1 Love and hate - 4

“Mel,” she says, rolling her eyes, “you are a disaster.”

I clutch Pan tighter. Yeah. That I am.

“Have you forgotten how he treated you?” she snaps.

I press my lips together as something sharp stabs straight through my chest.

No. I haven’t forgotten. I don’t think I ever will.

That kind of thing brands itself into you. Especially if it happened more than once.

Kiara snorts and snatches Pan from my arms, swinging the poor turtle back and forth like evidence in a courtroom.

“He bought you THIS,” she says, thwacking me lightly on the head with the stuffed toy, “and then what happened?”

Before I can marshal a defense, she barrels on.

“He knew you had a crush. He flirted. Held your hand. Took you out. And then — surprise— the very next day he’s kissing another girl.”

I sigh. Because she’s not wrong.

He begged me to go to the boardwalk with him. And he looked distracted … sad even … like he needed the escape. So I went … and somehow it turned into the perfect night — rides and laughter, sticky fingers from ice cream, his hand warm and sure in mine. He won Pan for me at one of the games because he knew I liked turtles. I’ve never told him. He just … knew.

That’s what made it hurt so much.

The next day, I caught him kissing a brunette at school as if none of it had ever happened. Like I hadn’t existed.

“He’s a player, Mel,” Kiara says gently but firmly. “A bad-boy disaster, like all the dysfunctional guys in our orbit. Sad, but true. Be grateful you saw it early.”

I am grateful. I’ve learned my lesson. Too bad I didn’t learn it the first time … it took another devastating blow for me to get the message.

One she doesn’t know about.

And yes, to be fair, that time he didn’t exactly invite me politely. He kidnapped me — dramatically, stupidly, under the cover of night — and dragged me to the zoo. I remember feeling absurdly touched that he remembered the date we met for the first time.

The exact date he rescued us from the haunted house years ago.

March first.

It felt important. Like a circle closing.

That night felt different. Special. And somewhere between the tigers and the crocodiles, I lost my teenage heart. And fell for him. Hard. It wasn’t a silly crush anymore. It was real.

But the curse struck … before I could tell Kiara I fell in love — before I could tell anyone — he showed up the next day with a black eye, a new girl on his arm, and not a single glance in my direction. I felt humiliated. Used. Small.

And very much cursed.

I never told anyone. Not even Kiara. And without a word, me and him … we both pretended it never happened.

I did it because I was embarrassed … and because I didn’t want my brothers committing murder. Damion probably did it because … well … he tends to keep his own strange, silent score.

I cried for weeks. Quietly. Privately. And with every tear, the hurt hardened into something darker.

Now I can honestly say I hate him. Truly. Thoroughly.

So I ignore him. I ice him out. I speak only when forced to, and even then, I’m cold enough to frost glass.

Naturally, this inspires him to annoy and antagonize me at every opportunity. And he’s very, very good at it. He can push me from calm to furious by just opening his stupid mouth.

More annoyingly, he can also … get me from dry to wet … with just one look.

Yes. Hate does that sometimes. It’s chemical. Stupid. Unfair. And entirely separate from the very real pain he caused.

Every time I see him with yet another slutty brunette, the resentment digs in deeper. And there’s been a lot of brunettes.

“I know he’s a shag-rat,” I say, “But have you noticed he only goes for brunettes?””

“So he has a type,” Kiara deadpans. “They all do. Enrique likes gingers, Ilkay likes dark hair, so does Axel, Logan prefers blondes, and Jackson likes any vagina that’s pretty and breathing.”

I snort. She’s not wrong. Dysfunctional, the whole lot.

“Maybe I should just stick with Ren,” I say, mostly to myself.

Ren is kind. Safe. Good. He treats me well.

But there are no sparks. Not even a flicker.

And he’s already talking about marriage and kids.

I’m nineteen. I still Google how long pasta needs to boil. And what do I know about babies … won’t even know which side of it is up or down. I certainly don’t want kids for another good ten years or so.

So I am definitely not planning a future with minivans and matching pajamas anytime soon.

Honestly … I’m not even sure I want to sleep with him. Definitely don’t want to marry him.

Kiara once told me that sometimes she has to fake enthusiasm and orgasms because it’s just … blah. She illustrated this by poking her finger into her throat.

I DO NOT want my first time to be blah.

“I’d dump him and move on,” Kiara says. “The curse is broken. You’re back in the game.”

I sigh. How do I tell her it’s not the curse? That it’s my own stupid hypothalamus chemistry malfunctioning. That I only feel anything around one specific green-eyed problem?

That every time I kiss someone else, his frickin green eyes pop into my head like it’s mocking me?

I wish I could delete Damion from existence. Because my mind, body, and heart are locked in a three-way war, each one fighting for a different outcome.

My mind knows better — warning me to stay miles away from the cock-ass.

My body is a traitor — lusting for his cock and his ass.

And my heart … the poor thing just wants to survive this mess intact.

And the worst part?

I honestly don’t know which side I am on.