Page 4 of Dear Love, I Hate You (Easton High)

Memories slam into me.

I landed a job at the school library this year—which, fun fact, also operates as Silver Springs’ public library—and I had a shift yesterday before I went to pick up my sister from her singing lesson.

Ended up writing some stupid letter to my English teacher to vent. I couldn’t find the poetry book in my bag this morning.

I left it there, didn’t I?

I left the book at the library.

With the letter inside.

For crying out loud, Vee, how dumb can you possibly be?

It’s one thing to be having a really bad day and take it out on your ball-busting teacher in a hate letter. It’s another to be so stupid you forget the letter at the library for anyone to find.

I can already see it. The school ringing

up my mom to let her know her least favorite daughter got suspended for, quote, “accusing her teacher of bathing in hellfire.”

My dad’s voice pops into my head before panic wins me over.

Slow down, take a breath, and find the bright side.

Well, it doesn’t hurt that I left the letter inside an old, dusty book that hasn’t been checked out in over ten years. Odds are I’ll be off to college with a bun in the oven by the time someone finds it. And even if someone did happen upon it, what’s to say they’d trace it back to me?

Shit, I think I mentioned my musical genius of a sister.

And my potential scholarship.

Fine, maybe they could trace it back to me if they put in the research. But that’s not going to happen. I’m not going to let it. Mr. Lowen tells us we have the rest of the day off, and all thoughts of Xavier Emery vanish from my mind.

There’s only one thought left in there.

One mission.

One plan.

I have to get my hands on that letter before someone else does.

Xavier

“Do you two shit-for-brains have any idea what you just did?” Hank, Finn’s dad, grits out in that low, whispery voice that’s ten times scarier than when he yells in your face.

I should probably be quaking in my boots right now, reflecting on my “immature and reckless actions”—Hank’s words.

Better yet, I should be trying to come up with an excuse to justify what I did, but all I can think about as the man I consider to be my second father grills me is…

Man, that is one big-ass forehead vein.

Has the vein on Hank’s forehead always been this big?

He’s so pissed it looks like it’s about to pop.

Why do I kind of want it to pop?

Please pop, vein.

Part of me was hoping Sheriff Daniel had only driven us to the police station for show. After all, I’ve spent years watching Finn pull pranks like this and get off without so much as a warning. My hopes went up in smoke when they threw our delinquent asses into an interrogation room and told us to take a seat. Then the sheriff and Finn’s dad took turns yelling at us for three hours.