This Girl: A Novel

by Colleen Hoover

  I raise up and lean forward, crawling on top of her. “Thank God she knew how we both really felt, though. Do you think you would have showed up at the slam the night before my graduation if she didn’t encourage you to go?”

  “There’s no way I would have shown up. If it weren’t for her telling me about your conversation with her, I would have continued the rest of the year thinking you didn’t love me like I loved you.”

  I press my forehead against hers. “I’m so glad you showed up,” I whisper. “You changed my life forever that night.

  schooled

  I’VE SPOKEN TO Lake once in the last three months.

  Once.

  You would think it would get easier, but it hasn’t. Especially today, since my last day of student teaching is finally over. I graduate tomorrow, which should be a day I’m looking forward to more than anything. Instead I’m dreading it, knowing Lake won’t be waiting for me.

  There are two emotions in this world I’ve learned I can handle. Love and hate. Lake has loved me at times and she’s hated me at times. Love and hate, despite their polar opposites, are both feelings that are induced by passion. I can handle that.

  It’s the indifference I don’t know how to process.

  I went to her house a few weeks ago to talk to her about my new job at the junior high and she didn’t seem to care one way or another. I would have taken it well if she had been happy for me and wished me good luck. I would have taken it even better if she had cried and begged me not to do it, which is what I was hoping would happen more than anything. It’s the sole reason I even went to tell her about the job in the first place. I didn’t want to accept it if I thought I still had a chance with her.

  Instead, she didn’t react either way. She congratulated me, but the indifference in her voice was clear. She was simply being polite. Her indifference finally sealed our fate, and I knew in that moment that I had messed with her heart one too many times. She was over me.

  She is over me.

  I have a two-week window in which I’ll be nothing. I won’t be a student. I won’t be a teacher. I’ll be a twenty-one-year-old college graduate. I’ve thought about walking straight over to Lake’s house today to tell her how much I love her, even though I’m technically still a teacher, considering the contract I have with the junior high. Not even that would stop me if it weren’t for the way she reacted to me last month with so much indifference. She seemed to have accepted our fate, and it was good to see her handling everything so well, as much as it hurt. The last thing I want to do, or need to do, is pull her back down with me.

  God, this is going to be the hardest two weeks of my life. I need to keep my distance from her, that’s a fact.

  When the audience begins clapping, I snap back to reality. I’m supposed to be judging tonight, but I haven’t heard a single word any of the performers have said. I hold up the standard 9.0 on my scorecard without even looking up at the stage. I don’t even want to be here tonight. In fact, I don’t want to be anywhere tonight.

  When the scores are tallied, the emcee begins to announce the winners. I lean back in my seat and close my eyes, hoping the night goes fast. I just want to go home and get to bed so graduation will come and go tomorrow. I don’t know why I’m dreading it. Probably because I’ll be the only person there who couldn’t find enough people to give my graduation tickets to. The average person never gets enough tickets for graduation. I have too many.

  “I would like to perform a piece I wrote.”

  I jerk up in my seat at the sound of her voice, the sudden movement almost causing my chair to flip backward. She’s standing on the stage, holding the microphone. The guy next to me laughs along with the rest of the crowd once they realize she’s interrupting the night’s schedule.

  “Check this chick out,” he says, nudging me with his elbow.

  The sight of her paralyzes me. I’m pretty sure I forgot how to breathe. I’m pretty sure I’m about to die. What the hell is she doing? I watch intently as she brings the microphone back to her lips. “I know this isn’t standard protocol, but it’s an emergency,” she says.

  The laughter from the audience causes her eyes to widen and she spins around to look for the emcee. She’s scared. Whatever she’s doing, it’s completely out of character for her. The emcee nudges her to face the front of the room again. I take a deep breath, silently willing her to keep calm.

  She places the microphone back in its stand and lowers it to her height. She closes her eyes and inhales when the guy next to me yells, “Three dollars!”

  I could punch him.

  Her eyes flick open and she shoves her hand into her pocket, pulling out money to hand to the emcee. After he takes the money, she prepares herself again. “My piece is called—” The emcee interrupts her, tapping her on the shoulder. She shoots him an irritated glance. I expel a deep breath, becoming just as irritated by all the interruptions. She takes the change from him and shoves it back into her pocket, then hisses something at him that makes him retreat off the stage. She turns back toward the audience and her eyes scan the crowd.

  She has to know I’m here. What the hell is she doing?

  “My piece is called Schooled,” she says into the microphone. I swallow the lump in my throat. If I wanted to move at this point, my body would fail me. I’m completely frozen as I watch her take several deep breaths, then begin her piece.

  I got schooled this year.

  By everyone.

  By my little brother . . .

  by The Avett Brothers . . .

  by my mother, my best friend, my teacher, my father,

  and

  by

  a

  boy.

  A boy that I’m seriously, deeply, madly, incredibly, and undeniably in love with.

  I got so schooled this year.

  By a nine-year-old.

  He taught me that it’s okay to live life

  a little backward.

  And how to laugh

  At what you would think

  is unlaughable.

  I got schooled this year

  By a band

  They taught me how to find that feeling of feeling again.

  They taught me how to decide what to be

  And go be it.

  I got schooled this year.

  By a cancer patient.

  She taught me so much. She’s still teaching me so much.

  She taught me to question.

  To never regret.

  She taught me to push my boundaries,

  Because that’s what they’re there for.

  She told me to find a balance between head and heart

  And then

  she taught me how . . .

  I got schooled this year

  By a foster kid.

  She taught me to respect the hand that I was dealt.

  And to be grateful I was even dealt a hand.

  She taught me that family

  Doesn’t have to be blood.

  Sometimes your family

  are your friends.

  I got schooled this year

  By my teacher

  He taught me

  That the points are not the point,

  The point is poetry . . .

  I got schooled this year

  By my father.

  He taught me that heroes aren’t always invincible

  And that the magic

  is within me.

  I got schooled this year

  by

  a

  boy.

  A boy that I’m seriously, deeply, madly, incredibly, and undeniably in love with.

  And he taught me the most important thing of all—

  To put the emphasis

  On life.

  COMPLETELY.

  Utterly.

  Frozen.

  My eyes drop to the table in front of me when she finishes. Her words are still sinking in.

  A boy that I’m seriously, deeply, madly, incredibly, and undeniably
in love with.

  In love with?

  That’s what she said.

  In love with. As in present tense.

  She loves me. Layken Cohen loves me.

  “Hold up your scores, man,” the guy next to me says, forcing the scorecard into my hand. I look at it, then look up at the stage. She’s not up there anymore. I spin around and see her making her way toward the exit in a hurry.

  What the hell am I doing just sitting here? She’s waiting on me to acknowledge everything she just said, and I’m sitting here frozen like an idiot.

  I stand up when the judges to the right of me hold up their scorecards. Three of them gave her a nine, the other an 8.5. I round the front of the table and flip the scores on all of their cards to tens. The points may not be the point, but her poetry kicked ass. “She gets tens.”

  I turn around and jump onto the stage. I grab the microphone out of the emcee’s hands and he rolls his eyes, throwing his hands up in the air.

  “Not again,” he says, defeated.

  I spot her as soon as she swings the doors open to step outside. “That’s not a good idea,” I say into the microphone. She stops in her tracks, then slowly turns around to face the stage. “You shouldn’t leave before you get your scores.”

  She looks at the judges’ table, then back to me. When she makes eye contact, she smiles.

  I grip the microphone, hell bent on performing the piece I wrote for her, but the magnetic pull to jump off the stage and take her in my arms is overwhelming. I stand firm, wanting her to hear what I have to say first. “I’d like to perform a piece,” I say, looking at the emcee. “It’s an emergency.” He nods and takes a few steps back. I turn around to face Lake again. She’s standing in the center of the room now, staring up at me.

  “Three dollars,” someone yells from the crowd.

  Shit. I pat my pockets, realizing I left my wallet in my car. “I don’t have any cash,” I say to the emcee.

  His eyes shift to Lake and mine follow. She pulls out the two dollars in change from her fee and walks to the stage, slapping it down in front of us.

  “Still a dollar short,” he says.

  Jesus! It’s one freaking dollar!

  The silence in the room is interrupted as several chairs slide from under their tables. People from all over the floor walk toward the stage, surrounding Lake as they throw dollar bills onto the stage. Everyone quickly makes their way back to their seats and Lake eyes the money, dumbfounded.

  “Okay,” the emcee says, taking in the pile of cash at my feet. “I guess that covers it. What’s the name of your piece, Will?”

  I look down at Lake and smile right back at her. “Better than third.”

  She takes a few steps back from the stage and waits for me to begin. I take a deep breath and prepare to tell her everything I should have said to her three months ago.

  I met a girl.

  A beautiful girl

  And I fell for her.

  I fell hard.

  Unfortunately, sometimes life gets in the way.

  Life definitely got in my way.

  It got all up in my damn way,

  Life blocked the door with a stack of wooden two-by-fours nailed together and attached to a fifteen-inch concrete wall behind a row of solid steel bars, bolted to a titanium frame that no matter how hard I shoved against it—

  It

  wouldn’t

  budge.

  Sometimes life doesn’t budge.

  It just gets all up in your damn way.

  It blocked my plans, my dreams, my desires, my wishes, my wants, my needs.

  It blocked out that beautiful girl

  That I fell so hard for.

  Life tries to tell you what’s best for you.

  What should be most important to you.

  What should come first

  Or second

  Or third.

  I tried so hard to keep it all organized, alphabetized, stacked in chronological order, everything in its perfect space, its perfect place.

  I thought that’s what life wanted me to do.

  This is what life needed for me to do.

  Right?

  Keep it all in sequence?

  Sometimes life gets in your way.

  It gets all up in your damn way.

  But it doesn’t get all up in your damn way because it wants you to just give up and let it take control. Life doesn’t get all up in your damn way because it just wants you to hand it all over and be carried along.

  Life wants you to fight it.

  Learn how to make it your own.

  It wants you to grab an axe and hack through the wood.

  It wants you to get a sledgehammer and break through the concrete.

  It wants you to grab a torch and burn through the metal and steel until you can reach through and grab it.

  Life wants you to grab all the organized, the alphabetized, the chronological, the sequenced. It wants you to mix it all together,

  stir it up,

  blend it.

  Life doesn’t want you to let it tell you that your little brother should be the only thing that comes first.

  Life doesn’t want you to let it tell you that your career and your education should be the only thing that comes in second.

  And life definitely doesn’t want me

  To just let it tell me

  that the girl I met—

  The beautiful, strong, amazing, resilient girl

  That I fell so hard for—

  Should only come in third.

  Life knows.

  Life is trying to tell me

  That the girl I love?

  The girl I fell

  So hard for?

  There’s room for her in first.

  I’m putting her first.

  AS SOON AS the last line escapes my lips, I set the microphone down on the stage and jump off. I walk directly to her and take her face in my hands. Tears are falling down her cheeks, so I wipe them away with my thumbs.

  “I love you, Lake.” I lean my forehead against hers. “You deserve to come first.”

  Telling her exactly how I feel about her is the easiest thing I’ve ever done. The honesty comes so naturally. It’s the months of hiding my feelings that have been unbearable. I breathe a huge sigh of relief when the weight of holding everything back disappears.

  She laughs through her tears and places her hands on top of mine, looking up at me with the most beautiful smile. “I love you, too. I love you so much.”

  I kiss her softly on the lips. My heart feels like it literally swells within my chest when she kisses me back. I wrap my arms around her and bury my face into her hair, pulling her tightly against me. I close my eyes, and it’s suddenly just the two of us. Me and this girl. This girl is in my arms again . . . touching me, kissing me, breathing me in, loving me back.

  She’s not just a dream, anymore.

  Lake moves her mouth to my ear and whispers, “We probably shouldn’t be doing this here.” I open my eyes and the concern on her face registers with me. She’s still a student. I’m still technically a teacher. This probably doesn’t look very good if anyone here knows us.

  I reach down and take her hand, then pull her toward the exit. As soon as we’re outside, I grab her by the waist and push her against the door. I’ve been waiting months to be with her like this. Two more seconds without touching her and I. Will. Die.

  I lower my hand to the small of her back, then lean in and kiss her again. The feeling I get when my lips are on hers is something I’ve thought about, over and over, since the first time I kissed her. But actually being in the moment with her again, knowing my feelings for her are reciprocated, is nothing short of amazing.

  She runs her hands inside my jacket and up my back, pulling me to her as she returns my kiss. I can’t think of anything I’d rather do for the rest of my life than be wrapped up in her arms with her lips pressed to mine. But I know that despite what we’ve been through and despite how I feel
about her, I’ve still got responsibilities. I don’t know how much more waiting she’s willing to do. The thought of it takes all of the excitement built up inside of me and crushes it.

  I stop kissing her and wrap my hands in her hair, then pull her to my chest. I take a long, deep breath and she does the same, locking her hands together behind my back.

  “Lake,” I say, stroking her hair. “I don’t know what will happen in the next few weeks. But I need you to know that if I can’t back out of my contract . . .”

  She immediately jerks her head up and looks at me with more fear in her eyes than I’ve ever seen. She thinks I’m telling her I might not choose her, and the fact that something so absurd is running through her mind right now makes me hurt for her. This is how I’ve made her feel for the past three months and she thinks I’m doing it to her all over again.

  “Will, you can’t do this to . . .”

  I press my finger to her lips. “Shut up, babe. I’m not telling you we can’t be together. You’re stuck with me now whether you like it or not.” I pull her back to my chest. “All I’m trying to say is, if I can’t break out of my contract, it’s only four months. I just need you to promise that you’ll wait for me if it comes to that. We can’t let anyone know we’re together until I find out what I need to do.”

  She nods against my shirt. “I promise. I’ll wait as long as you need me to.”

  I close my eyes and rest my cheek against her head, thankful that all the times I’ve pushed her away haven’t made her lose faith in me completely.

  “This probably means we shouldn’t be standing out here like this,” I say. “You want to come to my car?”

  I don’t wait for her to answer, because I need her to come to my car with me. I’m not ready to stop kissing her yet, but I can’t keep doing it so carelessly and in public like this. I grab her hand and lead her to my car. I open the passenger door, but rather than let her get in first, I sit in the seat and pull her onto my lap, then shut the door. I pull my keys out of my pocket and reach over to crank the car so it’ll warm up. She positions herself on my lap, straddling me. I acknowledge that our position is incredibly intimate, being as though I can count the number of times we’ve kissed on one hand, but it’s the only comfortable way to make out in a car.