This Hurt (This Boy Book 2)

by Jenna Scott

  “It basically is Chipotle’s, but I add in a habanero pepper and some oregano. Super easy.”

  “Ambrosia of the gods,” I mumble around another mouthful.

  Isabel cracks up. “It better be, since appetizers are the only thing I can actually cook.”

  We’re watching Sex and the City, and at some point during the episode where Samantha sleeps with a virgin and he ends up obsessing over her, Isabel side-eyes me and casually asks, “Is that why you’re so obsessed with Hunter? He was your first?”

  Before answering, I give it some thought. Finally, though, I shake my head. “I honestly don’t think that’s it. I mean…it definitely adds to the whole bond I have with him, but it’s not the reason I can’t shake him.”

  Isabel tilts her head. “What was it like, with him? If you feel like sharing…”

  The memory of Hunter taking his sweet time to melt me with his tongue and hands, how he’d kissed me and waited for me to sink down onto him, to get used to the feel of him inside—it sends a wave of heat through me still.

  “Um.” I clear my throat. “It was a little uncomfortable at first, but it didn’t hurt that much. I kind of threw myself at him in the heat of the moment, but he slowed things down and went at my pace, so I could…you know. Get acclimated. He made sure I felt good.”

  “Wow. Didn’t know he had it in him.” Isabel nods appreciatively.

  “Had what in him?”

  She shrugs. “You know. The ability to be so…respectful. And attentive to your needs, or whatever. My first time wasn’t like that at all. Not that I wanna rehash it.”

  “It wasn’t Steve, was it?” I ask, horrified at the possibility.

  “Ew, no!”

  “So…” I prod, trying not to seem too eager for the details.

  Isabel’s face goes red. “Please, let’s just drop it. I promise I’ll tell you all about it someday, but it’s honestly too awkward to speak of without a few drinks first. I definitely didn’t have a good time like you did. I was just trying to get it over with.”

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her, leaning over to swipe one of her jalapenos. “I hope it goes better next time.”

  “Oh, it will.” Isabel blinks, then gives me a sly smile, her curiosity apparently piqued. “So, is he as good as the rumors say? Does he, like, get you off?”

  My hands dart out to cover my face. “I can’t believe you’re asking me this!”

  “I’m just curious. You don’t have to tell me anything, but let me remind you, Milla, this is a judgment-free zone.”

  I have to laugh. “I don’t know the details of these alleged rumors, but yes, he’s good. And yes, he knows what he’s doing. I’ve never not, you know, finished.”

  “Wow,” she breathes. “The Hunter-itis makes perfect sense now.”

  “Oh, come on.” I poke the side of her waist. “It’s not like a guy, or another girl, is the only way to have an orgasm.”

  “Touché.” Isabel laughs, and I do too. “But anyway, good for you.”

  “I hope your curiosity is now satisfied, because I’m fucking mortified,” I groan.

  “Oh, no, my curiosity will never be satisfied. Hunter being good in the sack aside, I still don’t get how you could stand to go back to him after what he did.”

  A small shrug lifts my shoulders. “He’s apologized multiple times. We’re just trying to have a good time while we can.”

  “Right. The big plan.” Isabel nods sagely as she shoves another stack of nachos into her mouth. Once she’s done chewing, she adds, “You seem happy, and that’s great, but I just don’t want you to set yourself up for another heartbreak when you leave for college and he stays here.”

  “Mm,” I say. “Long distance might work. You never know.”

  “That’s true.” Isabel’s voice is soft, and I can tell she doesn’t have much faith.

  It’s tough not to feel upset at her lack of confidence in me and Hunter. I know she’s saying all these things because she genuinely cares, but I don’t think she’ll truly understand my relationship with Hunter without me confessing my greatest shame, aka the public school nightmare, and how he reacted when I finally came clean about it.

  “The thing is…” The air leaves my lungs as I ready myself for what I’m about to tell her. “I told him about this bad thing that happened to me at La Jolla High, and he believed me. Right away. He supported me and defended me and didn’t even question my side of the story. I don’t think he would do that unless he really loved me.”

  “Wait, what?” Isabel’s head jerks, and her eyes narrow. “What happened at La Jolla High?”

  “If I tell you, do you promise not to be mad that I kept it a secret?” I ask.

  She grins. “That depends. If it’s like, oh, I dropped out of my previous school because I didn’t like the shade of their walls, then yeah, I’ll be mad.”

  “I wish it were the wall paint.” I look at the TV, where Carrie’s swanning down the street in some fabulous outfit, gathering my courage, then turn back at Isabel. And I tell her.

  All about Mr. Harris, and the bullying, and how those girls found me at the bookstore and talked shit in front of Hunter and how I made myself tell him everything afterward. How Hillary knows all about it already, and threatened to tell Hunter, except that I beat her to it.

  Isabel stays quiet as I talk, her mouth gradually falling open the further I go into the story. And because it’s her, I spare no details. Not even the ones I kept from Hunter because I didn’t want to relieve those in front of him.

  “Jesus,” she says, squeezing my hand before she moves in to hug me. “No wonder you tried to bury it. That is such bullshit, and you didn’t deserve any of it. Also…” Her nostrils flare with anger. “Fucking Hillary. I swear to God, I’m going to scour the internet for ammo against her just to have in reserve.”

  That gets a smile out of me. “I’m kinda hoping she tries to tell Hunter now. Can you imagine her reaction when he tells her ‘yeah, I already know’?”

  One thing about finally telling Hunter my secret: it is liberating.

  Isabel laughs. “It’d be amazing to watch her poison turn on her.” She goes back to her nachos, frowning at what I assume is the lack of melted cheese on the few leftover tortilla chips. “Good thing neither of us will have to deal with her next year. She’s going to Yale, all the way across the country.”

  “Wow. I didn’t know she cared that much about school. Her grades aren’t even that great, are they?”

  “Nope. Pretty sure her dad donated like, a mil or two. I guess it’ll look good on her CV or whatever.” Isabel grimaces. “You know, for all the complaining rich a-holes do about affirmative action, we’re the ones taking the spots of more deserving people.”

  Sigh. Is there anything the wealthy can’t get more easily than the rest of us?

  “You wouldn’t be taking anyone’s place, though, miss genius.” I say it because it’s true. Isabel has shitloads of money, but her getting into an Ivy League had nothing to do with anyone’s bank account.

  “And yet, I got scholarship offers. How twisted would I have to be to take them when my parents have more money than they know what to do with?” She gestures to the living room’s designer couch, the antique rug, the giant flatscreen, the custom-designed everything. “I could live ten lifetimes and never make a dent in my family’s money. It’s fucked up, Milla. If you weren’t so adamant about refusing help, I would create a scholarship just for you so I’d feel less bad about my small fortune.”

  “I know you would.” I set my plate down and snuggle back into the couch. “But please don’t. I’d feel more than awkward taking that much money from you.”

  “I just don’t get what money’s for if I can’t use it to help the people closest to me.”

  “You give me clothes all the time.”

  “And it’s a nightmare, with you always going ‘are you sure?’ when you know damn well the answer is yes.”

  “That’s because I don’t want
you to think I’m your friend because you give me things!” I protest. “You and Hunter are the same when it comes to that.”

  “Pff. I know you’re not my friend because of money. And as much as I hate to defend the devil who’s taking you from me most of the week, I’m sure Hunter knows that you’re not with him because of his, either.”

  These are things I know, but are still reassuring to hear. “Thanks, Isabel.”

  We spend the rest of the evening commenting on celebrity gossip and marathoning more Sex and the City, and I realize how much I missed this. Isabel is the best friend I’ve ever had, and not just because she’s pretty much one out of five.

  I can’t believe I’m about to lose her, too.

  Chapter Thirty

  Hunter

  Without Milla, the house is colder, as if the sun refuses to shine on us. I really didn’t want her to go sleep at Isabel’s and leave me here with the sounds of my dad and Karleigh’s bickering echoing off the walls, but if anyone is overdue for a girls’ night in, it’s Camilla. And Isabel is good for her. I know the girl isn’t my biggest fan, and probably for plenty of good reasons, but I’m glad she’s there for Milla. It’s obvious how well they get along by the way they light up around each other.

  Truthfully, part of me is envious. Not because Isabel is taking my Milla-time away, but because their friendship is so legit. I wish I had someone like that myself, a true blue, but my friends aren’t really friends. They’re just acquaintances I grew up with who run in the same social (and, let’s be honest, socioeconomic) circles. Nothing more, nothing less. Sure, I could invite one of them over right now to chill, rather than sit here alone—but there’s nobody I want to be with other than Milla. The one person who would be marginally okay is Tom, but he never hangs out on Sunday nights.

  Anyway, I hope she has a good time. She deserves someone like Isabel after all the shit that happened to her at LJHS. Just thinking about it, how hurt Milla looked in the retelling, is enough for my hands to ball into fists. Sometimes I really hate people.

  I’m in my room, bored as shit, scrolling through Google for ideas on things to do to Milla that I haven’t tried with anyone else, when I hear the yelling downstairs go up another few decibels. In a flash, I get up and dash to the source.

  Harry’s on the sofa in the living room clinging to Roo, tears streaming down his round cheeks. I wonder if he had a nightmare that sent him running downstairs, only to get even more upset by the loud-ass argument going on in Dad’s office.

  My stomach drops as I approach, kneeling in front of him to pat his knee. “Hey, buddy. What happened? Why you up so late? It’s almost eleven.”

  “M-Mom,” he stammers through sobs, “Mom and Dad said Nick can’t come over anymore. They s-said he’s not app’orpiant. ‘Cause his family’s not good people.”

  Just like that, my world turns red. It wasn’t a nightmare at all. Or maybe, in a way, it was. I can’t believe Dad and Karleigh are pulling this shit. When Nick was here, Harrison was the most child-like I’ve ever seen him. Playing happily, running around with the kind of smile on his face that he usually only has when Milla’s babysitting.

  “Not appropriate?” I repeat, to clarify.

  Harry nods. “That’s what they said.”

  “Did they now.” I’m nauseated.

  He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. “I don’t want to not be friends with Nick. But Mom and Dad won’t let me play with him anymore…”

  “Don’t listen to them.” I muss his hair.

  “But—”

  “Seriously. I’m going to talk to them. And if your mom and Dad make a fuss again, just tell them you’re not hanging out with Nick anymore. You can still be his friend at school, and they won’t even know.”

  He pouts out his lower lip. “But lying is bad.”

  “It is,” I agree. “But this is lying for a good reason. Trust me, okay?”

  Harrison is silent for a second before he says, “Okay.”

  “Good. Now get back in bed, please. I’ll come up after I straighten this out.”

  I leave Harry and head straight for Dad’s office, where Karleigh the “influencer” is standing behind his chair. They’re looking at something on the computer screen, and I come in with steam practically shooting out my ears, yelling, “What the hell do you think you’re doing, cutting Harrison off from his friends?”

  Both of them look up at me. “We know what’s best for our child, Hunter,” Karleigh answers, sounding bored. “And it isn’t all his friends, just this one. If we think Nick isn’t up to par, then he isn’t up to par. Please excuse yourself.”

  I don’t budge.

  “Harry doesn’t need to be friends with kids from families like that,” Dad adds, as if that somehow explains everything.

  “He’s Harrison’s friend. You never had a problem with anyone else coming over for playdates before,” I say, though truth be told, the last time that happened was ages ago. Back when Harry was in pre-K and his “playdates” consisted of watching Daniel Tiger cartoons while Karleigh drank rosé with the other kids’ parents.

  “Those playdates weren’t with the children of parents who can’t hold down a job,” Dad says, explaining it to me like I’m a toddler myself. “His father is a disgrace walking around unemployed, the exact reason we don’t like those kinds of people coming into our country. In fact, maybe he got fired because he’s not here legally—”

  “Jesus, Dad.”

  “—and how much do you think it would hurt Harrison to find out his friend’s locked up in one of those cages?”

  Frowning, Karleigh pipes up, “I never would’ve said he could come over here if I’d known he had one of those Mexican names.”

  Holy fucking shit. I wish I could say I can’t believe what I’m hearing, but I can. Flashbacks of a very similar conversation that took place years ago come back to me. This is the exact same thing that happened when I was younger. It’s why, to this day, I’m not friends with Ortega.

  Sure, I’m not friends with him now because of Milla, since I really don’t like how he looks at her…but we could’ve been friends back in grade school. Problem was, my dad wouldn’t let him hang out over here, and I wasn’t allowed to go to Emmett’s house either. All because his family’s Latinx.

  Fucking hell, they’re so classist. And racist. I let them screw me up, but I will be damned if I let them screw up my little brother, too.

  “You don’t get to decide who Harrison is friends with,” I grind out. “This is the first time he’s even had a real friend. At six years old. Let that sink in.”

  “He’ll make new ones,” Karleigh breezes. “He was just going through an awkward phase, but he’s gotten over that.” She waves her hand as if to shoo me away. “And better to be alone than in bad company.”

  “Bad company? Because Nick’s dad lost his job, at a time when the economy’s in the shitter? What’s that got to do with the kid, anyway? How’s that his fault?”

  My dad throws me a withering, patronizing stare. “When you’re older, you’ll realize that type of behavior runs in families. Bottom line is, it’s my house and my rules and I don’t want that kid coming here anymore. I’ll find my son some other friends.”

  “Nick will be a bad influence on Harrison,” Karleigh adds, “if he isn’t already.”

  I have the strongest urge to break something, to throw one of these stupid marble bookends at the computer screen and watch it shatter. But I force myself to take a deep breath and try to make my voice come out with a calm and reasonable tone.

  “If you had actually watched them play together, you wouldn’t be doing this. You’d have seen how happy Harrison was. Why are you taking that away from him?”

  The emotion is practically making my voice crack, and I take a step back as if it will shield me from the smug look on my father’s face.

  “I see what this is, Hunter. This isn’t about Harrison at all. It’s about you.”

  “It’s not—”
>
  He goes on, “You think I fucked up your childhood, huh? Think you’re gonna swoop in now and save your brother like a big, tough superhero? Rescue him from the same tragic fate you were forced to experience? Aww, boo hoo.” His voice hardens to a sharp edge. “Time to grow up, boy. You had it easy. So does he. He’ll be fine.”

  “Despite the fact that you’re about to graduate, you’re still a child, Hunter,” Karleigh says. “A spoiled, ungrateful brat who thinks he knows better than his parents.”

  “You are not my parent,” I growl.

  “I am Harrison’s parent,” she yells, losing her steely composure. “And as such, I will say who he spends his time with. You have no idea what those kind of people are like, and what they can do to families like ours.”

  Families like ours? What does she mean? Families built out of shotgun marriages with social climbers who pay zero attention to their offspring?

  “You don’t want Nick to be Harrison’s friend because his brown skin doesn’t play into your damn Instagram aesthetic,” I spit, the poison flying out of my mouth.

  “That is completely not it,” Karleigh hisses. “First of all, my branding is very ‘diverse,’ and secondly, I don’t post other people’s kids on my IG.”

  I don’t know if she was always this way or if Dad rubbed off on her, but all I can do is shake my head in disgust.

  “Look, Hunter, we’re done here. Get out,” Dad says, dismissing me.

  “Do you have any idea what you’re doing to Harrison?” I pin Karleigh with my stare. “You only care about him when you need a cute prop for social media. And you,” I say, turning to Dad, “You’re never even here. And when you are here, you’re working, and when you’re not working, you’re traipsing around the country on ‘business.’ You leave nannies to raise your kids, and then wonder how we turned out so fucked up.”

  “You don’t get to talk about nannies,” Dad says. “If you cared about your brother as much as you claim, you wouldn’t be dating his.”

  My anger hits its boiling point. “Shut up.”