Page 10 of Dear Love, I Hate You (Easton High)

“I’m a very fast thinker,” I tease, and she heaves a discouraged sigh. “What happened to hanging out just the two of us tonight?”

She nibbles on her bottom lip. “Vee, you know I love you, but… we’ve spent three years hanging out just the two of us. It’s our senior year. Don’t you want to make sure we live it?”

Deep down, I always suspected Dia wanted more.

More popularity, more parties, more flings. And, if I’m being honest, part of me has been dreading the inevitable day where “more” would want her back.

Waiting for the day Easton’s airhead boys would wake up and realize my best friend is drop-dead gorgeous. Dia is of Spanish and Indonesian origins. The tan, dark-haired beauty who’d have no problem racking up millions of followers on Instagram if she just tried.

I don’t mean this in an envious way.

I’m confident enough to say that I’m no dog myself. On my good days, I even like how I look—my butt-length, wavy, caramel-brown hair, my hazel eyes with flecks of green, even the freckles I used to cover up, but I’m nowhere near as comfortable in my skin as Dia is.

I don’t do shorts, crop tops, or bikinis. I’m a turtleneck, one-size-too-big mom jeans kind of gal, and as much as I like my wallflower style, sometimes I think it’s gifted me with the power of invisibility. As far as the male population is concerned, anyway.

Meh. It’s probably for the best.

My papa used to say Silver Springs was a dead-end town. Called it a “Loserfest.” He was this close to convincing Mom to get the hell out before he died. He’d roll over in his grave if he saw his little girl focusing on anything other than her dreams. Right now, the only thing that matters is getting a scholarship.

“Earth to Vee?” Dia waves a hand in my face.

“Sorry. Look, if you want to go see Finn, just say so, it’s okay.”

“I don’t,” she says, and I arch an “are you for real” eyebrow at her. “Okay, fine, I haven’t seen him all weekend, but I want to hang out with you, too.”

“It’s cool, D. We’ll just reschedule. I’ve got to pick up Ashley in half an hour anyway.” I haven’t even taken a step before Dia’s leaping off her bed and holding me back.

“Vee, do you know how many people at school would kill to be invited to these things?” She grips my shoulders as if to drill the words into my brain. “In a few months, high school will be over. Done. Forever. If you don’t at least try to enjoy what’s left of it, future-you will regret it.”

Hesitant, I chew on the inside of my cheek.

“Come on, we’re just going to play pool, have a few drinks. It’ll be low-key. Just us and the guys. Pleaseee.” She joins her hands together, shamelessly begging.

“Jesus Christ, fine,” I relent. “I’ll stop by after I’ve picked up Ashley, but if it sucks, I’m gone.”

Squealing, Dia traps me into a hug. “It won’t suck, promise.”

Withdrawing from the hug, I say my goodbyes and make my way out of the Mitchells’ house.

* * *

“Ashley Camilla Harper!” I shout from the bottom of my lungs the moment I step foot inside my house. “Would it kill you to text me when rehearsal gets canceled?”

No reply.

Her shoes are here, which means she is, too. In a fury, I dump my keys into the bowl by the door and take the stairs two at a time in direction of my sister’s bedroom.

“I waited for you for two hours. Two hours!” I yell over the music emanating from her closed door. The closer I get, the louder the chorus of “River” by Bishop Briggs roars. Gripping the knob, I slam her door open and…

Regret it instantly.

First thing I see is my sister half-naked on her bed. The second thing I see is the shirtless guy on top of her.

Funny enough, the sight of my seventeen-year-old sister getting down and dirty is not what does it for me. What sends my heart straight to my stomach is the boy with his tongue shoved down her throat.

What in heaven’s name is he doing here?

The music is so loud they didn’t even hear me come in. They probably didn’t hear me yell on my way up either. Douchebag’s hand snakes around my sister’s back to unclasp her bra, and I break into a mini panic attack. I’d rather she didn’t have her breasts out when I yelled at her, thank you very much.