Page 113 of Dear Love, I Hate You (Easton High)

All I know is she wasn’t it.

I thought Love would be tortured. Figured she’d have this ridiculously sexy damaged look burning in the back of her eyes. I never, ever would’ve imagined, with all the shit L’s been through, that she’d turn out to be Lacey, captain of the cheer squad, definition of a squeaky-clean, privileged person.

Truth is, the disappointment crept under my skin as soon as she came in, but it didn’t stop me from making my move. I meant what I said in my last text. I couldn’t wait another second for this to be real, so when she pushed the door open, her keys in her right hand, and offered me a shy smile, I went in for the kiss.

She kissed me back immediately, grasping at my clothes like an addict in need of a hit.

Dumbstruck, Love—I mean Lacey—clears her throat and lets out a breathless “Hi to you, too.”

“I can’t believe I missed it,” I say, more to myself than her. “It was you all along.”

I wait for those sharp eyes to light up in understanding, but the only thing I see in there…

Is plain confusion.

“What?” Lacey giggles.

“You were right under my nose. If I’d just fucking stopped to think,” I lecture myself.

There’s that confusion again.

Why does she look like she has no clue what I’m talking about?

“Take two—what?” she repeats.

My phone chimes with a text, and I pull it out of my pocket, typing in my password so fast I mess it up twice.

I have one new message.

From Love.

My stomach sinks like a rock.

Love: Lacey Mattson, really? Fuck you, Xavier. Fuck you.

It feels like a truck, two buses, and a wrecking ball just slammed into me all at once.

No, no, fuck.

The door…

It was her, wasn’t it?

Love’s the one who came in while we…

Fuuuuuuuck.

Lacey isn’t Love. She never was. She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, and my dumb ass assumed…

Now that I think about it, Lacey doesn’t even have a tattoo.

Dumb. Fucking. Idiot.

“What’s wrong? Come here.” Lacey takes my face in her hands for another kiss, but I dodge her lips and propel her hands off me. Operating on autopilot, I swing Finn’s bedroom door open and bolt down the stairs without looking back.

I tear through the first floor in minutes, searching for Love, which, granted, is probably pointless seeing as I have no idea what she looks like.

My leading criteria is a sad girl.