by Angel Lawson
I chew on my lip for a moment, watching him. “You ready to tell me why you were looking for me in the first place?”
He shrugs, fidgeting with some of the papers on my desk, glancing over them. “You looked off in first period. At first, I thought it was because of the night before, like maybe you were...” His eyes flick to mine. “You know, having regrets. Then you didn’t show for lunch and Tyson didn’t know where you were either. Your sister told me you were sick, so I came up here and found you on the floor.”
“You talked to Michaela?” I ask in surprise, hugging the blankets around me. That makes twice now.
“She was on the quad. I didn’t seek her out or anything.” His gaze slides over to the pho, something tight and restless in the shift of his feet. “You want some of that? I can, like... get it for you?” He says this like he’s rolling around in his head, testing it, like a question he’s asking himself.
I open my mouth on an instinctual refusal, but instantly close it. The weirdness of his awkward attempt at, like... tending to me, is tempered by the deep pang of hunger clutching my stomach. I ultimately exhale, shoulders drooping. “That would be awesome, actually. Thanks.”
He shuffles over to the desk and approaches the bag like it might bite him, fingers reluctantly pulling it open. He pulls out a plastic container of soup, movements growing more sure. I watch as he removes the lid, then takes out a spoon, chopsticks, and napkins. He carries it over and hands it to me. “It’s really hot.”
“I like it hot,” I reply, smiling awkwardly. “Thank you.”
He shoves his hands in his pockets and stands over me, watching. I can’t quite place the look in his eyes—it’s not something I’ve ever seen directed at me—but if I had to guess, it nearly seems as if he’s seeking some sort of approval.
It’s more than a little unnerving.
“If you’re going to stay, you should sit.” I point to the desk chair. After a suspended moment of hesitation, he reaches for it, pulling it out. I twirl the chopsticks around the noodles, blow on it, and take a bite. I moan gratefully. “Oh god, this is so good. I haven’t eaten anything in two days.” I eye him, lacking the energy to feel embarrassed about the pornographic eating sounds. “So, what did you mean before? About ‘taking care’ of detention?”
“I told Dewey you were sick,” he explains, leaning back more casually in the chair, “then I just did the work myself.”
My chopsticks freeze halfway to my mouth, broth dripping from the noodles. “You mean you did the basecoat alone?”
“Yes.” His mouth curves into a grin that’s more boastful than it has any right to be.
While eating another mouthful of noodles, I glance at his soft, elegant hands. “And you managed to do it without any major injuries?”
“I’m injury-free. Except…”
“What?”
He looks toward the window, scowling. “I was moving the ladder and the paint tray fell off the top. Luckily, it landed on the drop cloth. But it was a huge fucking mess. It took me forever to clean up.”
"I can only imagine the temper tantrum that followed that.” Doing so makes me grin. “How many home improvement supplies were harmed in the making of this detention?”
He narrows his eyes at me, but I can tell it’s more playful than anything. “Ha-ha. You like to see me suffer, don’t you?”
“I’m sure the masking tape had it coming.” I chew on a mouthful of noodles before saying, “But seriously, thank you. That was an impressive amount of work to get done by yourself. I’m proud of you.” After a beat of stabbing my soup with the chopsticks, I look up at him cautiously. “Yikes, that sounded super patronizing, didn’t it?”
His expression is completely flat, save for the curve of an eyebrow. “Only a lot.”
I cover my mouth when I laugh. “Oh God, I’m sorry. I just meant—”
“I know what you meant.” He rolls his eyes, but doesn’t seem particularly offended about it, so I let it go. “So listen, if you want some company, I can stick around.” He clears his throat, shifting. “I brought my laptop, so we can watch a movie or something.”
I watch him warily, feeling this odd discomfort in the pit of my stomach. Not that I’m opposed to hanging around Hamilton, because sitting here all day alone, sick, is boring me to tears.
It’s the ‘or something’ I’m worried about.
“Don’t you need to get home?”
He exhales loudly, hand raking roughly through his hair. “Honestly, anything to put that off a bit longer is fine by me.”
“Okay, but,” I hedge, “you’re not worried about getting sick?”
He looks at me like I’m dumb. “You were already contagious the other night, when we were together. If I’m going to get it, that ship has sailed. It’s halfway to fucking Spain. It sunk in the Atlantic. There’s already a tragic mariner’s song about it and everything.”
I place my bowl on the bedside table. “Look, Bates, I’m feeling better today. But I’m not feeling good enough for—I mean, if you’re looking to hook-up, then—”
“I’m not looking for a hook-up.” His jaw tightens and a flicker of something new—different—crosses his eyes. A vulnerability, or a weak spot. Something small and stung. “I’m serious about not being ready to go home, and... well, believe it or not, you’re not the worst company.”
I roll my eyes at the backhanded compliment. “Geez thanks, that’s reassuring.”
He smirks and reaches for his backpack, unzipping it and pulling out a top-of-the-line laptop. After a few moments spent retrieving the charger and booting it up, he pauses, eyes roaming the room. “Where should I put it?”
“Uh...” I look around, biting my lip. “I guess on the bed?”
I straighten out my blanket nest to give him a flat surface, and he places it at the foot of the bed, streaming service queued up. He drags the chair closer to see, and a battle wars inside of me; one that involves my heart, my body, and my mind. I can invite him to sit with me on the bed, but would that be some kind of signal? Would it be suggesting something I’m not prepared to follow through on? Is what’s going on between us primarily a sex thing, or can it also be a friendly thing? I’m not sure where we stand on either. As he fusses with positioning the screen so we can both see it, I decide, “Hey, come on. Just sit with me on the bed.”
His eyebrow arcs. “You sure?”
“If you’re not afraid of getting sick, then it’s fine by me.”
I shift over and he kicks off his shoes, lowering himself to the edge of my narrow bed. There’s no way for us not to be close, because the bed is too small for all that. But I get the impression he tries his best, even if our hips end up touching. Hamilton pulls the computer to his lap and says, “What do you want to watch?”
I chew on my lip, thinking. “I’ve been holding out on Stranger Things. Have you seen it yet?”
“You haven’t?” His eyebrows climb his forehead in disbelief. “Have you been living under a rock?”
“I don’t know. The twins totally got into it. I think I was just…” Wallowing. Too worried about Sky and my immediate reality at the time to really focus on anything fictional. “I guess you wouldn’t want to watch it all over again, would you?”
“Sure I would,” he says, queuing it up and pressing play. He shifts the computer so we can both see it, and now his knee is touching mine. I pull the covers up, as much of a shield as anything else.
I’m not a big fan of scary stuff, but this seems to fall somewhere in the middle. It’s suspenseful, but funny, campy, and cheesy. We burn through multiple episodes of the first season mindlessly, heedless of the clock, just going from episode to episode. The lingering tension between the two of us slips away so gradually that it doesn’t even feel strange or surreal when our arms begin bumping, pressing together. We make conversation, here and there. Hamilton likes Jonathan the most, but Nancy is my favorite.
He scoffs. “You would. You’re so Nancy.”
“I
take that as a compliment.” I sniff indignantly. “And you’re totally Steve. That guy is such a douchebag.”
His laugh is a quiet, bouncing thing. “You’re going to be eating your words when season two starts and you find out he’s the good guy.”
“Dude!” I turn to fake-push him off the bed, heedless of his laughter. “Spoilers!”
As the afternoon light fades into an evening glow outside my window, my eyelids begin growing heavy. I’m so stupidly deep into the story, and so oddly comfortable with Hamilton’s company, that I don’t even want to go to sleep. But no matter how much I blink, I can’t keep my eyes open.
I wake with a start, my neck bearing a sharp ache at even the smallest movement. It’s hot under the covers and something heavy is pinning me down. My room is bathed in the darkness of late night, but the lights from the quad cast enough of a glow that I can see Hamilton is still here, his arm flung carelessly across my middle as he sleeps.
The laptop sits abandoned at the foot of the bed, closed now.
I take a moment to absorb the half of his face that isn’t buried into my pillow. All the meanness, tension, and caustic cruelty is absent from his expression. All that’s left is his beauty, his long eyelashes, sharp cheekbones, stubble-covered jaw. His soft pink lips are parted as he breathes softly, and the urge to lift my hand and touch them is almost too intense to ignore. Though his face is slack, the weight of his arm feels possessive and clutching, like a man holding on to a life preserver.
After all this time, I still don’t know who Hamilton Bates really is. Is he the kind, careless boy from the picture in my closet? Is he the golden boy who will stop at nothing to get what he wants? Is he the cruel, ruthless leader of the Devils? Or is he the awkwardly compassionate guy who sometimes saves and protects me?
It probably can’t be that easy. Most likely, he’s a little bit of all those things, all mashed up into this beautiful, twisted mess of a man. I can’t begin to understand how they all reconcile, but I do know that, during moments like this, it’s hard to remember why I hate him at all. Or hated him. I’m not even sure which tense to use anymore.
I don’t dare wake him, instead burrowing back down under the covers, allowing the soft rhythm of his breaths, the weight of his arm around me, to lull me back into slumber. I can’t help but think that it’s nice not to be alone, even if I am sharing a bed with my biggest enemy.
“So, I’m curious,” I say, pausing to take a bite of gooey pizza. “What’s the deal with your parents?”
It’s late—way past midnight—and we’re both wired from sleeping all evening. I’d awoken first, slipping carefully from the bed to take a shower, desperate to wash off the sticky residue of sickness. I returned to find him on the phone with the 24-hour pizza place. He waited outside for the delivery as I stood in front of my mirror, detangling my hair.
When he came back up, I spread a blanket over the floor, and he placed the pizza in the middle of it. Now, we’re sitting across from one another; me leaning against the bed, Hamilton stretched out on his side.
“Jesus.” He makes a vaguely sour face at my question. “You don’t want to listen to all that. It’ll take all fucking night.”
“Sure I do,” I insist. “I asked, didn’t I? Plus, it’s like two in the morning. ‘All night’ isn’t a huge commitment.”
He chews on his feta and artichoke pizza, something I discovered we both like. And clearly, something he really likes, because he’s on his fourth slice. He sighs, beginning, “Well, this may come as a surprise to you, so don’t get the vapors or anything. But my parents—and particularly my father—are pretentious assholes.”
“Wow,” I fake a gasp. “That is a shocker.” I dip my crust in the ridiculously delicious butter sauce. “Mostly that you have the self-awareness to acknowledge that.”
He takes another bite of pizza, his free hand extending a long, elegant middle finger at me. “For a long time,” he continues, swallowing, “I thought my dad was a god because he was so smart, successful, and powerful. And in some ways, I still do…”
“But…” I prod.
He takes a breath, wiping his greasy fingers on a napkin. “But some shit went down a few years ago with my sister, and the older I get, the more I think about it. At the time I thought he handled it the right way—the only way—but now... I guess I’m not so sure.”
I pull the feta off another piece of pizza and pop it in my mouth. “What happened?”
He sucks his teeth, leaning back on his hands. “Well, my sister, Hollis—I don’t think you ever met her—she was always really independent. And, I mean, my dad loved that about her, practically molded her to be that way. He had really high hopes for her to become some brilliant CEO or lawyer or whatever. But that’s the thing about shaping your kid to be independent, right? They rebel against your expectations.”
He continues, “When she was sixteen, we were at our place at the beach. I was only twelve at the time. We spent most of the summer there with my mom or our housekeeper. My dad would come down on the weekends. It was kind of boring for two kids, honestly.”
I think of the childhood vacations I’ve had with my own family, having plenty of siblings near enough to my own age to play or hang out with. I nod. “I can see that.”
He pushes himself upright, propping his elbows on his knees, and something about the way he curls his shoulders inward seems protective, tempered. “So, Hollis started dating someone who worked at the marina. Just a townie, you know? She kept it secret for a while, until my dad came down one weekend and saw them together on one of the boats. It was bad enough that it was a local, because, well...” He gives me a quick, cautious look.
“Because he didn’t have ‘pedigree’,” I roll my eyes, nostrils flaring hotly. “Because he was a piece of blue-collar, working-class trash?”
“Right,” he says slowly. “More or less, I guess. The fact it wasn’t a ‘he’ definitely escalated things.”
My head jerks up in surprise. “A girl? Your sister is a lesbian?”
“Yep.” He bobs his head. “From there, shit just hit the fan. Like... I know it’s a cliché. Rich girl falls in love with a local kid. Father has a meltdown.” He looks up at me from under those thick, dark eyelashes. “He gave her a choice, the girl or his legacy—his money, his influence, his support.” He shrugs in a way that looks aloof, but I know isn’t. “Hollis chose the girl.”
“And he followed through on his threats,” I guess.
“Big time.” He picks at a fray on his jeans, eyes fixed to the thread. “I’ve only seen her twice since then. She got her GED, and I think she’s taking some college classes. Community college, not Duke or Wake Forest like she wanted.”
I watch him, frowning. “Is she still with the girl?”
“No, I don’t think so.” He wraps the thread around a long finger and pulls, fingertip going white. “She’s too stubborn to come back, and for a long time, I blamed her. I mean, why would she give up everything for some stupid summer fling? But I was twelve. I’m eighteen now, and I get it.”
“Because it wasn’t about the girl,” I guess, stretching out my legs.
He hums, head shaking. “It was about our father being a controlling asshole. He’s a dictator. There’s only one way to do things: his way. And Hollis…” He reaches up to scratch at the raspy stubble covering his chin, eyes pensive. “She didn’t walk because my dad wouldn’t let her date the townie. I don’t think it was even because he wouldn’t let her date girls. She left because she knew my dad wanted to control every single factor in her life. The girl was just her line in the sand. If she couldn’t be who she was—be with who she wanted to be with—then in a sense, nothing could ever really be hers. And what good is any of it—the money, the success, the legacy—if it never really belongs to you?”
I watch him for a long moment, the shadow of something thoughtful and acrid darkening his features. “That really sucks, Bates. I’m sorry.”
His gaze jumps to mine,
shuttering. “Yeah, I guess that’s my real legacy, right? Falling in line. Living like a remote-controlled robot. Doing everything he says.”
I shake my head and push my toes against his knee. “Yeah, I don’t see that happening.”
“No?” He doesn’t seem so sure. “Why’s that?”
“Because you’re the most determined, self-focused, competitive person I’ve ever met. You don’t need your dad to ride your ass about stuff. Like, I’m sure he was pissed about us being co-captains, but you made it work. In the right way. Coach wanted you to do it and so did the headmaster.”
He scoffs. “Yeah, well, to my father that makes me... what was it he said?” He uses finger quotes. “An insolent, inadequate screw-up.”
I pull a face, because even though I’ve always known on some level that Mr. Bates was an asshole, that’s over-the-top harsh. “Gee, I can’t imagine why you didn’t want to go home yesterday.”
Hamilton nods in agreement. “Exactly. When I do what he says, I’m being a good son. But when I do what the coach and headmaster want, I’m weak.”
“But he’s wrong.” I explain, “Sometimes the best way to get ahead is to play along, and you know that. That’s not weak. Your dad just thinks he knows best because he probably tells himself he has your best interests at heart. Even though they’re really his best interests.”
Hamilton gives me a tired smile. “Since when did you get so smart about family dynamics?”
I blink at him. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Do I look like I’m kidding?”
He looks like a sex god lounging on my floor, that’s what he looks like.
“I live with two flakey parents who, thankfully, found a super nanny to keep us alive, four adopted siblings that each came into the family with their own trauma, and—” I stop short, realizing what I’ve done. I don’t talk about my family at Preston. And I definitely don’t talk about them to a Devil.
His forehead creases. “What?”
I shake my head, looking away. “Forget about it.”
