week, we just chill. We lounge around Isabel’s pool, and when I’m feeling low about Hunter I dive into whichever book I’m currently reading out of Isabel’s personal library.

  Emmett comes over on Friday night, and we pile onto the couch, watching To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before on the giant HD flatscreen. I’m in the middle, ice cream bowl in my lap, and for the first time in a long time, I’m at ease.

  “Wait, her sister sent those letters out on purpose?” Emmett asks incredulously.

  “I know, right?” I say. “I could never forgive something like that so easily. Not that I know what it’s like to have a sibling. Maybe it is all love and cupcakes.”

  Emmett snorts. “Trust me, it’s not.”

  “Really not,” Isabel says. “My brother is fifteen years older than me—yeah, do the math, he’s married with a kid and lives in Baltimore—and he’s always been more like a distant relative to me. Not that he’s a dick or anything. We’re just not close.” Isabel wraps her mouth around a huge spoonful of Ben and Jerry’s, letting out a tiny moan of pleasure before she resumes. “Which is why I love Emmett so much.”

  “Love you too, sis,” Emmett says sarcastically, pushing his glasses up his nose.

  “Hey, isn’t that Mona from Pretty Little Liars? And Aidan Shaw from Sex and the City?” I ask, digging into my ice cream, then cringing when I get brain freeze.

  “Oh my God, it’s Hollywood, so yes, it’s Mona and Aidan.” Isabel puts the video on pause. “Are you two gonna keep up the nitpicky commentary for the whole movie?”

  “It’s what you do to every movie and series!” Emmett points out.

  “Touché,” I agree, jabbing her with my foot. “Half our time watching La Casa de Papel was spent with you pausing to point out how stupid and horny everyone is.”

  “At least here they have a justification to be horny. There’s no heist going on, and also, they’re teens.” Isabel sticks her tongue out a
t me. “Which everyone here knows you can relate to.”

  A week ago, I’d have shut down at that comment and headed for the nearest bathroom to cry. But Isabel knows I’m feeling better after the surprise encounter at Hunter’s house, and I know she’s kidding.

  “And so can you,” I joke back. “Or do we need to bring up the Steve Howard incident?”

  “Ugh. Let’s not.” Isabel groans. “I will never live that down, I swear.”

  We finish our ice cream and get to when Lara Jean and Peter decide to pretend-date—which, not gonna lie, is one of my favorite tropes. You can’t help but root for the characters to realize they should be dating for real.

  Of course there’s this romantic speech, Lara Jean’s name is cleared of all scandal, and everyone lives happily ever after. Until movie number two, that is. But for now, all’s well, she ends up with Peter, and I wish it had been that easy for me to dispel the shit going around about me in public school. But real life is never that easy.

  “By the way, Milla, I mentioned your scholarship situation to my mom,” Emmett says hesitantly now that the movie’s done. “If you want her to look into it, she’s part of this Stanford alumni group that offers scholarships for economically disadvantaged students. She says it’s mandatory for her to use her status as a graduate to help students with merit get in, and she’s positive you have a shot. What do you think?”

  Hearing those words, I almost cry. It’s been so long since I’ve felt happiness that it takes me a while to recognize it.

  I consider telling Emmett that I appreciate it, but I can’t accept it. Because when you’ve spent your entire life fighting for scraps, the generosity of others can feel like a slap in the face. It took some work for me to accept Isabel’s help without questioning it, and now, it seems like I have to learn how to accept Emmett’s too. But the fact is, I need that scholarship. My Stanford dreams might not be dead, after all.

  “Your mom would really do that for me?” I ask.

  “Of course.” Emmett places a hand on my shoulder. His brown eyes shine, and his dimples show on his cheeks. “She loves you. And you deserve it.”