1 Love and hate - 3

Yeah, there’s that. Don’t judge — I have a theory.

Because the feelings of love and hate are so closely related, a person’s hypothalamus gets confused and wrongfully floods the body with dopamine, a neurotransmitter that produces feelings of euphoria and pleasure. It’s why hate can feel so thrilling and, at times, even addictive, and why you can’t stop thinking about the hated person. The problem is that it also triggers the release of estrogen, which increases your libido. And voila … you want to seriously jump the bones of the person you hate. It’s biology.

I realize Kiara is staring at me, tapping her foot impatiently, waiting for a response.

“Yes.” I pull my lips into a serious pout. I need her off my case.

“But I’m seeing Ren remember,” I say, having learned the trick to dealing with Kiara is a solid diversion. However, the same trick applies to me — I’m easily distracted.

“So is he your for-real boyfriend now?”

“You know it’s complicated,” I say. “He’s the first guy who’s ever actually asked me out.” I pout at Kiara, who looks at me like she’s watching a wounded kitten try to be brave.

“Not the first,” she says gently. “You’re forgetting Jake.”

I groan. The hunky junior who ghosted me freshman year? I lean back against the dresser.

“How can I forget? I sat in that stupid coffee shop for two full hours. Two.”

“At least he had a dramatic excuse,” Kiara says, folding one of my shirts with unnecessary care. “He was in an accident.”

I wince. Yeah. He apologized profoundly the next day. Wouldn’t look me in the eye. Said he fell off his bike.

“And it wasn’t a lie.” I pause. “The guy looked like he’d wrestled a truck and lost.”

“So,” she says dryly, “maybe that’s why the curse started.”

“Still,” I argue. “He could’ve tried to work past it. Instead, he acted like eye contact might kill him.”

“Maybe he nearly did die,” she says.

“It wasn’t because of the curse,” I snap — too fast, too defensive. After Jake, rumors started that any guy who dated me would suffer unbearable pain. And just like that, the Mel-curse was born. My social life didn’t just dip — it nosedived and never recovered.

Kiara frowns. “Why then?”

“Exactly. Why would anyone bother ruining my dating prospects?”

“Or who,” she adds.

For a long time, I blamed my stupid brothers. But they swore they didn’t start the rumor — and my brothers don’t lie. They’re terrible at many things, but lying isn’t one of them.

I sigh. “I always suspected Pink Scarlet.”

Kiara snorts. “Of course you did.”

Pink Scarlet. Poor girl. Life hadn’t been generous to her — a large black mole on her hairy chin, mousy-brown locks like a dirty wet mop, and she was big … huge as an ox — and for reasons known only to the universe, she hated me on sight.

“Could be,” I say. “I still can’t believe she had a prom date,” I mutter. “And got laid. Twice.”

Kiara shrugs. “Men are adaptable creatures.”

After Jake — and the curse — my reputation never recovered. Every guy in school quietly slid me into the ‘safe’ category. They’d sit near me at lunch. Talk to me. Joke with me. But never get close. Spin-the-bottle skipped me. Dares avoided me like I was radioactive. And the only people who ever asked me to dance were my brothers … and Axel.

I even went to prom with Axel. Or rather, my brothers assigned him to me like a duty shift.

I exhale, shaking my head. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

Kiara looks up.

“Ren asked me out,” I say. “And he’s survived more than two dates.”

I smile despite myself. “No injuries. No mysterious accidents. No curses.”

That has to count for something.

It’s not that he’s the love of my life. That would imply feelings. This is more … strategic loneliness. Desperation with a polite smile. A curse-breaker.

Sure, he’s sweet. Easy on the eyes. Objectively boyfriend-shaped. But that stupid gland in the middle of my brain — the one responsible for chaos, obsession, and questionable life choices — is on strike. No hormonal cocktail. No fireworks. No butterflies. Not even a sad sparkler.

Nothing.

No love. No hate. Just a flat emotional line, like my soul forgot to plug itself in.

Annoyingly, that gland only seems to wake up when my brother’s best friend is within a five-mile radius. Like it’s hardwired to that asshole. Like someone misfiled a wire during my emotional construction, and now everything short-circuits only around HIM.

I grab my sea turtle soft toy, Pan — yes, Peter Pan — and hug him to my chest like he’s a licensed therapist. If answers exist, they’re clearly hiding inside cheap stuffing and button eyes. My thumb traces the tiny red heart embroidered on the underside of his right back flipper. I’ve done this a thousand times. Muscle memory. Comfort ritual. Emotional nonsense.

“If you hate Damion so much,” Kiara says coolly, “why do you still sleep with HIS turtle?”

I snap my head up. “It is NOT his turtle.”

She raises a brow.

“He merely financed it,” I rant. “And I keep it as a reminder of the evil lurking beneath his stupid, pretty-boy exterior. Like a talisman. Or a warning. Or emotional evidence.”

“Mmhmm,” she hums, unconvinced. Then her eyes narrow. “Then why does Pan smell exactly like some hunky biker we both know?”

I freeze.

Then — traitorously — I inhale.

Deep. Slow. Shameless.

Homme Sport. Dior.

I may or may not have bought an entire bottle. And I may or may not occasionally mist Pan with it. Not just because of him — obviously — but because it is, objectively, one of the greatest smells ever created by mankind. Fresh and raw. Clean but dangerous. Like lemon and bergamot had a one-night stand with confidence and bad intentions.

It’s crisp. Cool. Masculine in a way that feels unfair. Smooth, animalistic, addictive.

I mash Pan against my face, breathing him in like a lunatic.

“I just like the smell,” I say defensively, shoving the turtle toward Kiara’s nose. “It’s … nice.”

She sniffs. Pauses. Then exhales a long, tired sigh.