P.S. I Hate You

by Winter Renshaw

  “Principal Hawthorne,” she says, filling her cup. “Had no idea you were chaperoning tonight.”

  I’m not sure how to respond with Sara beside me, but I know what Halston’s insinuating.

  “I’m filling in for someone,” I finally say.

  She takes a sip, staring up at me through thick, dark lashes. “Okay.”

  Either she doesn’t believe me or she doesn’t care. I’m not sure which is worse.

  “Are you enjoying yourself tonight, Miss Kessler?” I ask.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know.” Halston lingers for a second, and then she’s gone, disappearing into the crowd.

  The DJ asks the king and queen to take the dance floor while he spins some God-awful pop medley, and the second it’s over, I spot Thane and Halston slipping out the side door.

  It’s only nine. They weren’t even here for a half hour.

  Pulling in a deep breath, I force it through my nostrils. Every muscle in my body tightens. I don’t know where she’s going or what his intentions are with her tonight. Not being able to talk her out of it is killing me.

  “Uh, oh. I think I see a flask.” Sara taps me, pointing toward a girl with wild red hair and a purple dress that goes to the floor. “You want to take care of it or do you want me to?”

  Storming off, I do my fucking job.

  And the second the dance is over and the last student has left the building, I sit in my car and message Halston. I’d promised myself I’d leave her be. I swore on my life that I’d never contact her again, but in this case, I’m truly concerned for her safety. Leaving the dance early with Mr. Popular can only mean one thing: the pencil-dicked douche wants to get her drunk and fuck her.

  Not on my watch.

  Pulling out my phone, I tap on the Karma icon and shoot her a message.

  Kerouac: Where’d you go?

  Absinthe: Seriously??

  Kerouac: You left after twenty minutes. I assume you went to a party?

  Absinthe: WTF is wrong with you?!

  Kerouac: ???

  Absinthe: You tell me to leave you alone. You kick me out of your house after we kiss. You watched me like a fucking hawk at the dance—which made an already unenjoyable evening that much more unenjoyable, so thanks for that. And now you’re messaging me like it’s any of your business what I’m doing?!

  Kerouac: Just because I can’t be with you doesn’t mean I can’t care about you.

  Absinthe: Yes, it does. That’s exactly what it means. You don’t get to care anymore.

  Kerouac: I’m trying to do the right thing. Morally. Ethically. Professionally.

  Absinthe: How valiant.

  Kerouac: I think about you all the time. I go to bed, you’re on my mind. I wake up, you’re the first thing I think about. Seeing you in the halls drives me fucking insane because all I want is to have you to myself, for you to belong to me. You’re right there, so close, and I can’t go anywhere near you. I may not be able to control my thoughts, but I can control my actions. I’m not going to touch you. I’m not going to cross that line.

  Absinthe: You could’ve had me, but you’re too chicken shit. I thought you were like me, but turns out you’re nothing but a fucking coward.

  Kerouac: I’m a professional, not a coward.

  Absinthe: You’re a big, fat fucking coward.

  Kerouac: Where are you right now?

  Absinthe: LOL

  Kerouac: Are you drinking?

  Absinthe: Duh.

  Absinthe: And don’t worry. I won’t come a-knockin’ on your door tonight.

  Kerouac: I just want to make sure you’re safe and that you have a ride home.

  Absinthe: I’ve got it covered. I’m a responsible adult … too bad you don’t see me that way.

  Kerouac: That’s not true. I think the world of you. And I see you as an adult, just not one that I can be with at this point in time.

  Absinthe: I’m so bored with this. You sound like a broken fucking record. And you know what the worst part is? I’d still come over and fuck you if you asked me to. I’d leave right now.

  Kerouac: Don’t say that.

  Absinthe: It’s the truth.

  Absinthe: And that’s the difference between you and me … I’m not afraid of the truth.

  Absinthe: You want to be with me, Kerouac. And it terrifies you. And because of that, you lost the one chance you had. The only chance you’ll ever have.

  Absinthe: I have to go.

  Kerouac: Wait.

  Absinthe has signed off.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Halston

  “Oh my god.” The hotel room is dark as midnight, the blackout curtains drawn tight with a hint of daylight around them. The sensation of cool sheets against my naked body mixed with the pounding throb in my head wasn’t exactly how I planned to wake up this morning. “Thane. Wake up.”

  He’s out cold, but I shove him until he begins to rustle, and when he rolls closer, he wears a dreamy smirk.

  “You were supposed to take me home last night.” I wrap the sheets around me, climbing out. “And where the fuck is my dress?!”

  “You said it was uncomfortable. You took it off.” He sits up, clicking on the bedside lamp and running his fingers through his messy hair as he watches me scramble around the room.

  “I don’t remember saying that.”

  “You were plastered last night.” He chuckles. “Never seen a girl put it down like that before. You didn’t get sick once. We were shocked.”

  I tug my dress on, thinking back to last night. All I remember is leaving the dance, climbing into Thane’s brother’s car, and heading to the hotel to party a little.

  “You were pacing yourself at first, then you were outside on your phone. When you came back in, you slammed a couple more shots of tequila and passed out.”

  I don’t remember any of that.

  He climbs out of bed, and the first thing I notice is the fact that he’s not completely naked. “We didn’t screw. Just so you know.”

  Thank god.

  Although I wouldn’t know for sure, I suppose.

  “You have to take me home,” I say. By some miracle I manage to find my phone buried under a mountain of empty beer cans.

  Twelve missed calls.

  All of them Uncle Vic, and all of them spanning one o’clock in the morning until as recently as fifteen minutes ago.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  I may not have screwed Thane, but I’m still screwed.

  The silence of the house when I step inside Sunday morning sends a chill to my veins. There’s no television humming in the background. No clinking or clamoring coming from the kitchen. Not so much of a hint of Aunt Tab’s Sunday morning cinnamon rolls in the air.

  Sliding off my heels in the foyer, I reach for the stair railing and begin my quiet ascent to my room so I can change out of this scratchy dress.

  “Halston.” Uncle Vic’s voice booms, echoing off the two-story ceiling and sending a quick shudder through my body. Turning, I see him standing at the bottom landing, arms folded and mouth bunched tight.

  “Uncle Vic. I’m so sorry. I fell asleep and—”

  “This is completely unacceptable.” He doesn’t give me time to explain. “We trusted you. We extended your curfew. We gave you a chance to show that you could be respectful and responsible. We’ve opened up our home to you, Halston. We want to see you succeed and become a productive member of society. The last thing we want is for you to end up like your parents.”

  I glance away. He didn’t need to bring them into this.

  I’ll never be like them.

  “You know, I was so proud of you this past summer when you started working,” he says. “And then you just quit one day. For no reason.” He shakes his head, but if he only knew … “And then school starts. You get this new boyfriend.” He says boyfriend like it’s a dirty word. “It’s like that’s all you care about now. Going out on the weekends. Messing around with boys. This is exactly what I was afra
id of.”

  I’m not half as bad as he’s making me out to be, though I suppose if he’s comparing me to his virginal prodigy, Bree, I’m going to come out looking like the devil himself.

  “I’m sorry,” I say again. “It won’t happen again. I swear.”

  “Damn right it won’t happen again.” His face is red, his nostrils flaring as he steps toward me. I’ve seen my uncle get worked up about things in the past, but I’ve never seen him like this. “Give me your phone.”

  “What?!”

  “And your computer.” He holds his hand out, eyeing my clutch.

  “Why are you doing this?” It’s not like he’s crossing some line. He gave me the phone. He bought me the computer. He has every right to take them from me.

  “What’s the passcode to your phone?” he asks.

  I freeze, unable to speak. If he logs onto my phone, if he digs deep enough into everything I do, he’ll find my activity on Karma. All those opportunities I had to delete our conversations … I never wanted to because I loved going back and re-reading them, especially on the days when I missed him.

  “Your passcode, Halston.” His voice is louder this time. He has zero patience, and there’s not a chance in hell he’s going to calm down and change his mind anytime in the impending future.

  “Eight, two, nine, six, two, eight,” I whisper the numbers, it’s all I can do to force myself to speak.

  “And the password on your laptop?” he asks.

  “A farewell to arms,” I say softly, adding, “All one word.”

  “Bring it to me.”

  Turning, I take the steps, biding my time. And when I make it to my room, I close the door, crack open the laptop, and drag the Karma app to the trash. If I’m lucky, he’ll shove my phone in a drawer and never look at it again, and no one will know about the Kerouac and Absinthe saga.

  Wrapping the charger around the computer, I carry it down in my arms and hand it over.

  “When will I get these back?” I ask. “I have homework due this week.”

  “You’re not getting them back, Halston,” he says. “Where you’re going, you won’t need these things.”

  “Where I’m going?” I squint.

  “Pack your things. We’re leaving first thing in the morning.”

  “Wait. You’re kicking me out because I came home late after homecoming?” I’ve never spoken back to my uncle before, but I can’t keep my mouth shut this time. He’s overreacting.

  “It’s a culmination of several things,” he says. “There’s a place that’s better equipped to handle girls like you.”

  “Girls like me?” I spit his words at him. “Uncle Victor, I’m your niece. I’m not some wayward soul, some problem child.”

  He exhales, head tilted. “I see you going down the same path your mother did at your age. I’ll be damned if I let it happen to you. You have a future, Halston. But if you continue on this path, defying authority and abandoning your responsibilities and obligations … you’re going to end up just like her.”

  “You won’t give me another chance?”

  “We’ve been giving you chances all year.” He shakes his head. “You’re family and we love you, but having you here has been a big adjustment for everyone.”

  My jaw falls. “I sit in my room ninety-nine percent of the time. I don’t make a sound. I clean up after myself. I do my chores. You’re making me out to sound like some kind of heathen, Uncle Vic, and it’s not fair.”

  Vic’s nostrils flair, and he squares his shoulders. “I wasn’t going to say anything. I promised Bree.”

  “What?” My brows twist. Oh, god.

  “Bree told us you were working at an adult restaurant,” he says.

  That fucking traitor.

  “It wasn’t an adult restaurant,” I say with air quotes. “Not the way you’re making it sound.”

  “Not to mention the alcohol bottles Bree found under your bed last month,” he adds.

  My jaw falls, and it may as well hit the floor. “Alcohol bottles? She’s lying to you, Uncle Vic. She’s jealous and she’s making this up to—”

  His hand lifts in the air, cutting me off. “Since you’ve lived here, Bree’s come to us on a number of occasions to report missing items. Jewelry. Clothes. That sort of thing. We’ve kept our mouths shut because we knew you needed our support to turn your life around, but enough is enough, Halston.”

  “This isn’t fair! Bree just gets to say whatever she wants about me and I don’t get to defend myself?” My voice shrivels in my hot throat. “You’re just going to take her word for this?”

  “We have no reason to believe she’d make any of this up,” he says. “She’s a good girl. She gets straight A’s, does what she’s told. She’s never lied to us.”

  My hand claps across my mouth, and I breathe in through my nose to keep from hyperventilating as I pace the small space at the top of the stairs.

  This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening.

  “The decision’s been made. Tabitha and I have already decided. I made the phone call to an old colleague of mine this morning.” Uncle Vic pulls in a hard breath. “You’ll be finishing your senior year at Welsh Academy in Brightmore, New Hampshire. It’s a reform school. You’ll live there in the dormitories with a roommate.”

  “You’re sending me to boarding school? No. Absolutely not. I’ll just … drop out and get my GED and—”

  “If you refuse to finish your high school education the proper way, I’m afraid my offer to pay your tuition will be off the table.” His chin lifts as he peers down his nose. I know that look. It’s his way or nothing, and I don’t exactly have eighty grand lying around to pay for college. “Eight months and then you’re done. You’ll emerge a better person, with more discipline, more respect, more poise and grace.”

  “I can’t believe you’re doing this.” My eyes burn, but I refuse to cry. “You’re all I had. And you’re just shipping me away, like I’m not your problem.”

  “You were never my problem to begin with,” he says. “But I took you in because you’re family. And I love you. I know it may seem harsh, Halston, but I’m doing this for you. This is going to change the entire trajectory of your life. And someday, you’ll thank me for it.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Ford

  Sweat beads down my forehead Sunday afternoon, my shoes pounding the pavement as I push forward, running harder, faster, rounding the corner to my house. I pass the Abbotts’ place, slowing down once I reach the foot of my driveway. Slowing to catch my breath, I stretch my arms behind my head before heading inside.

  I couldn’t sleep last night.

  Hell, I couldn’t function this morning.

  The run was a last-ditch attempt to do something productive with my day, but none of it matters. All I keep thinking about is how I lost her. And how fucked up it is to even think of it that way because she was never mine to lose in the first place.

  Five minutes later, I’m standing motionless under the spray of a cold shower, the water harsh and unforgiving. But I’m not sure what I expected. If a sleepless night and a long run couldn’t quell the maelstrom raging inside, a frigid shower isn’t going to help.

  When I’m finished, I accept my defeat.

  With a towel wrapped around my hips, I give myself a long, hard look in the mirror.

  And then I find my phone.

  To: Absinthe@karma.com

  From: Kerouac@karma.com

  Subject: Please read

  Time: 1:21 PM

  Message: If things were different, I’d have made you mine the moment we met. Wait for me, Absinthe. Eight more months and I’ll make you mine forever. I love you.

  Placing the phone aside, I change into clean clothes. When I return, the message shows as ‘read,’ but there’s no response.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Halston

  “Who’s Kerouac?” Bree barges into my room Sunday afternoon, my phone in her hand and a s
mug sneer on her thin lips.

  I’m pretty sure my heart stopped beating for a second, but I manage to keep my shit together. Closing my copy of East of Eden, I sit up on the edge of my bed and shoot her a dead-eyed stare.

  “Who?” I play dumb.

  “Apparently the two of you have had a lot to talk about over the past couple of months.” Her thumb scrolls up and down the screen, her mouth twisting into a wicked grin. “Who is he, Halston?”

  “Nobody I’ve ever heard of.” I exhale, lying back down and unfolding my book.

  Her dull blue eyes flick up. “If he’s nobody, then I probably don’t need to read you this email he sent about ten minutes ago.”

  My heart races.

  “It was really sweet too,” she adds, her tone mocking and saccharin.

  “You’re bluffing,” I say. Kerouac doesn’t do sweet. He never has.

  She flips the screen toward me, though from here I can’t read it.

  “No, no. It says right here. Sent today at one twenty-one PM.” Bree presses the phone against her chest. “I’ll show it to you if you tell me who he is.”

  “It’s an anonymous dating app. We’ve never met.”

  “I knew it. And you’re such a liar.” Her face is pinched, yet there’s a satisfied gleam in her eyes. “Just last night you two were chatting about a kiss. Fess up.”

  “I’m not telling you a damn thing.” My fingers twitch, my skin boiling just below surface level. I’m tempted to lunge at her and rip the damn thing from her bony little hands.

  “What’s eight months from now?” She glances up at the ceiling, counting on her hands as she whispers, “October … November … December … January …”

  May.

  Eight months from now is May.

  The end of the school year.

  Oh, god.

  I need to see that email.

  “May,” she finally says. “What’s so special about May?”

  “How should I know? Guys say a lot of shit that doesn’t make sense.”