This Love (This Boy Book 3)

by Jenna Scott

  I drain the pasta and preheat the oven, watching Milla make the cheese sauce. I have no idea how she always manages to create such deliciousness out of such simple ingredients. Butter and flour get stirred into a roux in a saucepan, and then she starts whisking in the cheeses and sour cream. I’m already drooling.

  She’s still working on the cheese sauce when her phone starts buzzing again.

  “Oh God, is that Isabel again?” she asks.

  Walking over to the table, I see her screen says MOM. Oh boy.

  “Uh, it’s your mom,” I tell Milla. “Do you want it, or should I hit decline?”

  Over at the stove, I see her shoulders go stiff. “She never calls me. Something’s up.” She wipes her hands on a dish towel and holds out her hand. “I’ll take it.”

  She heads to the window, phone to her ear. “Hello? Mom…please calm down.” Her voice is unnaturally soft considering it’s a conversation with Helena. “Okay. Okay. Mm-hmm. Why don’t you start at the beginning.”

  I’m not eavesdropping as much as overhearing her talk on the other side of the room. Whatever the call is about, I can tell by Milla’s pacing that it’s upsetting her—though considering her shitty relationship with her mom, it’s kind of par for the course.

  Sighing, Milla gestures at me to turn the heat off under the cheese sauce, and then she wanders down the hallway toward the bedroom again. Her voice echoes as she goes. “But that doesn’t mean you have no options, Mom.”

  Seconds later, my own phone starts ringing in my pocket. I’m both horrified and not surprised at all to see that it’s my dad calling. It doesn’t seem like a coincidence. Clearly, he and Milla’s mom have broken up, and it’s probably getting messy.

  My stomach sinks as I pick up. “What’s up, Dad?”

  “Hey. I have some news,” he says.

  “Let me guess. This has something to do with Helena,” I say dryly.

  There’s a pause of silence. Is he that shocked that I know what’s going on?

  “Hunter, listen. I’m getting married,” he finally says.

  The floor drops out from under my feet. “Sorry? What did you just say?”

  “I’m getting married,” Dad repeats.

  “What the fuck? You’re marrying Camilla’s mom?”

  He starts laughing, and my heart’s pounding so fast I feel like I might actually have a heart attack. If he marries Helena, that would make me and Milla siblings by law.

  “God, no,” he says. “She threw a bottle of scotch at my head when I told her the news. I told her she had to move out after that.”

  Ah. Hence the upsetting call to Milla just now. I can’t help the relief from sounding in my tone as I make my way out the French doors in the living room and onto the balcony. I could use some air. “So who is it?”

  “Her name is Annette. The firm hired her a few months back, but it wasn’t until a couple of weeks ago that I realized how compatible we are. I proposed last night—”

  “Spare me the bullshit,” I interrupt, not caring at all about the details of his wooing and cheating. “How old is this one?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “How old is she, Dad?” I’m pacing the balcony now, my stomach turning.

  “I don’t really think that’s relevant—”

  “Is she your intern?” I interrupt.

  “Jesus Christ. She’s an associate. What difference does it make?”

  A sigh of disgust huffs out of me.

  God, he’s disgusting. First, he cheats on his wife with my girlfriend’s mom, and then he cheats on her with yet another fresh twenty-two-year-old from work. Whom he is now planning to marry. Which technically isn’t even legal until his divorce is finalized, but I’m sure he’ll figure out a way to expedite that. I guess Karleigh was pushing thirty, and Lord knows my father doesn’t want to be married to anyone that old.

  “Well, I’m not sure why you called to tell me this,” I say. “Good luck with your new wife.”

  “I’m calling you to let you know that I expect you to be at the wedding. And it had better not be with that attitude.”

  “That is not going to happen,” I say flatly.

  “Like it or not, Hunter, you’re my son,” Dad says, his voice dropping low. “And I’ll need you to look after Harrison.”

  “Ah. It all makes sense now. You need a babysitter.”

  “Consider it a show of gratitude for the million I had to donate to get you into that college.”

  It’s low of him to use Harrison and the Stanford donation to emotionally blackmail me, but at the same time, it’s so Dad. My patience to deal with him is disappearing, so I cut the conversation short and head back inside.

  Milla’s in the kitchen, just putting the casserole dish of macaroni and cheese into the oven. “Hey,” she says, taking off the oven mitts and coming toward me. “I have to tell you something…”

  “What, that my dad threw your mom out of the house after she threw a bottle of scotch at him, and even though he’s not divorced from Karleigh yet he’s already got another trophy wife lined up?”

  For a second Milla just looks at me, speechless, and then for some reason I can’t explain, we both burst out laughing at the same time.

  “It’s all just so…fucked up…” she forces out between giggles.

  “At least we won’t be stepsiblings,” I say.

  It’s enough to sober us up, and Milla wraps her arms around my waist and leans into my chest, still catching her breath. “You wanna know what my mom’s parting words of wisdom were? ‘See, Camilla? This is proof you need to bag a rich man while you’re still young.’ She’s the actual worst.”

  “I’m sorry.” I hug her tighter against me.

  She lets out a long sigh. “Thank God we aren’t fucked up like our parents.”

  “I don’t know about all that. We’re definitely fucked up.” I laugh. “But you know what? Even if we are, we’re still not as fucked up as they are.”

  Milla giggles. “I’ll drink to that. Speaking of which…got any champagne around here? I’d at least like to toast their breakup.”

  “I think I have just the thing.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Camilla

  For all the progress Hunter and I have made since getting back together, there’s still one thing he’s not happy about: Professor Laurens. But I’m just as unhappy with his suspicion and paranoia, so our compromise is that we don’t talk about it. I do make mentions of my TA work and what I’m learning about in my Lit class—because I love both of them so much—but I try to keep it to a minimum, just to keep the peace.

  I’m on my way to the professor’s office to drop off my latest batch of pre-graded papers when I run into Luke. He waves me over.

  “Hey, Camilla. Going up to see Laurens?”

  “Yup. I told him I’d swing by today to drop these off.” I tap the thick folder I’m carrying. “You?”

  “Same. I’ve been photocopying handouts all morning and this paper weighs a ton.” He tilts his head toward the backpack he’s carrying. “I’ll walk up with you.”

  Despite sharing TA duties with Luke, we haven’t actually spent much time together outside of class. We’re still splitting up tutoring time at the Green Library on alternate afternoons, and Laurens has us taking turns with lecture prep as well.

  As we head up the stairs, Luke says, “How are you liking the TA work?”

  “I love it,” I gush. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve thought about changing my major. Psychology is great, but whenever I go to Lit, something in my brain just lights up.”

  He nods. “I’ve always excelled in the arts, myself. I knew I’d be an English major the second I had to start thinking about college.”

  “What do you think you’ll do with your degree?” I ask. “I mean, once you graduate. Are you going to teach?”

  “Obviously,” he says, as if I’ve just said the dumbest thing on the planet. “I belong in academia. But I’m also working on a nove
l, and when that gets published I may have to take some time off from teaching to do a tour. And then who knows? I might go on sabbatical to labor over my sophomore effort. You?”

  It’s hard not to roll my eyes at his pomposity. “When” his novel gets published? A book tour? His sophomore effort?

  “I planned to go into youth and family counseling, but we’ll see,” I say, keeping it short and sweet.

  “How noble of you,” he says, but it doesn’t sound like a compliment.

  It’s kind of a relief that we’ve reached Professor Laurens’ office. The door is open as usual, but Luke knocks on the doorframe and announces us.

  “Come on in,” the professor bids us. “Glad you’re both here. It’ll save me from having this conversation twice.”

  We hand over our papers and Laurens gestures for us to sit.

  “I mentioned at the start of the semester that I’d need help with my panel for the LA Book Awards,” he says.

  “Yes!” I blurt out excitedly. “I’m so excited. You’re going to have such an amazing time.”

  Laurens grins. “Actually, we’re all going to have an amazing time. The event is this weekend, and I’d like both of you to come with me. If you’re available, that is.”

  My stomach flutters. When he mentioned LABA, I thought he meant he was going by himself—not that the TAs would go with him. This is incredible.

  “It’ll be your chance to network with people in the industry, make connections with others in academia…which I know is of particular interest to you, Luke. The university is covering travel and accommodations, we’ll all have our own rooms of course, and you’ll also get a stipend for meals and incidentals.”

  Cherry, meet the top of the amazing cake that is every single thing that’s come out of my professor’s mouth in the last minute.

  After I pick my jaw up off the floor, I say, “I’m in. I’ve always wanted to go.”

  “I’m available as well,” Luke says coolly. He probably thinks I’m a total nerd.

  “Excellent,” Laurens says. “Regarding my panel, I’ll be interviewing the winner of the Man Booker prize as well as a few short fiction writers about the psychology and utility of child characters in fictive works—”

  “Oh my God, this panel was made for me!” I interrupt. Beside me, Luke scoffs. Well, whatever. I’m not ashamed of my enthusiasm. “What can I do to help?”

  Laurens goes over the things he needs us to do for the panel and says he’ll e-mail us the full itinerary for the weekend, which is fabulous because I’m buzzing so hard that I barely take in anything he’s said about actual logistics. The coolest part is that we’ll be getting tickets to the actual awards ceremony Friday night, fancy catering and all. Once Laurens’ panel on Saturday is done, he says we’re free to take in the rest of the event on our own. I know there are going to be a few young adult panels and another one with celebrity cookbook authors including Chrissy Teigen and Tia Mowry, so I hope I can at least make it to a few of those.

  On our way back out, I’m in such a good mood that I let my nerd flag fly again. “This is so exciting!” I say to Luke. “Are there any panels you’re looking forward to?”

  He shrugs. “I’m more interested in making connections with editors and literary agents. I hear you’re supposed to buy them drinks and then see if you can work in an elevator pitch. Not that my novel wouldn’t sell on its own merit, but it’s always good to have advance interest.”

  “Totally,” I say, though this isn’t really something I’ve ever given much thought. “What’s your novel about, by the way?”

  “It’s basically a multi-generational meditation on the audacity of the American Dream,” he says. “Canonically speaking, it’s meant to embody the spirit of our country but also act as a criticism of it. I mean, Steinbeck’s America clearly no longer exists.”

  It takes me a few seconds to sift through what he’s just said, and by the time I’m done I realize that he didn’t actually describe a story or characters or a plot at all. Just a theme. Or whatever the heck that was.

  “Sounds deep,” I say, but to be honest, I wouldn’t touch that book with a ten-foot pole. Unless I had insomnia.

  “It is,” Luke brags. “Most people won’t get it, but I’m not writing for the masses. It’s just been too long since a novel really said something profound and significant, you know? Everybody eats up these formulaic airport bookstore paperbacks, but they’re like air. You read the book, you toss it, you forget it. What’s the sense in that? It’s time to bring back the Great American Novel. Something bold and evocative.”

  “Mmm. Right.”

  We make our way out of the building, and I spot Hunter at the bottom of the steps, a scowl forming on his face. I say goodbye to Luke, then rush to Hunter and tackle him with a hug. He catches me in his arms and lifts me up to kiss me.

  “Someone’s excited to see me,” he says as he sets me down, any traces of jealousy gone from his features. “Or maybe you’re just excited to get lunch.”

  “I am, but that’s not all!” I beam up at him. “Professor Laurens invited me to go to the LA Book Awards with him!”

  Just like that, Hunter changes from warm to icy. “Ah. I see.”

  Here it comes. The jealous macho shit that we really have to address. He can’t keep acting like this, not when Professor Laurens is one of the most important people in my academic life right now, and not when being a TA helps pay for my tuition. Not only that, but I get a lot out of it. In a weird way, it feeds my soul.

  “What do you see, exactly?” I ask. “Because you don’t sound happy for me.”

  “That’s because I’m not.”

  I deflate. “But—”

  “You’re not going,” Hunter says flatly.

  I pull away from him. “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. You’re not going anywhere with that teacher, let alone for an overnight stay at a bougie-ass hotel four hundred miles away from here.”

  Is he…he’s for real, isn’t he? “Well, it’s not like I’ll be alone with him. Luke’s going too. Plus, we’ll all be in our own separate hotel rooms, and—”

  “No,” Hunter cuts me off. “You’re not going, end of discussion. I can’t believe you even considered it.”

  I pull up short on the path and step out of the flow of traffic, crossing my arms over my chest. Did he just tell me I’m not going somewhere I want to go? Because of his jealousy issues and his overprotective impulses?

  “Fuck you, Hunter. You don’t own me. I’m an adult and I get to make my own decisions about my life.”

  “It’s for your own good—”

  “No, Hunter, it’s for yours.” I take a deep breath, hardening my voice and face. “This isn’t even about me. It’s about you and your insecurities. You said you trust me.”

  He flinches, and I don’t know if he’s hurt or angry. “You’re the one who doesn’t realize the danger of—”

  “And you’re the one who still thinks my future should hinge on you!” I yell. There’s obviously still unresolved anger that I’m holding on to from my past relationship with Hunter, and it all comes pouring out of me now. “This is my life!”

  “You’re not spending the night with two men—”

  “Separate.” I clap my hands. “Rooms.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Look. Until you can figure out a way to deal with the fact that you can’t be there as a chaperone every time I’m around other men…” I take in a large breath, my heart hurting as I make myself say what comes next. “Don’t bother talking to me.”

  Hunter grabs my hand. “Milla, listen—”

  “No.” I yank myself free. “I’m going.”

  He stares at me with his jaw clenched tight, eyes incredulous. I wait for him to say something, but he stays silent, telling me that he thinks he’s in the right, and is trying to come up with something that will turn this around on me.

  I don’t want this to be a breakup, but right now I’m angry and I n
eed to cool down. And since he’s not talking, neither am I, so I turn around and walk away.

  Any hopes that I had of Hunter chasing after me and apologizing for overreacting are quickly dashed. He stays away from me for the rest of the day. Then the day turns into another, and another, until we’re at the end of the week and I haven’t so much as caught a glimpse of him except in History, when he acted like I wasn’t even there. I’m miserable that we’re not spending time together, but also proud of myself for standing my ground. He’ll come around. He has to.

  In the past, anything I’ve pushed hard for—such as keeping my friendship with Emmett, or setting boundaries for our physical relationship—has been accepted by Hunter, even if he didn’t necessarily like it. So I’m thinking (hoping) it’ll be the same this time. That he’ll soon realize he overreacted, and that he can’t treat me like a child or an object that he owns. Especially considering the fact that the only “evidence” he has against Professor Laurens is a gut feeling that the man is interested in me—a feeling Hunter gets about anyone who looks my way.

  I don’t text or call. Neither does he. And even though I want to go knock on his door and rip him a new one until he apologizes for how he’s acting, I hold firm. It’s not my first Hunter rodeo, and I know these are just his avoidant tendencies rearing their ugly heads, per usual. Unfortunately, as each day goes by, my self-righteous anger burns hotter and hotter, to the point where I decide that just on principle, there’s no way in hell I’m going to be the one to reach out and make peace.

  Then Friday comes, and Hunter still hasn’t made any move to calm the waters between us. I’m more upset about his silence than I should be, and I wonder if he’s just sitting around expecting me to extend the olive branch. If he is, he’ll be waiting a long time, because I know I didn’t do anything wrong. I won’t be showing up with my tail between my legs, crying about how he was right all along, and promising that yes, I’m going to be a good girl and skip the awards. He’s the one who needs to check his attitude here, and until he realizes that, he’s not hearing a peep from me.