Love Me Like I Love You

by Willow Winters

  I don’t look at him. Can’t, if I’m being honest. And it’s for the worst reason. Because I don’t want him to see how torn I am over his breakup with Charlotte. How a part of me is almost happy because I can have my best friend back again. How another part of me hates that, because I genuinely like Charlotte and thought they were good together.

  Lord have mercy, I’m an absolute hot mess. Someone needs to bless my heart already.

  “She met someone.”

  I jerk, so surprised that I misstep. Hollis grabs my upper arm to steady me. “Whoa. You okay?”

  I nod quickly. “Yes.”

  He releases me, and the warmth from his hand lingers. As I let his answer sink in, anger churns inside me, like an impending thunderstorm in the South, ready to unleash the loudest thunder, the fiercest lightning, and the harshest downpour of rain.

  The sign comes into view for Azalea’s, and I focus on walking and not falling prey to any uneven sections of the sidewalk again.

  “I can’t believe she’d choose someone over you.” My words come out sounding almost petulant, but I can’t help it. This is Hollis Barnes we’re talking about. Who in their right mind would choose another guy over him?

  Someone who’s clearly delusional, that’s who.

  An easy laugh rumbles from him. “Shortcake, it’s all good. I told you. It was mutual.”

  Wait. Mutual as in he met someone else too? If so, where is she? Oh, holy hell in a handbasket, please tell me he’s not bringing me out to meet her.

  We stop in the line draping the front of Azalea’s. I’m fairly sure it’s ridiculous to have them check IDs, but they’re going through the motions.

  “I can practically smell the fire, you’re thinkin’ so hard.” His warm breath flutters against my temple, sending a rash of shivers down the length of my spine. He backs away to peer at me, and I finally manage to brave a look at him.

  “So…” I trail off, unsure about asking simply because I don’t know if I want to know the answer.

  “So…” he parrots, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

  “It was mutual, meanin’…?”

  He appears to think it over. “Meanin’, we both realized we made sense in high school, but we want different things now.”

  I frown. “But I thought you loved her.”

  His expression softens, and he traces an index finger between my brows. “I realized there are different kinds of love. Sometimes, though”—his eyes take on a faraway look—“you realize that you’re better off friends instead.”

  I’m about to ask him if he met someone else, too, but he reaches for his back pocket and withdraws his cell phone. He types quickly with a little smirk before repocketing it.

  “My roommate’s here.” His eyes lift to mine and he slings an arm around my shoulders as we move with the line of people, getting closer to the entrance. “You’ll like him. Seems like a good guy.” He leans in, lowering his voice. “Plus, he’s the Lacoste-polo-and-khaki-wearin’ kind who comes from a wealthy family.”

  I roll my eyes. “You know I don’t care about that.”

  “I know.” His gently spoken response silently adds, But your parents do.

  “What’s his name?” We step up and offer our IDs to the bouncer. He checks them with a flashlight and stamps our hands, waving us inside. Hollis guides me in front of him.

  “Preston Dodge.”

  I stop so abruptly, Hollis is barely able to stop himself from barreling into me. My head whips around. “Preston Dodge, as in the Dodge family who has a middle school named after them and a statue of a grandfather in downtown Mobile? The guy whose father is the attorney general of Alabama?”

  He nods. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Oh my stars. The Dodge family is famous as far as local standards go.

  Dazed, I allow him to lead me to the bar. “Want a beer or water? Or somethin’ else?”

  “What are you gettin’?”

  “Beer.”

  My eyes widen. “Really?”

  He laughs. “Come on, Shortcake. It’s college. One beer won’t hurt.”

  “Okay,” I hedge. “I guess I’ll have whatever you’re havin’.”

  A moment later, Hollis hands me my first beer in a plastic cup. It’s cold, and I stare at the contents dubiously. It looks an awful lot like urine. The smell isn’t much better.

  I follow him, careful not to bump into anyone and spill my beer. Once we get to an open barstool at the counter against a wall, he reaches to take my cup and waits for me to slide onto the seat. He sets my beer on the counter and points at it, a stern expression taking place of his usual easygoing one. “Don’t let this out of your sight for even a second.”

  I nod. I’ve heard enough stories about that sort of thing. “I won’t.”

  He glances around, flicking his eyes through the crowd until they stop. He grins and lifts his chin in greeting. I follow his line of sight and discover a guy weaving through the throngs of people and heading our way.

  Wow. There isn’t a doubt in my mind that this is his roommate, the infamous Preston Dodge. I recall seeing a photograph of him and his family on some political commercial but never paid it much attention.

  A tiny laugh bubbles up, threatening to break free, because he’s dressed exactly as Hollis described him. His Lacoste polo shirt is smooth and free of wrinkles, tucked into a pair of khaki pants, a leather belt cinching a narrow waist. On his feet are an expensive pair of leather flip-flops I recognize since Roy only wears the OluKai brand that’s normally shy of two hundred dollars.

  Even in the dim lighting of the bar, his light blue eyes are clear and crisp in color, reminding me of the prettiest afternoon sky in the summer. His nose is straight, and with high cheekbones and an angular jawline, he could probably model if he wanted to. He’s gorgeous.

  Hollis was right. Preston is exactly the kind of guy my parents would love. Heck, the fact that he’s the son of the Alabama State Attorney General would be enough to have them trying to arrange our marriage. However, most of the guys my parents choose for me tend to tip the scales as far as being pretentious as all get-out, so I’m interested to see where Preston falls on that scale.

  “Barnes!” He exchanges an easy handshake-back-slap hug with my best friend before turning his attention to me.

  “And how did this roughneck manage to get you to tag along tonight?” His eyes sparkle with humor. “He bribed you, didn’t he?”

  Hollis shoves at Preston’s shoulder playfully. “I told you I was bringin’ Magnolia.”

  Preston steps closer and extends a hand for me to shake. When I place my palm in his, he says, “Nice to meet you, Magnolia.” Instead of shaking my hand, he swivels his wrist and dips his head to place a light kiss on the back of it.

  “That’s enough, Casanova.” Hollis laughs and tugs my hand from Preston’s.

  Someone calls out Hollis’ name, and he waves before turning to me. “You okay for a moment? I didn’t realize our resident advisor’s lendin’ a hand at the bar tonight.”

  Preston waves him off. “I’ll make sure nothin’ happens to her.”

  Hollis holds my gaze, waiting for me to answer. I nod. “I’ll be fine.”

  The crowd swallows him, and I pick up my untouched beer, anxious for something to do with my hands. I bring it to my lips to take a sip, and as soon as the liquid hits my taste buds, I turn my head to the side to try to casually spit it back into my cup.

  Lord have mercy, that’s positively putrid.

  Then I realize Preston just witnessed this. With an inward wince, I dart a cautious look at him.

  He’s grinning like a fool. “I reckon you’re not a fan of beer, huh?”

  I cover my mouth and laugh. “Sorry about that.”

  “No worries.” He takes a sip of his own half-full cup of beer, amusement sparkling in his eyes as he watches me grimace at his action. After swallowing, he laughs. “I promise it’s an acquired taste.”

  I twist my lips. “Well, let’s just
say I won’t lose sleep over it if it doesn’t happen.”

  He laughs again and slides his phone from his pocket. “Let me text Hollis to grab you a bottle of water while he’s over at the bar.” He types quickly and pockets it.

  When his eyes rest on me again, the interest in them is palpable. He takes another sip of his beer, eyeing me over the rim, before asking, “Well, Miss Magnolia, I know your feelin’s on beer. What I’d really like to know is”—he tips his head to the side—“whether you’re datin’ anyone.”

  I shake my head, unable to break eye contact. “No.”

  His mouth spreads into a wide, satisfied grin. “Well, then. I reckon I know what my goal is now.”

  I furrow my brow in a mixture of curiosity and confusion. “What’s that?”

  He steps closer to where I sit on the barstool and settles his free hand on the counter. His eyes are intent, and determination is evident in his tone when he answers.

  “To change your answer.”

  Magnolia

  AUBURN UNIVERSITY

  FRESHMAN YEAR

  POST-SPRING BREAK

  March

  I’d prefer not to admit the number of times I overheard other girls in my dorm talk about how everything changed when they met a guy—when they met the guy. I always inwardly scoffed at them.

  Then Preston Dodge entered my life. He’s shown me time and again that he’s more than a gorgeous face. More than a son whose family has wealth and notoriety that hails from pre-Civil War days. His easy charm wooed me initially, but then we bonded over stories of being forced to attend etiquette classes and cotillion. Over families who stress the importance of appearances and conducting oneself in public.

  He always does his best to make time for me. We have study dates and get together with Hollis and a few other guys and head to Azalea’s for beers—or, in my case, water—and play pool or darts. Preston and I are, dare I say, nearly perfect for one another.

  Of course, my parents adore him and have accepted him into the fold like they’ve known him for years. I’d considered inviting him home with me for spring break, but he and his friends had already made plans to head to Cabo before we met.

  I admit, I was a bit envious of Preston being able to relax and soak up the sun at a resort while I spent my break at home, pacifying my mother by letting her parade me around to her little gatherings and women’s tea. It was torturous. The only good part of it was when I had time with Hollis in the treehouse. Of course, he was working shifts at the country club for extra money, so I didn’t get as much time with him either.

  The week back at school after the break starts off stilted and awkward between Preston and me. I chalk it up to the struggle of post-vacation exhaustion. I mean, I’m not an idiot; it’s expected drinking would be involved. They’re college guys, after all.

  “Going out with Prepston again, huh?”

  I roll my eyes at Stephanie’s nickname for him, smoothing down my dress while I internally war with myself over my choice of heels. Preston’s due to pick me up for dinner before we attend a party at the fraternity he’s considering “rushing.”

  Prepston. The moniker stuck as soon as the two met. She zeroed in on his collared shirt and pressed khaki pants, the expensive watch on his wrist, and began to call him Prepston to his face. He took it in stride, being the sweet, easygoing guy he is. That’s one of the things I appreciate, and I think I can learn a lot from the way he doesn’t let others’ opinions or comments get to him.

  Plenty of people have opinions on Roy and his decisions and work in the community, and sometimes they aren’t the kindest or politically correct. I’ve been lucky enough not to become the center of attention by default because he’s shielded me as much as possible, but with his aspirations to run for governor of Alabama, I know my reprieve will be short-lived.

  Preston hasn’t had the same experience. He’s told me how his father pressures him to keep up a perfect façade when all he really wants is to be allowed to be a normal college kid.

  “I mean, duh, of course the infamous Prepston’s wining and dining you,” Stephanie continues. She lies on her bed, scrolling through whatever social media thing on her phone.

  I’m the rare person without any social media accounts. My mother continues pressuring me to promote myself on social media, like I’m some sort of a show dog, but it’s one thing I’ve dug in my heels on. I just can’t stomach the idea of playing a part in the fakeness.

  Mother has more followers than our local mayor, and she’s proud of it. Apparently, selfies of her having tea with the ladies at Women’s Club and photos of her fundraising dinners are something to fawn over.

  “Yes, ma’am.” I lean toward the floor-length mirror affixed to the closet door and double-check my lipstick.

  “The power couple of Auburn. Attorney general’s son and a state senator’s daughter,” she muses, still scrolling on her phone. “I can just see the headlines no—”

  I turn, curious as to why she cut off her sentence only to find her staring at her phone with a horrified expression.

  “What’s the matter?”

  Her head jerks up, and when her eyes meet mine, a sense of dread washes over me. “What is it?” I say slowly.

  She worries her bottom lip, glancing down at the screen of her phone, a tormented expression on her face. “Shit,” she breathes out. With a wince, she holds out the phone for me.

  I step closer and accept it, peering down at whatever it is that’s rendered her speechless— Oh, sweet mother of all that’s holy in this world.

  The Instagram photo acts like a pair of invisible fists clenching my lungs, rendering me unable to breathe.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispers raggedly. “But shit, Magnolia.” She buries her face in her hands. “I’d sure as hell want to know if it were my boyfriend.”

  My lips part, then snap closed before I finally compose myself. “Don’t apologize.” I toss the phone onto the edge of her mattress, and she lifts her head to look at me. “It’s not like you twisted his arm and made him have a spring break that resembles the male version of Girls Gone Wild with photos to prove it.”

  I draw in a deep breath, trying to calm myself. “I’m sure his father is on the phone with him now tryin’ to do damage control and get that taken down.”

  She snorts derisively. “Yeah, good luck with that. We live in the age of screenshots.”

  My phone buzzes on my desk with an incoming text message. When I walk over to read the text, I can’t say I’m surprised in the least.

  Preston: Hey, Sugar. Dad called, so I’m running behind. Should be done in ten minutes or so.

  That little nickname—Sugar—now makes my skin crawl.

  Runnin’ behind, huh? I bet.

  Stephanie turns over, flopping onto her back. “And, really. What kind of moronic friends think it’s okay to post this pic and tag him in it? I mean, come on, people.”

  We fall silent for a moment while I mull over how to handle this new development. Instantly, I dredge up all the lessons drummed into my head as far back as I can recall.

  Chin up.

  Posture straight.

  Smile with confidence.

  Act with graciousness, kindness, and poise.

  “Guys are douchebags.” I’ve never heard her speak in such a gentle tone before, and I bristle because I know why she’s doing it. “It’s not a reflection of you.”

  She pities me. That, and she doesn’t know that the scene in that photo might have been warranted. Because things work differently in college, and everyone—even clueless little me—knows it.

  I haven’t slept with Preston yet. And, judging from that photo, the effects of that abstinence had been plaguing him.

  Breathe in, breathe out. I can practically hear the clinking of my battle armor sliding into place.

  I have a date tonight with my boyfriend—no, that’s not right. I have a dinner date with a guy who claimed to be my boyfriend but ended up sucking face—and had roving h
ands on her, too—with some girl in Cabo.

  “Oh, I know that look.” Stephanie backs away. “Just remember, you always say orange washes you out, so prison won’t be a good choice.”

  “Are you feelin’ all right?” Preston asks me. Again. For what must be the tenth time tonight.

  “Right as rain.” I smile prettily while contemplating his dismemberment.

  Someone hollers his name, and it booms over the loud music in the large frat house, drawing Preston’s attention. He lifts his chin at the guy and smiles before turning back to me.

  His features sober, and concern is etched on his face. “Just stressed about your research paper?” He tips his head to the side, and his lips turn down, a frown marring his face. “You need to eat. I should’ve insisted we have dinner anyway.”

  Every single part of my vertebrae stiffens at his words and the pure male chauvinism that colors them. I adopt a casual smile and shrug, glancing past him to survey the crowd of partygoers. I haven’t missed the looks and hushed voices when others spot us. The looks of pity or snide laughter. Like Stephanie said earlier, you can delete a post, but the screenshot can live forever.

  This appears to be the case for the photo Preston was tagged in. When I focus on his face, I’d be lying if I said his attractiveness hasn’t dulled considerably.

  “Guess what?” I inject cheerfulness in my tone and rush on before he can respond. “I’ve just started an Instagram page and wanted to see if you’d be okay with me postin’ a photo of us and taggin’ you.”

  He stills for a split second, and I probably wouldn’t have noticed had I not been paying close attention. His smile is a little tight around the edges now. “Sure.”

  “Great!” I pull out my phone and go into my photos. I select it and turn my phone, a wide smile pasted on my face. “What do you think of this one?”

  The instant his eyes lock on the screenshot I had Stephanie forward to me, he pales beneath his tan. When those blue eyes rise to meet mine, I could easily drown in the guilt visible in the depths.