“High five, Halston. That’s fucking awesome,” she says. “I knew you were bad ass, but this takes it to a whole other level. Love a girl who’s not afraid to go after what she wants in a world that doesn’t want us to have anything.”
I laugh, slowly lifting my hand. I hate high fives, but I like Lila.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Halston
One Year Later…
What a difference a year makes.
Fall leaves crunch beneath my boots as I lug my backpack over one shoulder, hauling ass across the campus of Greatwood University, the only state college that accepted my application, and only after Uncle Vic pulled a few strings.
Eight months at Welsh Academy turned out not to be so bad. There was no Bree. There was no Uncle Vic or Aunt Tabitha. There were no BMW-driving rich kids to contend with. By all accounts, it was a fresh start. A clean slate.
It didn’t take long for me to get used to the rigorous schedule or the ridiculous classes we were forced to suffer through, but Lila made things palatable. She knew all of the best hiding spots, all of the little nooks and crannies of the house. She knew where all the cameras were and how not to trip the alarms in the library and pantry.
The summer before college, I went home with Lila, spending those warm months at her family’s vacation cottage in Portland, Maine, just the two of us in a little house by the shore. She’d planned to attend Brown in the fall, her father’s alma mater, but at the last minute, she decided to go to GU with me.
I couldn’t have been happier … but I played it cool.
I didn’t want to seem that desperate.
“Hey, stranger.” Lila walks toward me from Curtis Hall, shoving the rest of her peanut butter sandwich between her pink lips. “Want to go to Friday After Class at The Oxblood Taproom? Two for one wells?”
Within a month of moving into our dorm, Lila somehow managed to find us both fake IDs. I haven’t asked. She hasn’t explained. It’s probably safer that way.
“I have a ten-page paper due Monday.” I bite my lower lip.
“Oh, my god,” Lila groans. “You’re almost twenty. Come get one drink with me. Live a little. You’re killing me here.”
If someone had told me years ago that I’d turn into a studious, college embracing nerd, I’d have never believed them, but for the first time in my life, I feel like I’ve finally found my groove.
I wake up when I want to wake up. I take classes that actually interest me. High school cliques and politics don’t seem to be an issue here because there are literally tens of thousands of students, and last but not least, I don’t need a car. The extensive bus system gets me where I need to go, and anything else is within walking distance.
I’ve also managed to land a part-time retail job on the weekends, which pays for most of my clothes and extras.
All things considered, I’m doing really fucking well.
Glancing over Lila’s shoulder, I spot Emily Miller in the distance, laughing and walking in a group of girls who all look alike: mousy and tiny. She finally found her people. I saw her at the food court the first week of school. She pretended like she didn’t know me, which at the time, caught me off guard. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized Bree probably spent the remainder of our senior year trashing my reputation to anyone who would listen.
I can only imagine the kinds of things circulating the halls of Rosefield High.
“Lila, hey.” Two guys with khaki shorts, neon polos, and backwards visors approach us, their gazes darting between us as they wear mischievous grins. “Didn’t see you in Econ this morning. What gives?”
“Overslept.” Lila bites her bottom lip. “I can’t do eight AM classes.”
“Ah, well. I took notes. Let me know if you want them,” the first guy says.
“What? No way. That’s so sweet of you.” Lila’s mouth pulls wide and she tilts her head. The note-taker blushes. She’s so good at playing the charm card it’s disgusting.
“Anyway, we’re going to grab some drinks at Oxblood if you and your friend want to join us?” he asks.
Her face lights. “We were just talking about going to FAC. We’ll totally join you.”
I shoot her a look, which she proceeds to ignore, and the second the guys leave, I jab my elbow into her ribcage.
“I cannot believe you just did that,” I say, my voice hushed.
“What?” The legitimate confusion on her face is concerning. “We were going anyway, what’s the big deal?”
All those years spent away at a girls’ only prep school have done some serious damage to this woman. We’ve only been here a couple of months and already she’s doing everything she can to make up for lost time.
I’m pretty sure if I looked up “boy crazy” in Webster’s dictionary, there’d be a cross-reference to Lila Mayfield.
Folding her arms, she squints. “When are you going to move on?”
“Excuse me?” I ask.
“This is about that guy, that principal guy,” she says.
“No, it’s not.” I try to sound convincing, but I don’t even convince myself.
Her jaw hangs. “That’s exactly what this is about. That’s why you’ve been acting so weird since we came here. All you do is study and hide up in our room, and when you’re not studying, you’re reading books, and when you’re not studying or reading books, you’ve got a million Google tabs going at once.”
Busted.
Trying to find Kerouac has become a compulsive obsession that occupies ninety-nine percent of my study-breaks.
“When are you going to move on, babe?” Lila asks, one hand on her hip. “It’s been a year.”
“It feels like yesterday,” I say, my voice narrowing to a whisper.
She places her hands on my shoulders, almost shaking me as she gets in my face. “I promise you, Halston. Where ever he is? He’s not sitting around waiting for you to walk back into his life. So why are you?”
I let her words replay in my mind, hoping they might actually sink in for once. It’s not like I haven’t had the exact same thought a million times before …
My heart just isn’t ready to accept it.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Ford
“Not that you’re not welcome to live out the rest of your days on my living room sofa,” Nic stands over me, a mug of coffee between her palms, “but it’s been a year now, and I feel like you should probably start thinking about figuring your shit out.”
I lost everything.
My job. My career. My house. My livelihood.
Everything.
Nicolette takes the spot beside me, pushing my feet out of the way, and I sit up, dragging my palms down my scruffy face.
“You’re a shadow of your former self, Fordie,” she says with a half-hearted chuckle, though there’s concern in her eyes.
I never told her what transpired last year. I was too ashamed. Too proud to admit I’d fucked up and thrown away everything I worked for over a girl.
“Have you thought about talking to someone?” my sister asks.
Tossing my blanket off, I rise. I should shower. I can’t remember the last time I showered. It’s not that I don’t shower every day, I just literally don’t remember any of it. I couldn’t begin to tell you what I had for dinner last night or what day of the week it is.
I’m simply existing in this weird little bubble with no concept of space or time. I don’t think about tomorrow. I try not to think about yesterday. Everything blurs and blends together. It’s easier that way. It’s easier to avoid mirrors and calendars and anything else that might lure me out of this limbo headspace and back into reality.
“No,” I answer her. “I don’t need to talk to anyone.”
“Then maybe try to get out of the apartment a little more?” She shrugs. “Sometimes you don’t leave for days. I go to work and I come home and you’re in the exact same place you were when I left you.”
“You don’t have to say anything els
e.” I wave my hand to silence her. “I know I’m pathetic. I know you feel sorry for me. I know you’re worried about me.”
“Damn right, I’m worried about you. This isn’t you. You are not my brother. You’re not Ford Hawthorne,” she says, voice pitched. “And it scares the hell out of me.”
Her easygoing demeanor fades, and for the first time since our father passed, I see tears in my sister’s eyes.
Sinking down into a chair across from her, I hold my head in my hands. “Fuck.”
She’s right. This isn’t me.
And maybe deep down, I already know that.
Maybe that’s why I avoid my reflection like the plague.
Maybe that’s why I spend my days holed up in this shoebox apartment, hiding from the rest of the world.
“Go for a run or something,” she says. “You used to run all the time. Go run. Go to the coffee shop every morning so you can at least have some human interaction. Just do something. You can’t sit around here anymore.”
“Are you kicking me out?” I half-chuckle, though I know she’s fully serious.
“I don’t think I have a choice, do I?” She worries her lower lip. “I love you, Ford. You’re my brother. My best friend. But I want you to be happy. And at this point, I’m enabling your unhappiness. I love you too much to do that.”
“So, it’s settled.” I sit up, my eyes locking on hers from across the tiny room. “I’ll be out of your hair by the end of the week.”
Her nose scrunches. “Where are you going to go?”
“Not sure yet.” Shrugging, I add, “As far away as possible.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Halston
Another Year Later …
I’m going to call him, “Judd the Dud.”
The guy sitting across from me at the cheapest pizza place in Campus Town checks football scores on his phone, laughing and nodding to himself before firing off a text message.
I yawn, cursing Lila’s name for setting up this blind date.
Judd Johnston is the epitome of a Hollister-wearing Joe Anybody, who has lived in Illinois his entire life, has a perfectly boring family, is majoring in ‘Business’ and can’t carry on an interesting conversation to save his life.
And the worst thing about him?
He doesn’t fucking read.
Hates books.
“I’ve never been into reading,” he told me five minutes ago. “Books are just boring to me.”
“Wonder what’s taking our pizza so long?” I ask, spinning my napkin ring and resting my head in my hand. I’ve already rearranged the parmesan cheese and red pepper flake shakers, and I’ve taken a field trip to the bathroom just to get away from Judd, but it’s been twenty-minutes and we’re still sitting here, staring at each other with dead eyes.
He adjusts his visor, which must be a thing here at Greatwood. All the guys wear backward visors and boat shoes and they all have messy, long-ish hair. To the untrained eye, these guys would be cute. They’d be worth the random fling or hookup.
But my tastes have matured since Kerouac.
And none of these boys hold a flame to what I really want.
When our waitress finally delivers the goods, I wolf down three pieces before he finishes his first, and then I tell him I have a test to study for the next day.
“But it’s a Friday,” he says.
“It’s an online class.” I try to sound remorseful. “Thanks for the pizza though. See you around!”
Before he has a chance to contest my early termination of this God-awful date, I’m already out the door, practically jogging toward the bus stop to catch the next one. When I get back to the off-campus apartment I share with Lila, she’s curled up on the sofa with her newest flavor-of-the-month watching some cheesy reality show on the DVR.
Springing up, she’s all smiles, resting her hands on the small of her back as she follows me to my room.
I kick off my heels, yank out my earrings, and strip down, changing into a thin white tank top and a pair of pajama shorts.
Lila’s smile fades when she checks the time on her phone. “It’s only seven o’clock.”
“Yep.”
“So it didn’t go well with Judd?” Her frown borders on a pout.
“To say the least.” I plunk myself down on my bed, shoving a pillow behind my neck. “I just want to Netflix and chill right now. By myself.”
“Lame.” She exhales, taking a seat on the edge of my desk. “What was wrong with him? Why didn’t you like him?”
Resting my forearm over my eyes, I say, “I don’t know. He was boring.”
She’s quiet for a beat. “He’s not Kerouac. That’s what you’re trying to say.”
Sitting up, I roll to my side, facing her. “Not true.”
“Bullshit.” Crossing her arms, she rolls her eyes. “Look, I know Judd isn’t Kerouac, but that’s the whole point. You need to move on. You need to see that there are other guys out there who aren’t him.”
“Regardless, he’s not my type.”
“Fine. Whatever. Don’t date Judd. Who the hell cares? Just stop comparing every guy you meet to Kerouac because there’s only one of those, and he moved on a long time ago.”
Rolling to my back, I close my eyes. I know Lila’s right.
But it doesn’t change the way I feel.
He’s the only one I want.
The only one I’ll ever want.
Chapter Forty
FORD
“You’re American, right?”
I’m sitting at the end of a bar in Milan when a leggy brunette sidles up to me, a martini glass in her left hand. Her wide mouth forms a smile and she tosses her thick waves over one lanky shoulder.
Glancing toward her for a split second, I turn my attention back to the whiskey sour I’m nursing.
“Sorry. I thought you were American,” she says, biting her lip.
“I am,” I finally respond.
“Oh, jeez.” The woman clasps a hand at her chest. “Thank God. I don’t speak any Italian. I’m here for a modeling job, and I’m new at all of this.”
I take a sip, staring straight ahead at the backlit shelving unit before me and the shiny bottles of liquid amnesia.
I was never much of a drinker until the last couple of years, always opting to do so socially or with a good book and an even better cigar. But lately, I’ve found a strong drink takes the edge off, and as long as I don’t overdo it, I manage to straddle the line between the past and future just enough to function.
“Where are you from?” she asks, elbow resting on the bar, her entire body facing me.
I’m not sure how to answer her. As of right now, I’m not really from anywhere. Ever since my sister kicked me off her couch last year, I’ve been drifting around from country to country, taking in the sights with nothing but a backpack on my back. Contract work pays my bills, mostly writing or translating academic write ups into English. Sometimes I’ll teach some ESL classes. I take what I can get, and so far, I’ve been getting by just fine.
“You’re seriously just going to ignore me?” she asks. “I’m just trying to make conversation, not hit on you. It’s been a week since I’ve spoken to someone without an accent, and I heard you order your drink, that’s how I knew you were American. I’m homesick. And you looked nice. Guess I was wrong.”
I smirk, taking another sip. “Yeah. You were.”
From the corner of my eye, I watch as she lifts her martini glass, contemplating whether or not she wants to splash her drink in my face. The emerald green liquid sloshes in her hand, threatening to spill over the rim before she takes a step back then trots off in her sky high stilettos.
Absinthe.
She was drinking absinthe.
Even thousands of miles away, I can’t get away from her.
Chapter Forty-One
Halston
Another Year Later …
“I’m sorry Halston. The trail ran cold as soon as I got to New York,” the private
investigator I hired to locate Kerouac fills me in over the phone. “Looks like he left Rosefield three years ago, moved to Brooklyn, then after that … nothing.”
“How can there just be nothing?” I ask. My stomach churns when I think about the student loan I took out to pay the investigator, and the fact that it was all for nothing.
“I’m guessing he went overseas,” he says. “For all we know, he could be backpacking in Europe. He wouldn’t have an address there. That’s the only thing I can think of. There’s no death certificate, so he’s still alive. He’s just … not anywhere we can find him.”
Hunched over my computer desk, I rest my palm against my forehead, trying to think. “So there’s nothing else we can do?”
“Not unless you want to pay me to go overseas, but no offense, sweetheart, but even I wouldn’t recommend that. It’d cost you a small fortune. No ex-boyfriend is worth that,” he says. His voice is wise and sharp, and he reminds me of a father figure. “If you were my daughter, there’s no way in hell I’d have let you hire a PI in the first place. A man who walks off like that, leaving you broken hearted? Not worth an ounce of your time or money.”
“You’re sweet to say that, but our situation wasn’t that simple.”
“Oh, hey.” His tone perks. “One other thing. He’s got an ex-stepbrother who lives in the Silicon Valley area. Name is Mason Foster. He’s some tech billionaire. I tried calling him several times, but he never would get back to me.”
I lift a brow. I had no idea he had a step-brother. In fact, he never really spoke about his family at all.
“I can give you his number if you’d like. Maybe you’ll have better luck?” He clears his throat, rattling off ten digits that I scribble down as fast as I can.
P.S. I Hate You Page 37
