Page 28 of Dear Love, I Hate You (Easton High)

“Coach let us off early. I figured I’d grab a shower and change before detention.”

“Who you trying to smell good for, hotshot? That Brie girl, perhaps? You two going on a date?” Hank pokes fun at me. “Fingers crossed that doesn’t end up on the internet, too.”

“It’s called hygiene, old man,” I counter, and Hank lets out a throaty laugh. Crazy how I’d never have the balls to say that to my own dad but can say it to Finn’s without blinking.

Hank has always been a much better sport than my dad. He’s the cool dad who laughs at his own jokes—you know the one. But don’t think for a second he won’t kick your ass to Mars and back if you fuck up. Police station, anyone?

Overall, when he’s not yelling at you with that freaky ass vein bulging out of his forehead, he’s pretty worry free. Might have something to do with the fact that he’s loaded and set for life.

My dad is the polar opposite.

Raymond Emery is the frigid, uncomfortable with affection Dad who hides under the pretense of only wanting what’s best for his kid without ever listening to said kid. It’s one of the many reasons why he and Hank balance each other out so well. Finn’s pops reminds mine to take a breath every once in a while.

I snort thinking about what Hank said earlier.

One thing is for sure: I am not trying to smell good for this Mr. Tate motherfucker. I knew these after-school detentions were going to be a pain in the ass when I saw my old science teacher waltz into the detention center last Sunday.

The guy hates Finn, Theo, and me with a burning passion for stirring up trouble in his classroom freshman year. I thought surely, he couldn’t still be holding a grudge after all this time, but the way he looked at me?

I swear I saw a smile.

The bad kind.

I could practically hear him thinking, Karma, bitch.

He also looked like he’d rather be sipping on a jizz smoothie than monitoring detention, so there’s that. There were ten of us in that room. And the son of a bitch had to give me the thickest poetry book in history to copy for the next two weeks.

Coincidence?

I think the fuck not.

Little did he know I’d find something in there to entertain myself. Highly doubt I’ll be lucky enough to snag another letter from that angry chick, but it was fun while it lasted.

“You ready for the game on Friday?” Dad pesters me about basketball.

“Always.” I turn to walk away. Detention starts in forty-five minutes, and I smell like hot garbage. Thank fuck I only have detention on Sunday, Tuesday, and Thursday for the next two weeks or I’d lose my marbles.

“Your coach’s new plays any good? What about practice?” he hounds me. “You get enough hours in with all that detention crap? What’s that I hear about your coach letting you off early?”

Mom says that’s my dad’s way of showing me he cares, but I think that’s all he cares about. To think my dad was next in line for the coaching job at Easton. He only took the leftover PE job in the hope that he’d get a shot at coaching if he stuck around. I thank my lucky stars he didn’t get it on the daily.

“Dad, I’m going to be late. Mind if we pick this up later?”

His lips pinch in disapproval. He didn’t get nearly enough info to satisfy his hunger. “I’ll hold you to that.” Dad trails to the front door. “Your mom should be home soon. Tell her I wish I’d been there to see her reaction.” He gestures to the flowers.

“You got it.”

“See you later, punk.” Hank lifts a hand to his forehead in a salute before tracking my dad out of the house.

* * *

Someone pinch me. There’s another letter.

There’s. Another. Letter.

I spent the evening convincing myself that getting a reply was a long shot, but here it is. Neatly tucked between two pages. First, I dodge my dad’s interrogation, and now this?

Today must be my lucky day.