This Hurt (This Boy Book 2)

by Jenna Scott

  “Girl please, I have a million pairs.” Isabel goes over to her walk-in closet, rummages through a drawer, and emerges with a folded pile of sleek pjs that I’m sure are made by some fancy designer. “Wear these.”

  “Thanks,” I say, taking them off her hands. “Oh my God, these feel like butter.”

  “They’re bamboo. You can keep them.” Isabel turns back to the screen while I change, sipping at her mug of tea as she changes tabs to look at images of flowers.

  “Have your Knights demanded more shrubberies?” I ask, trying to sound light.

  “Nah. This is for side project number forty-four: the spring formal.” She jots something down on her notepad as I sit back down.

  Oh right. Spring formal is just around the corner. I’d never paid attention to school functions, but now that Isabel’s brought it up, I find myself wondering if Hunter would’ve invited me. If he’d want to match his tie to my dress, and insist on getting us a limo, and then pull me over to a quiet corner to slow dance with me.

  Nah. He’d probably say school dances are lame.

  Concern lines Isabel’s face as she regards me. “I know what you’re thinking about. It’s all over your face.”

  A sigh leaves me. She’s right. All these feelings are eating a hole inside me.

  “It’s just…” The words get stuck in my throat, because really, what can I say? “I really liked him, and I trusted him, and it sucks that he did what he did.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, he did seem super broken up about it,” she says. “Pretty sure that’s the most I’ve seen him emote in years.”

  My gut says she’s right about Hunter. But that would mean he does have feelings for me, and it’s even scarier to think he took that scholarship away out of love. What kind of twisted person thinks it’s okay to ruin someone else’s life in order to keep them close? That’s not love. That’s possession, control, entitlement. He felt so entitled to me, it didn’t matter what he had to do to stop me from leaving.

  “Who messes with someone’s future like that?” I say, shaking my head.

  “A jackhole, that’s who,” Isabel answers, very seriously. “How did you find out? Did the committee tell you?”

  I try and fail to suppress a shudder. The memories are too fresh, too intense, too much. “I overheard his dad telling him. I was hiding under the bed.”

  Her eyes widen and she gasps. “You dumped him right after sex?”

  “I had to.” My fingers close into fists, all those memories bombarding me.

  “You know what? I’m proud of you. Standing up for yourself and fighting that terrible case of Hunter-itis.” She pats my hand. “A lot of girls wouldn’t even blink if he did something like that. Rumor has it he’s packing a miracle in his pants.”

  I mean, it’s not a miracle, but it is something he’s packing all right. My expression must give me away, because Isabel shoots me a look.

  “What?”

  She shrugs. “Guess the rumors are true.”

  Embarrassment spreads heat to my cheeks and I bury my head in my hands. “Please don’t remind me that I ended up becoming just another number on the very long list of girls Hunter has fucked.”

  “Sorry.” Isabel shuffles in her seat and looks away. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “I know,” I reassure her. “I’m just angry at myself for believing I wouldn’t end up on that list. You wanna know the worst thing about all of this? I still like him. That’s why I’m cutting him off. Because I know if he starts talking, I’ll forgive him. Because I miss him. He’s put a torch to my scholarship, and somehow, I miss him.” I look at her. “How can I miss him?”

  “You need a distraction.” Isabel chews her lip as she thinks, then glances at her desktop screen and then back to me with a grin. “Join the spring formal dance committee with me! You can let that massive amount of planning and work take over your whole mind so you won’t have to think about assholes anymore. Plus, it’ll be fun.”

  “I don’t know,” I tell her. “I still have babysitting hours with Harry.”

  Although, truth be told, I’m seriously considering telling the Becks that I quit. I need the money more than ever now, thanks to the epic scholarship fail, but I don’t know if I can stand to be at their house.

  “Don’t worry, we can work it out.” Isabel’s talking fast now, a sign that this conversation’s about to become a force unto itself, and it’s not going to stop until I give in. “Come on, Milla, let’s do it! One of the girls I tutor is on the committee and asked me to join since last year they ended up with a theme called ‘Golden Showers.’ Ugh.” Isabel closes her eyes and shudders. “They need us to step in and pull together a classy theme that doesn’t double as a sexual entendre.”

  I’m dubious. “Are you seriously telling me they threw a spring formal with ‘Golden Showers’ as a theme—”

  “Yep. Just last year. And it was popular. I guess the adults in charge loved the gold and the glitter and never bothered to google it. It’s like Urban Dictionary doesn’t exist on their internet.”

  Before I can help it, I’m picturing a massive banner saying SPRING FORMAL: GOLDEN SHOWERS. A small laugh bubbles on my lips.

  Isabel grabs one of my hands in both of hers. “Seriously, it’ll be great! You’re already laughing.”

  “Fine. You win,” I concede. “Show me what you’ve already planned.”

  We spend half an hour going over her Pinterest boards, Excel sheets listing different sets of decorations depending on theme, and some very detailed sketches she’s made for each possibility: Enchanted Forest, Ancient Macedonia, Roaring 20s. I don’t know how she’s had time to pull all this together. Honestly, if I come to find out Isabel has a Time-Turner stashed away somewhere, it won’t surprise me in the least.

  Around midnight we both start yawning, so we brush our teeth and climb into bed together. Her sheets are soft-washed linen, and her mattress is made of clouds. Any other time, I’d have instantly fallen asleep, but tonight, I can’t.

  Even though Isabel’s been trying to distract me, as soon as she’s out, my thoughts go back to Hunter. How he felt. How he kissed. How he touched.

  But more importantly: how he hurt me. And I remind myself that that’s what I’ll truly need to focus on if I’m going to banish him from my mind once and for all.

  Chapter Six

  Camilla

  No one is less shocked than me when my mother doesn’t bother reaching out after I leave home with no explanation. I have no idea if she thinks I ran away for real, assumes I’m staying with a friend somewhere else in La Jolla, or if she really doesn’t give a shit either way. Regardless, it’s obvious I’m on my own for the time being.

  It took all the guts I had to type up a resignation email to Mr. and Mrs. Beck, explaining that I won’t be able to take care of Harry for the foreseeable future, as some “unforeseen circumstances” have arisen that require my focus. I tried to sound as professional as possible, even though I’d heard for myself exactly how Mr. Beck sees me, courtesy of his monologue about booting me off the scholarship list. And I’m sure Mrs. Beck told him all the details about how she’d seen me fleeing Hunter’s room in tears the other morning. I can’t imagine how poorly they must think of me.

  So it’s a nice surprise when Mrs. Beck replies on their behalf, telling me that she’s sorry to see me go but that they’d be happy to have me back if things change. In the meantime, I can only assume that my mother is taking on my Harry duties, at least temporarily, which makes me feel even more guilty about quitting so abruptly. She’ll do the bare minimum, but she won’t play games like I do, or arrange his snacks into faces, or help him build Lego castles or pillow forts. It’s not her style. But I just can’t force myself to go over there and put on a happy face and pretend everything’s normal. I’d probably have a total meltdown, and in front of Harry no less. Quitting is for the best.

  At least, that’s what I try to convince myself.

  Every mornin
g I wake up at Isabel’s, disoriented at first and then suddenly crushed by an invisible weight. Grief, panic, shame, sadness, all of it steals my will to get out of bed. It’s like I’m detached from my physical body, unable to feel anything other than wave after wave of bleak emotions and a dull pain in my chest.

  I pull the covers over my head, hoping Isabel will just leave me here to rot.

  “Come on, Milla,” she coaxes from the doorway, the smell of bacon reaching past the sheets. “He doesn’t deserve your agony. And besides, I made bacon and eggs!”

  “How could I say no to the food of the gods?” I joke weakly.

  “You can’t! That’s the whole point.”

  She’s been hustling all week to cheer me up and I feel terrible that I can’t just slap on a happy face and pretend I’m starting to get over things. But still I force myself to eat, get dressed, wash my face, and comb my hair. The pale, tired face looking back in the mirror is straight out of a Jane Austen movie where some poor side character is wasting away with consumption, but although Isabel has offered me her makeup, I don’t apply any. The energy to care about how I look is simply not there.

  I don’t know how my feet are working, how I can put one in front of the other as we head downstairs and get into her car. She voice-activates a morning playlist, and we drive to school together.

  It’s still early when we get there, and not for the first time, I’m grateful Isabel gets here at ungodly hours. School’s mostly empty, and there aren’t a lot of people wandering the halls or gossiping out loud. Which suits me perfectly fine. This whole week has been gray and dismal and nothing. I prefer to be invisible as I ghost my way through it, numb and heartbroken.

  Isabel and I get our books out of our lockers, and then we go to the library where she corrects materials turned in by the kids she tutors. I try to read the newest Hunger Games book on my phone, but I can’t concentrate, and I find myself going back a few pages for every new one I turn. When the bell rings and Isabel stands, I tell her to go ahead without me. The hallways are way too busy right now, and I’m trying to avoid crowds as much as humanly possible.

  That’s why I barely manage to slide into my seat in time for my first period history class, even though we got here so early. It’s the same for every class that follows, with me hiding out somewhere tucked away—in the library, or the forgotten bathroom on the third floor—until the hallways have the least amount of stragglers.

  Throughout the lessons, I’m completely listless. My eyes are on the board, the pen is in my hands, the notes are getting written—but nothing gets absorbed. Everything the teachers say is going in one ear and out the other because the space between them is filled with something else. Someone else.

  It should be easier to stop thinking about Hunter after he did what he did. It should be easier to pack up the memories as nothing but traumatic luggage and shove it away in a dark corner of my brain. But the lock keeps popping open, scattering the good and bad over my thoughts, mixing them together until I can’t separate what’s what. The bad taints the good, but the good doesn’t taint the bad.

  At least Hunter’s finally gotten the message and has stopped tailing me around school or popping up unexpectedly to try forcing a conversation. Since he knows my schedule almost better than I know it myself, I come to the conclusion that he’s giving me the space I wanted. And now that I have it, I should be able to breathe easier. But this school isn’t that big, and sometimes, I’ll catch a glimpse of him across the hall, or I’ll see his car in the back corner of the student parking lot, and all of a sudden I’m flashing back to that Sunday morning.

  The day my life was shattered because of him.

  Naturally, everyone assumes we broke up because Hunter got bored of me. I mean, it’s the obvious conclusion, isn’t it? The hot, rich guy who has half the school chasing after him couldn’t really be into the hired help for real.

  The weird part is…it seems like he hasn’t told anyone else about my history at La Jolla High. Not that his silence on that front is something I should give him credit for. He went out looking for dirt behind my back, and then used it to his advantage.

  I can’t believe I thought he was different. He’s like every other rich kid, entitled and pissed off when people with less means have an equal chance to succeed. He wanted me to stay wrapped around his little finger, and if he had to take college away from me for that to happen, then so be it.

  And yet, despite all that, I still miss him. I miss him like I’m underwater and he’s air, like I’m freezing in the middle of winter and he’s fire. I miss the silly moments between us, I miss driving to school with him, I miss the sneaky kisses and the warmth of his hands interlaced with mine. I wish I was stronger.

  This is even worse than what happened in public school. At least back then I could take some comfort in knowing my shitty situation was based on lies that had nothing to do with me. This time, I know I’m at least partially to blame. I could’ve avoided all this heartbreak had I listened to my mind instead of my raging hormones. I knew it was all too good to be true. I knew there had to be something else in it for him, and I stupidly thought that something else was affection.

  Lunch and free periods are the worst and I hole up in places where no one can find me but Isabel and Emmett. They try to lift my spirits, offering to take me off-campus to get food and some space. But I always say no, because even though I feel empty, I have zero appetite.

  “You’re worrying us,” Isabel says that day at lunch, anxious, and holds out a plastic-wrapped sandwich from the cafeteria. “At least have a few bites, Milla. Please.”

  I force myself to have some of the sandwich, to chew and swallow. All food tastes like ash now—dry and tasteless and like it’ll choke me on the way down.

  When Debate comes up on Wednesday and Thursday, I skip. I go straight to the library instead and do homework while Isabel tutors, and we go home together afterward. If cutting class gets me in trouble scholarship-wise, I won’t even have to lie about why. Anyone who looks at me now will believe me if I tell them I’ve been sick.

  I don’t notice the minutes passing, or the hours, or the week.

  After school on Friday, Isabel takes me to hang out at Emmett’s. By now it’s blatantly obvious that my mother doesn’t give a shit about me, since I haven’t heard from her all week. It’s probably for the best, but I can’t help wondering if, in some sick way, she’s enjoying this. If she plans on never speaking to me again, just washing her hands of me for good. Maybe that’s what she always wanted.

  The other possibility is that she actually did lose her job because of me. I find it hard to believe, but she seemed so certain. The thought turns my stomach. I can only hope that if she’s unemployed again, I’d have heard something about it by now. No doubt she’d have tracked me down at school and ambushed me there with accusations.

  I’m not sure what exactly Emmett told his mom about my situation, but when we walk through the door there are four varieties of cookies waiting for us, and Mrs. Ortega gives me the tightest embrace I’ve ever experienced in my life. I don’t even know what movie we end up watching, because my mind is a million miles away.

  When I’m lying awake every night next to a softly snoring Isabel, with nothing but my thoughts to keep me company, I inevitably go back to trying to figure out how this all happened. The why behind Hunter’s actions. Why would he ruin my life and then follow me around afterward, desperately trying to explain? Is he that obsessed with getting me back, just so he can treat me like an object or a toy? I can’t make sense of it, and not having closure makes this so much harder to come to terms with.

  Maybe this is what people mean when they say you never forget your first. That regardless of the harm he’s done, of how shitty I feel, I’ll always dwell on the times we laughed together, the times we spent playing with Harrison, the hand holding, the slow kisses, and the hot ones, too. That vulnerable moment at the lighthouse. The flowers.

  No. I have to stop. He r
uined my life. He broke my heart. He thinks I’m shit, the same way everyone else does.

  I grab my cell from the nightstand and check my calendar. Spring break officially starts tomorrow, and I can’t wait to not be at school for a week. I finally get a breather from constantly looking over my shoulder, from worrying that I’ll look up and see Hunter across the hall, his blue eyes blazing into mine.

  This is exactly what I need: space. As much of it as possible.

  Chapter Seven

  Camilla

  On Saturday, I don’t leave the bed for the entire morning. Eyes closed and blankets a plush cocoon around me, I listen to the music Isabel’s playing softly through her speakers, and the soothing sound of her fingers tapping the keyboard. She decided to stay home for the break too, reasoning, “If I want to get drunk, drop acid, and dance on the beach like a fool, I can do that right here—in the company of people I actually enjoy being with.”

  I’d scoffed when she said that, because the girl has never dropped acid or done any other non-legalized drugs in her life. But her point still stood. Neither Isabel nor Emmett are into the kind of shenanigans that tend to happen on spring break.

  Eventually, I can no longer ignore the fact that my bladder is close to bursting, and that as much as I want to, I can’t stay in bed any longer. I get up, and after I come out of the bathroom, Isabel looks up from her screen and says, “I’m gonna head out in a bit to do some fabric shopping for our spring formal dresses. Wanna come?”

  She’s asking with a pleading smile, and as much as I want to stay holed up in her safe, gigantic-but-cozy mansion, I can’t turn down her offer. “Sure.”

  We get ready, and it’s while I’m skimming the bottom of my bag for an unwrinkled dress and cussing under my breath that it finally hits me full force.

  I’m on spring break. I’m on vacation.