I Hate You

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  And when Ma brought him pie, he pulled her close and kissed her.

  Beautiful men with enough charm to win over a nun are trouble. It’s why I pick the nice quiet ones; it’s why I have my rules.

  Ryker’s moaning brings me back. His hands cup her ass.

  “Geeze, guys! Your bedroom is literally down the hall.” Grabbing my coffee and the cinnamon roll, I flounce out of the kitchen and go to my room.

  “Sexy mama, gimme a bite!” greets me as I walk in.

  I snort at Vampire Bill. “Ah, you can be sweet. Sorry, dude, this bun might make you sick. How about a celery stick? They’re in the fridge, and we both know I’m not gonna eat them.”

  He cocks his head. “No!”

  I rub his head. “Smart bird.”

  * * *

  Later that day, I head to my appointment with my advisor in the fine arts building, a huge modern structure full of classrooms and personal student studios. I spent a lot of time there last fall, prepping my portfolio. Waylon has one of the best graphic design programs in the country, which was a deciding factor in me coming so far south to attend college.

  “Charisma! So wonderful to see you,” says Dr. Alfonsi as I walk into his office. A handsome man in his fifties with a broad grin and gray at his temples, he’s elegant and stylish in an expensive, well-tailored suit. He’d fit right in at a street cafe in Rome sipping a morning espresso.

  He’s from the Bronx area, and when he saw my hometown on another professor’s advisee list a few years ago, he traded to get me on his.

  He gives me a smile and indicates I should take a seat. “You must come to dinner soon. Anne and I have a pre-med student you should meet. I never brought him up before because he was seeing someone, but not anymore. He comes from a good family in Brooklyn—”

  “Don’t start with the matchmaking, Dr. A. I’m over guys right now.”

  In the past, he’s asked me over for dinner and then a “nice young man” shows up and joins us. One was gay, one picked his nose, and one asked to borrow money from me. I usually go along with those setups because, well, Anne is a great cook, and the food reminds me of home.

  He frowns, the deep lines on his forehead creasing. “Is something bothering you, dear? Has some young man broken your heart?”

  I sigh, not going there. What would I say? The hottest guy on campus left me for an upgrade? “I’m fine, but Prescott canceled my internship this morning.”

  “Oh, no.” His brow knits, and I guess I should have smiled more when I walked in the door, but it’s hard to pretend when this new semester, new you thing isn’t working for me no matter how many pep talks I give myself.

  “I’m sorry, dear. You look terribly unhappy. Let me know if I can write you a new letter for any applications. I’ll do some checking to see if I can find some open spots, but odds are it will be tough.”

  I sigh. “I know.”

  He takes my schedule from my hands and looks it over. He’s wearing a smile when he looks up at me. “This lineup of classes will put you to sleep, Charisma. Come on, spice it up a little. Let’s switch one of these out for something exciting.”

  “Just a few easy classes and I’m out of here.”

  Sayonara Waylon, sayonara Blaze.

  He glances down at the paper and taps his chin. “I’m thinking you need a humanity elective. How about Social Psychology 410 with Dr. Cartwright? He’s very entertaining. No pillow required.”

  A tingle of excitement hits. “Oh! That class is legendary. Rumor is you need special pull—or you have to be an athlete.”

  He smiles. “You have pull with me, and Dr. Cartwright owes me. Would you be willing to take it?”

  Why not? “Sure.”

  He pats me on the back. “Good. I’ll take care of updating your schedule. Now, let me set you up with this fellow. Did I mention medical school already? Mike is very, very handsome. Your mother would be thrilled.”

  He met my parents when they came to visit me one year and had us all over for a cookout.

  I shake my head. “Pass.”

  He cocks his head, his face growing serious as he studies me. “I don’t mean to meddle, dear. I just can’t help myself.”

  I shake my head. “You and my ma are a lot alike.”

  He grabs a Post-it from his desk, scribbles on it, and hands it over to me.

  I take it, staring at the phone number. “Dr. A—”

  He waves me off. “Do what you want with it. You never know, he might just be a good friend. You look like you need one,” he finishes quietly.

  Dang. I must really be off.

  A long exhalation comes from me as I tuck the number in my purse. “Fine.”

  6

  “Need some help?”

  I’m on my tiptoes when the question comes, trying to reach a book on the top shelf in the bookstore at the student center.

  My heart does a nosedive off a cliff as that familiar gruff voice washes over me, his accent a smooth drawl that’s reminiscent of hot summer nights and slow kisses—kisses we never had…well, except for that one time freshman year.

  I ignore him and try to grab the book.

  “You’re too short. Let me,” Blaze says, this time closer, his voice soft, almost placating.

  I suck in a breath. The artist side of me was always drawn to the colors I saw when he spoke, shades of gold and gray, one side of him sunny and easy, the other part wrapped in fog and smoke.

  I ease back on my feet and whip around, internally wishing I’d worn something more I hate you and don’t you wish you still had me, but sadly, I’m not in my kickass shoes and itchy dress. Today it’s flat-soled red Converse, black joggers, and a Yankees sweatshirt. I blow at a piece of hair in my face. Shit.

  Of course, he looks magnificent in a tight long-sleeved black shirt that clings to his broad chest and tapered jeans molded to those leg muscles. His face gets most of my attention, the darkness on his jawline adding a broody look.

  Curse him and his hotness.

  I stare at him a little too long, until I snap out of it.

  “I don’t need help.” My voice is strangled as I move to brush past him—forget the textbooks—but he reaches out and takes my elbow.

  “Charisma—”

  His fingers are a hot brand on my skin—it’s the first time we’ve touched in three months—and I pull away. A tremble starts in my legs. How dare he? It was one thing to see him in a social setting and pretend I was fine, but when we’re face to face without people watching… “Don’t put your hands on me. I’m not your hookup anymore, football player.” My words are sharp, layered with bitterness.

  His face reddens, and he drops his arms. “I didn’t mean—” he stops, not finishing as he studies my face.

  I wonder what he sees. You know what he sees, Charisma—someone who wasn’t up to his usual standards.

  Everything I didn’t say last night rushes out. “Didn’t mean to what? Dump me in the middle of my own sorority’s party in front of all my friends and half of campus? And you know, that’s totally fine. We both knew I wasn’t enough to keep your attention.”

  His jaw clenches and he frowns, his brow furrowing. “I didn’t plan for things to happen that way.”

  “How did you want to break up with me? Over candlelight? A text would have worked just fine,” I bite out.

  He seems to grind his teeth, and his hand balls up as he puts it to his lips. “Things were complicated. It was the middle of football season—”

  “Yeah, too difficult for a jock?”

  It’s not true. I know he’s sharp, but anger eats at me—plus, Dani dances in my head, her hand curled around his arm, staking her claim.

  The silence builds between us, and he watches me intently, as if trying to figure me out. He starts at my hair and works his way down to my feet, then comes back to my face. Just when I think I might combust from the intensity of his eyes, he looks away. “Is that really what you think about me? Just another dumb athlete with a hard-on for e
very girl who walks by?”

  “ITSF.”

  “If the shoe fits?” he asks.

  “Damn you for always knowing my acronyms.”

  His lips tighten.

  “What?” I cock my hip. “You look like you want to say something.”

  He taps his hand against his leg. Ice-blue eyes, ones I used to stare into and get butterflies from, glitter down at me. “You just can’t handle that I ended things, sweetheart.”

  “Not your sweetheart.”

  “Never were.”

  Shit…shit…my heart feels like an anvil just landed on it, heavy and hard, and I can’t breathe for a second at his words, part of me pissed, the other part devastated. I wanted to be his sweetheart, I did, but he…

  You’re not my type.

  “Thanks for the reminder,” I say quietly, my anger folding away piece by piece and slipping into that horrible self-pity I despise.

  He closes his eyes and scrubs his face with those talented hands, strong and big and capable, skillful with a football. I’ve never met someone as devoted to a sport as he is. He doesn’t seem to get enough of training and working out. Perhaps all players are as focused as him; I don’t know. I do know I went to every home game he played at Waylon, way before we hooked up. Part of that was sorority driven—gotta support our players—but he was the one I watched. Number eighty-two.

  Someone slides by us, and I realize we’ve been standing here looking at each other for too long. It’s time to go. I step back from him, and my hands shake as I cling to the books I already got, needing something to keep me anchored.

  He steps in front of me, much like he did last night, blocking me, and I tilt my head back to take him in. At my height of five feet, three inches, it’s hard to glare at a guy who towers over you and not look ridiculous, but I manage—until his eyes flicker with lingering emotion. I drop his gaze. I can handle the smooth-talking Blaze, the one he shows everyone, but it’s that deeper side of him that intrigues me. And I can’t have that.

  I dart my eyes around the store, searching for a way out, but I’m stuck between him and a bookshelf. “You’re blocking my path.” I focus on his legs. No sexiness there—well, except for the tight muscles under that denim.

  “This is what I know,” he says in a low voice, ignoring my statement. “You told me we were just messing around. You set all the rules. Isn’t that how you operate? So why does me ending things with you even matter?”

  “You never asked for more. You could have.” The revealing words fall around us, tinged with hurt, and I want to pull them back.

  Protect your heart, Charisma.

  The silence between us crackles, yet I’m aware of other people around us. There are a few girls on another aisle, and I glance over as one of them pulls out her phone. No doubt she’s taking a picture of him. Part of me retreats, anxious she’ll get me in that photo—a girl who clearly doesn’t belong. He doesn’t notice. Everyone knows who he is, and they’re probably wondering why he’s talking to me.

  I inhale then immediately regret it when his scent hits me: freshly showered male with undertones of crisp pine. I shouldn’t be surprised I smell him. He’s standing way too close. What’s his deal? I decide I hate all pine trees. I will never look at another one again.

  “No, I didn’t,” he finally says, the words taut as if pulled from him unwillingly. He taps his leg, his tell that he’s anxious or angry. We weren’t together long, but every moment we spent together, I studied him like a wine connoisseur given a glass of rare cabernet. I know what makes him laugh, usually random things that make no sense. I know that groan he makes deep in this throat when he slides inside me, like he’s home. I know the feel of his hand when he cups my face and stares at me, a hesitant expression on his face—

  “You can’t even look at me anymore. I wonder why,” he says, his voice a challenge.

  Steeling myself, I face those baby blues. “You know why. I wish we’d never met up last fall. I wish you’d never flirted with me. I wish I’d never fucked you that first time in the library. I hate you—”

  “Same page. Same fucking page, Charisma.” And then he’s walking away, broad shoulders swaying as he stalks down the aisle, straight to where Dani is—staring at the lipstick counter. All hail the beauty queen.

  Seriously, she was crowned Miss Waylon her sophomore year.

  She looks past him and sees me. With a frown, she checks me out, from the top of my ponytail to my red shoes. I know what she sees—a blob in a sweatshirt with no makeup—and obviously, I’m not her competition, but I guarantee she knows I slept with him. She knew at Cadillac’s. Not much gets past those pesky, pretty Thetas.

  His back is ramrod straight, his fists balled up at his sides as he walks past her.

  She tosses back her mane of blonde hair and looks over her shoulder at me with a triumphant smirk as she trots after him.

  He’s mine, her gaze says.

  You can have him! mine shouts back.

  I can’t breathe watching his frame fade away from me as they exit and head out into the student center. There he goes. With her. I lean over and hang on to a nearby shelf, shoulders heavy, emotion building inside me as I replay the night we broke up.

  He said I had rules, but he never asked for more.

  He pushed me away and stalked out of that party and out of my life.

  Memories wash over me, the ones of him pacing on the side of the dance floor, hands twitching at his sides, his face pale as he watched me dance with my sorority sisters, a look of dread on his face. Later, I chalked it up to pre-breaking-up-with-Charisma nerves. He knew he was going to dump me when he walked in that party.

  And what did I do after he left? I ended up in the dark basement of our sorority house, huddled in a corner alone as the party went on upstairs, my arms wrapped around a body that didn’t fit the mold of his perfect type. Blindsided, I cried my eyes out. I fucking cried because he fooled me so, so good. Because underneath, I thought, I thought he was on the same wavelength I was. Wrong.

  But why is he so…angry with me? What have I done? I let him go. He asked for it, he got it.

  A student walks past me and then looks back at me, giving me a lingering glance, and I straighten, realizing I’m still hunkered over on the shelf.

  God, dig up some backbone, Charm. The Blaze era is over. Stop wallowing in this misery and move the F on.

  I pull out the phone number Dr. A gave me and fire off a text to Med School Mike. Might as well get back in the saddle.

  7

  It’s past five on a Friday, and I’m leaving the gym when my phone rings. Aunt Lorraine. I grapple with my bag to hit the answer button before it goes to voice mail. I called last night but she didn’t pick up. Uncle Jack never does, so I didn’t even try him.

  “Hey, Aunt Lorraine, what’s up? Guess you saw I called?”

  “Yeah. How are things going?” Her voice is distracted, and I hear the girls in the background. I picture them in their house with the huge cotton field behind it. Over fifty years old, it’s a ranch-style brick her parents left her along with a small farm. She lost them at nineteen, married Jack at twenty, and started having babies at twenty-one. Then I came along.

  “About this dinner thing…” Her voice trails off as one of the girls starts whining, and I can tell by the rustling that she’s covering the phone and telling someone to be quiet—Suzie, the youngest, I bet. Last time I was there was Christmas Day, and she’d grown nearly a foot since the summer.

  Her voice is back, a hint of exasperation there. “Sorry. Kid drama. Suzie and Carrie don’t want to clean their room.”

  “Ah. Well, give my sister-cousins a hug from me, will you?”

  “Sure.” She pauses.

  I tense up, waiting for her to speak. I really want them to make the awards dinner for the national championship, and it’s just…stupid.

  “Look, Blaze, I’m sorry we didn’t make the game, but I’m sure you understand. It was in Miami, and we couldn’t r
eally afford to fly down, plus with the girls…”

  I stop at my truck, an older model black Chevy, and lean against it. We had this conversation after we won, but I let her go on, knowing she’s building up.

  “I get it. Work and the girls…it’s hard to get away.”

  “Exactly.”

  “The awards dinner is here in Magnolia,” I say. A three-hour drive, no plane necessary.

  She sighs. “Ellen has a play that same night. It’s a big deal now that she’s in high school and convinced she wants to be an actress. Gah, fifteen and killing me with the boys.”

  I picture Ellen, tall and pretty with a big smile and bright red hair. Disappointment brushes at me, but I’m used to it from them, and I shove it down. I make my voice upbeat when I speak. “That’s awesome. She didn’t tell me that the last time she texted. What play is it?”

  “She’s Ariel in The Little Mermaid. Her performance starts at six and your dinner is at seven, and I just don’t know how we can be in two places at the same time.”

  “That would be difficult.”

  “Blaze…I’m sorry.”

  But is she truly? Dry as dust and religious, she and my uncle are small-town, hardworking people who face the world with resolve and grit. Emotions aren’t expressed. Affection, at least for me, was rare. They took me in because duty demanded it.

  “Ah, it’s okay, Aunt Lorraine.”

  I’ll be the only person there without a family member, but I can play it off like I usually do—big smile, lots of jokes.

  She goes on to tell me about the girls, and I end up pacing around the lot and talking to Suzie and Carrie, too. Eventually I end the call and tuck my phone in my side pocket.

  The smell of peppermint hits me and I falter, nearly tripping as I stop and walk back to see if she’s behind me. Shit. She’s not. Of course she isn’t. Why would she be in the parking lot of the field house?