Love Me

“No. Net yet.”



“So you might?”



“Maybe.”



“When?”



“On break. I just can’t deal with them right now.”



“I’m sorry you got hurt.”



I reach up and gently touch the bruise under his eye. “I’m sorry you got hurt too.”



He takes my hand in his and kisses it.



But I can’t let it affect me.



I swallow and tell myself to move.



Because I know that I can’t stay here.



Because I don’t trust myself to do what’s best for me.



If I stay, I’ll beg him to come with me.



I’ll tell him I need him.



But I can’t.



I can’t.



Because what I need is to get over him.



My phone buzzes.



Cooper: Where are you?



Me: Chapel.



Cooper: Come to my office.



“I have to go,” I say, trying to keep the regret out of my voice.



He doesn’t say anything. Just nods.



I go the back way to the field house. Running through the tree line instead of down the sidewalk. I forgot to ask Cooper what he found out. Although I’m sure if Vincent were here, he would have told me.



I’m being ridiculous.



But just in case, I walk behind the buildings.



When I get to his office, he says, “Sit down.”



“What’s wrong?”



“It’s not Vincent. Peyton had some lame excuse for why she had you called to the office. Something about French weekend. When I pressed her about it, she said that she needed to talk to you about Thanksgiving break and you keep ignoring her. I thought she was going with you?”



“Aiden and I are over. There was some drama this weekend.”



“Is that the real reason Riley punched him?”



“Yeah. A girl told me that she and Aiden hooked up. I was upset. Went to Riley and bawled. He got pissed and punched Aiden.”



“And almost got suspended.”



“Yeah. Needless to say, they aren’t going with me anymore.”



“You’re going by yourself?”



“Why is that such a big deal? I want to go by myself. I’m glad I’m going by myself! I can’t freaking wait!”



“I’ll go with you. I like the beach.”



“You’re going home to be with your family.”



“I don’t like it.”



“Nothing has changed, Cooper. Same mode of transportation. Same destination. Same people going to be on staff. Everything that you already got approved by Garrett. The only thing that’s changed is the guest list.”



“That’s true. Maybe it’s just because you seem like a bit of a wreck. I’m worried about you. Worried you’ll do something rash. Maybe I could arrange for you to see your . . .”



“Cooper, I haven’t had a second by myself since all this happened. I need to go by myself. Now, more than ever.”



“Alright. We still on for tonight?”



“Definitely. And I’d like to spar,” I say as I open his door. “Do you think I’m ready?”



Cooper grins at me. “I’ll bring the protection.”



“See you tonight.”



As I round the corner, I see Whitney, scurrying—almost running—around the next corner. Which is kinda odd because I don’t think I’ve ever seen her run.



I skip lunch, opting to go to the library.



But this was the wrong place to go.



I have so many memories of Aiden here. Him telling me that we’re sorta like fate. That he was going to ask me to marry him at the top of the Eiffel tower at sunset. When he saw the text from Dawson about how he’d die without a kiss. How we sat on the bench out front and watched our first sunset together.



I find a remote corner with two chairs that are hidden behind a set of stacks. I sit down, pull out Avery’s purple glitter pen, and start writing.



Fire = Passion.



French



Even though I want to skip French, I don’t.



But sitting in this class sucks.



Because all I can think about is him.



All the things he’s leaned up and whispered in my ear. The dirty words. The notes about true love and the dream girl.



I tune out Miss Praline, hide my phone under my desk, and send a text.



Me: Grandma, my house got burned down.



Grandma: You can always rebuild a house. Fire is a lot harder to find. (It’s just harder to control sometimes.) Hint: Fire = Passion.



I also send one to Grandpa.



Me: Remember when Jose told me not to let boys give me shit?



Grandpa: Yes.



Me: He forgot to tell me what to do when a boy does.



Grandpa: Well, you have two options. I can send you a nice little revolver, or you can give him shit back.



My God of all Hotties.



4pm



I manage to get through our dance routine at the pep rally without crying.



But I want to cry.



Just seeing Aiden in his jersey makes me want to bawl.



It’s the jersey that I wore.



That I was so proud to wear on the field.



He kissed me with his tongue because of that jersey.



I bury my face in my pompoms so I don’t have to look at him.



“Keatyn,” Maggie says. “You have to snap out of it. You’re acting like a zombie.”



“I am not. I was just out there dancing.”



“And now you’re practically in tears.” She wraps her arm around my shoulder and pulls me into a hug. “Boys suck.”



I nod, agreeing with her. But I don’t agree. Aiden doesn’t suck. He’s perfect.



“You made me give Logan another chance.”



“No, I didn’t. You gave him another chance because he made the big gesture.”



“Do you need a big gesture?”



“No. It won’t matter, Maggie. We fight all the time,” I say, giving her the excuse I gave him.



“My mom says there’s a fine line between love and hate. That the more passionate you get, the more passion you have.”



“My grandma said something like that to me today. That fire equals passion.”



“You and Aiden have passion.”



“Aiden and I had more than passion. We had fire.”



“Fires smolder for a while after they’ve been put out, you know. You aren’t done with him. You can’t be. Keatyn, tell me now that you don’t love him and I’ll stop bugging you.”



I look at him.



He’s standing across the basketball court, listening to the coaches try to get everyone fired up for the big game. His face is bruised, his hair isn’t gelled, his posture is off, his green eyes aren’t sparkling, and there’s no beaming smile on his face.



But he still looks like a god to me. My God of all Hotties.



Little tears fall down my face.



I wipe them away quickly.



“You’re crying just looking at him. I know you love him.”



I close my eyes and nod.



“So why don’t you talk to him?”



“I did earlier. It’s over, Maggie. It has to be.”



“I’m surprised you haven’t hooked up with Dawson.”



“I wish I could. It would make this a whole lot easier.”



A friendly voice.



7pm



I skip dinner. The girls offered to stay and order in pizza, but I told them to go without me. I wouldn’t be very good company. No one really argued with me. Ace and Annie will be apart for Thanksgiving break, as will Katie and Bryce. They are trying to spend every last minute together.



I scroll through my phone and hit Damian’s number.



“Hey, Keats.”



“Hey.”



“Oh, boy. What’s wrong?”



“Nothing. Just wanted to hear a friendly voice.”



“Are you excited to go to St. Croix?”



“Very.”



“Who all is going with you?”



“Um, no one, actually.”



“You’re spending Thanksgiving alone?”



“Yeah.”



“I thought . . .”



“It didn’t work out.”



“Oh, I’m sorry. Maybe you should invite B.”



“No. I . . . I couldn’t deal with him right now.”



“Keats, you’re scaring me. What’s going on?”



“I’m fine. Just a little broken. But I’ve been broken for a while. I’m like a chip on your windshield.”



“I don’t get it.”



“You know how when you get a rock chip, it seems minor? But then a few weeks later you see that the chip has spread. Then a few weeks after that, your windshield is ruined. I’m a chip that didn’t get fixed.”



“And now you’re ruined?”



“Pretty much. Damian, will you sing to me?”



“Yeah, Keats. Lie down and close your eyes.”



I like it rough.



11:30pm



As soon as Katie starts breathing heavily, I sneak into my closet and change into my workout clothes.



“So, what’s your holiday tradition?” I ask Cooper while I’m putting on some protective gear.



“Um, well, we eat a turkey dinner and then go to my sister’s grave. She was killed two days before Thanksgiving.”



“I’m so sorry, Cooper.”



“I know,” he says, throwing me a pair of red gloves.



We walk out into the center of the mat and he tells me a bunch of rules like we’re in an actual competition.



“Is this like a match? Are we keeping score?”



“You tap out, you lose.”



We bump gloves, and I show him all that I’ve learned from him in the last few weeks.



And I’m doing well. I’m connecting with a lot of my punches, and I’ve even managed to get him down on the ground twice.



And, more importantly, he’s yet to take me down.



“That’s it,” he says, egging me on. “Get on it.”



I’m breathing heavily and sweating. “Uhh. Uhh. Uhh,” I grunt as I throw a three-punch combination.



“That’s it. You know I like it rough,” he teases.



He throws a right-handed punch toward my ribs. I quickly grab his forearm and twist it, bringing him to his knees.



“Do it harder,” he says. “You want me facedown.”



All of a sudden, the gym doors swing open.



“See, I told you they’re having an affair . . .” Whitney says to the dean, who she’s pulled inside with her.



We pull our face guards off and go, “A what?!”



The dean says, “Clearly, you were mistaken, Miss Clarke. Why don’t you head back to your dorm. I’ll take it from here.”



“But they were gone on the same two days. I gave you pictures of them sneaking off together. He’s even holding her hand in one photo. And . . .”



“Miss Clarke.”



“It’s more than an affair. She was pregnant with his baby. That’s why they were both gone the same day. She had an abort—”



The dean says, “That’s enough accusations, Miss Clarke. Get to your dorm or you’ll get a detention for being out after curfew.”



“But she’s out after curfew!”



“Now!” he says.



Whitney gives me an evil glare and stomps out. The dean shuts the door behind her, saying, “I’ll expect to see you in my office first thing in the morning.”



Then he turns to us. “Now, obviously, you’re not having an affair. But you, Mr. Steele, are out alone with a student after curfew. That’s against school policy.”



"It's my fault, sir,” I say.



“How so?”



“I asked him to teach me how to fight. With homework, rehearsals, and other activities, right after curfew was the only time we could meet."



“And why do you need to know how to fight? We don’t have too many street brawls here at Eastbrooke.”



“Um, well, I'm hoping eventually that will be classified.”



Cooper stifles a chuckle.



“What?” the dean asks.



“I’m good with languages, sir. I'm a good actress. I'm smart and athletic. When we did our career surveys with our counselor, mine came up with a career that I’m really interested in. A CIA operative. I've always read spy novels and realized it was totally, like, my calling. And Miss Praline told me all the stuff I needed to start working on now, because it’s really tough to get selected.”



I turn to Cooper. “Even you’ve heard that, right, Coach Steele?”



Cooper flashes his dimples at me and nods at the dean. “That is correct.”



“And I think I’m mostly prepared except for two things. I need to learn how to protect myself and, of course, I’ll need to learn how to shoot a gun. After soccer one day, Coach Steele was punching the bag in the gym, and I remembered that he was an accomplished MMA fighter. So I asked him to teach me.”



“Begged him,” Cooper counters.



“Yes, begged him to teach me. And it’s good for him too. Like, so he can keep up with his skills.”



Cooper rolls his eyes and shakes his head.



But I continue. “And that day we were both gone. I'm sorry if it was inappropriate for us to go together, but there was this fight. In Atlantic City.”



“I wanted her to see it in person. I didn't think she really understood the savageness of it all.”



“He's not going to get in trouble, is he? He's a really good soccer coach.”



Dean shakes his head at me. “The CIA?”



“Yes, sir.”



“Interesting. Do you have much left of your lesson?”