Page 11 of He Hate Me

“Well, it’s my church now,” I say, “and she’s my friend.”

He doesn’t respond. He’s wearing a dress shirt, dark slacks, and a tie and honestly, he looks like he belongs here. There’s an air of teenage recklessness about him, but also a kind of confidence like he knows this place. He could be any of the boys here, and it hits me even harder when he gives a slight upward nod to one of the guys I know, who doesn’t go to our school. In five or ten years, he’ll look like any of the young dads I see leading their toddlers out of the nursery. But I won’t look like these pink floral-dress-wearing young wives no matter what I do, because I’m the wrong color and I have the wrong face. I want to scream sometimes because it’s not fair. I have to work so hard for it, and he just slides in effortlessly.

“Can you introduce me to your friend?” Reverend Billingsly says over my left shoulder, and the world rights itself. He’s the main pastor of the church, and he just got back from a mission trip, so he hasn’t been here since Brandon started living with us. It’s my turn to smirk. Brandon might as well be a stranger to the pastor of “his church.”

“Hi, Reverend,” I say, graciously. “This is Brandon. He’s going to be staying with us this school year.”

“Welcome, Brandon,” the pastor says. Brandon makes the right noises, but I can see the tightness around his eyes. He’s embarrassed for some reason, and later I find out it’s because Rev. Billingsly knew him when he was little and doesn’t remember him. It’s a big church, so I can’t blame the pastor, but I’m reminded again that I’m the one everyone knows and loves, and Brandon is just some guy in a tie.

Later, when we’re back home, Brandon finds me when I’m cleaning the downstairs bathroom because, yes, I have chores, and sticks his head in. I’m in the middle of wiping down the mirror, and the room reeks of vinegar. He’s wearing shorts and a sleeveless tank top and there are smears of dirt on his legs and arms, so I figure Devin had him doing yard work.

“I need to make something clear to you,” he says, folding his arms.

“What?” I ask, sighing.

“You’re going to need to stop being a bitch to me.”

“I’m not the one being an asshole here,” I counter, shocked at his gall. “You threatened me, if I recall, over fucking hot tub time. You threatened to leave me in the courtyard last night.”

“But I didn’t, did I?” he says. “You should be thanking me.”

“How about when hell freezes over,” I suggest, rolling my eyes.

“Oh, I don’t think it will take that long,” he drawls. What is he talking about? We are not friends!

“Why are you here, Brandon?” I ask, cutting to the chase.

“I thought we could talk about what happened last night?”

“What happened?” I ask, aiming for nonchalance. “I don’t remember anything special happening last night.”

He steps closer until we’re toe to toe. I can smell him, sweat and grass.

“I could remind you,” he says, half-smiling.

“Look—“ I start to say, but suddenly he’s pinching the skin on the inside of my right biceps, squeezing it tighter and tighter. The pain is at first just annoying, but it gets worse and worse as he applies more pressure. I’m sure I should be yelling at him or slapping his hand away, but there’s something electric about the sensation, something I like.

“Stop!” I pull away, putting four or five feet between us. My breathing is a little fast, maybe because I’m angry. I want it to be anger and not something else stirring in my belly.

“I had fun last night, Deja,” he says, “and so did you. No point in lying.”

“Let’s agree to disagree.”

“I have video.”

“I was confused. High.”

“So if I touched you like that again, you wouldn’t like it?”

“I guess we’ll never know.”

“That’s not how it’s going to go,” he says, with a self-satisfied smile. “What you need to understand is that last night changed the equation for me and you. You’re mine now.”

My anger spikes at his words. “I don’t belong to anyone, Delulu.”

“Wanna bet?” He steps closer, crowding me against the pedestal sink. I feel the edge of the sink touch my back, but there’s nowhere to go except into his body. The feeling of being surrounded only makes me more irritated.

“Stop—“ I start to say, but my brain loses track of whatever I was going to say when he leans down and runs his nose along the side of my neck, almost touching. He’s close enough I catch the earthy scent of sweat and grass. It’s worse than if he’d touched me because my skin prickles with anticipation. My breath catches and I swallow roughly, suddenly too aware of his body, too curious how the weight and warmth of it might feel against mine.