Page 47 of He Hate Me

“They’ve both told me at different times, that they met at work. She introduced him at my dad’s funeral as a friend from work. But there was a picture in there I’m pretty sure is of my parents at a McCrystal frat formal.”

“Just because Devin and your dad went to the same college doesn’t mean they knew each other or that Devin knew your mom.”

“Sure,” I say, “but then what was that crap with refusing to tell me my dad’s undergrad? That’s fishy, right?”

“It does sound like she’s trying to hide something.”

“They must have meet years before they told me they did. They lied about meeting at work. But why would they do that? It doesn’t make sense.”

Brandon gives me a sympathetic look. “Maybe there’s an explanation. Your mom could come clean later. That invitation might not have anything to do with the picture.” He doesn’t sound like he believes what he’s saying, but I appreciate that he’s trying to make me feel better.

“Do you want to meet at lunch?” he asks. “I have a study room reserved.”

“I can’t.” I do an exaggerated pout. “I have to have lunch with the girls. They want to rehash homecoming.”

“So important!”

“They’re my friends. I don’t give you crap about hanging out with your friends.”

“That’s cause my friends are cool.” God, he’s so cute. Every time I see that smile, I just get gooey. I want to grin back at him just as hard.

I pull into my space in the student parking lot, and he grabs his backpack.

“I’ll miss you,” he says with a saucy wink, then he hops out of the car and strolls away towards the main building.

That night Brandon texts me to meet him in the kitchen. He’s sitting at the kitchen island staring intently at his phone. He’s not using the phone; he just glances at the screen and then out the window, then back at his phone. His expression is intense, controlled. There’s a tension in his body that makes me think of a cat, poised to strike, all potential energy.

“Hey,” I say, walking over to grab the teakettle. This is the thing I do when I come down to the kitchen late at night—I make tea. It’s almost instinctive. He looks at me without responding, then sticks his phone in his pants pocket. He walks over, hovering too close as I fill the kettle and then turn on a burner. His finger touches me under my chin, turning my head so I’ll look right at him. He tilts his head one way, then the other as if he’s examining me.

“Something on my face?” I ask, moving away from him and perching my butt on a barstool.

He shakes his head. “Let’s go have a cigarette.”

I know my brows are raised, but he knows I don’t smoke. And the way he said it, like my compliance is without question. He has no reason to think I’d just do what he tells me. He’s so different now than he was earlier in the day. He's got a knowing energy about him. There’s an answering buzz under my skin.

“No thanks,” I say, rolling my eyes.

He shrugs, then grabs me by the arm and pulls me off the stool.

“What the⁠—“

“Shh,” he says. “One cigarette’s not going to kill you. I don’t want to be alone.”

I see vulnerability in his eyes. Is it real or a ploy to get me to do what he wants?

I don’t know, but I find myself going along with him. Maybe there’s a part of me that’s curious about cigarettes. It’s such a no-no among kids my age. It’s so old-fashioned and stupid, and we’re all aware of how it can hurt your athletic performance. I have wondered what attracts people to it. It stinks, it’s bad for you, and it stains your teeth. It has to feel pretty good for people to do it at all. Stupid thinking, I know, but I’m eighteen, not twenty-eight—you can’t expect maturity.

We go out to the little enclosed area where the trash cans are stored, and he hands me a cigarette. Thanks to the cold, I can’t smell the garbage. I nervously hold the cigarette to my lips while he lights it, telling me to inhale. If you’ve never had a cigarette, well, don’t. It tastes foul, and I’m coughing loudly enough I worry we’ll wake up my mom and Devin. Once I’ve taken a few more drags and my eyes have stopped stinging, I do feel something. It’s like a mild warm feeling, a slight zing of energy or something, but it’s nothing to write home about. Brandon finishes his cigarette first, having taken deeper and more frequent drags than me, and I toss what’s left of mine onto the pavement when he does. He smashes both with his feet, since I’m wearing my house slippers.

I turn to go back inside, but he takes hold of my forearm, his hand sliding down to cuff my wrist. He’s breathing harder than he should be.

“I like when you try things with me,” he says.

Why does that statement make me feel good? I don’t react when he herds me against the wall and starts kissing me. The taste of him is tobacco-heavy, his tongue probing my mouth like he’s trying to search out its every secret. I’m dropped into a mishmash of conflicting emotions like someone plunging through ice into a murky lake. I’m shivering from cold? From want? From fear? I don’t know, but my nipples are hard, and my heart is thundering in my ears.

The kiss is brutal, and my adrenaline spikes, edgy excitement fighting arousal for dominance. His kiss hurts, and it’s making me wet. Why am I so fucked up?

Brandon breaks the kiss and licks my cheek like an animal. He wraps my braids around his fist and tugs my head back, baring my neck to his kisses. His mouth scalds my chilled skin. He nips on my ear firmly enough to cause pain and I stifle a yelp. He yanks my hair downwards harder until I’m forced to my knees.