Ugly Love: A Novel(7)

Rachel.

You’re gonna fall in love with me, Rachel.

I open the door for her and let Mr. Clayton know that Rachel is new here. I also want to add, for the sake of all the other guys in the classroom, that Rachel is not theirs.

She’s mine.

But I don’t say anything.

I don’t have to, because the only one who needs to be aware that I want Rachel is Rachel.

She looks at me and smiles again, taking the only empty seat, all the way across the room.

Her eyes tell me she already knows she’s mine.

It’s just a matter of time.

I want to text Ian and tell her she isn’t hot. I want to tell him she’s volcanic, but he would laugh at that.

Instead, I discreetly take a picture of her from where I’m seated.

I send the picture in a message to Ian that says, “She’s gonna have all my babies.”

Mr. Clayton begins class.

Miles Archer becomes obsessed.

???

I met Rachel on Monday.

It’s Friday.

I’ve said nothing to her since the day we met. I don’t know why. We have three classes together. Every time I see her, she smiles at me like she wants me to talk to her. Every time I work up the courage, I talk myself down.

I used to be confident.

Then Rachel happened.

I gave myself until today. If I didn’t work up the courage by today, I’d be giving up my only shot with her. Girls like Rachel aren’t available for long.

If she’s even available.

I don’t know her story or if she’s wrapped up in a guy back in Phoenix, but there’s only one way to find out.

I’m standing next to her locker, waiting for her. She exits the classroom and smiles at me. I say “Hi” when she walks up to her locker. I notice that same subtle change in her skin color. I like that.

I ask how her first week was. She tells me it was fine. I ask her if she’s made any friends, and she shrugs as she says, “A few.”

I smell her, subtly.

She notices anyway.

I tell her she smells good.

She says, “Thank you.”

I push through the sound of my heart pounding in my ears. I push past the sheen of moisture developing on my palms. I drown out her name, which I keep wanting to repeat out loud, over and over. I push it all down and hold her stare while I ask her if she’d like to do something later.

I keep it all pushed away and make room for her response, because it’s the only thing I want.

I want that nod, actually. The one that doesn’t require words? Just a smile?

I don’t get her nod.

She has plans tonight.

It all comes back tenfold, spilling over like a flood and I’m the dam. The pounding, the sweaty palms, her name, a newfound insecurity I never knew existed, burying itself in my chest. All of it takes over and feels like it’s building a wall around her.

“I’m not busy tomorrow, though,” she says, obliterating the wall with her words.

I make room for those words. Lots of room. I let them invade me. I soak those words up like a sponge. I pluck them out of the air and swallow them.

“Tomorrow works for me,” I say. I pull my phone out of my pocket, not even bothering to hide my smile. “What’s your number? I’ll call you.”

She tells me her number.

She’s excited.

She’s excited.

I save her contact in my phone, knowing it’ll be there for a long, long time.

And I’m gonna use it.

A lot.





chapter three


TATE


Normally, if I were to wake up, open my eyes, and see an angry man staring me down from a bedroom doorway, I might scream. I might throw things. I might run to the bathroom and lock myself inside.

I don’t do any of these things, though.

I stare back, because I’m confused about how this is the same guy who was passed out drunk in the hallway. How is this the same guy who cried himself to sleep last night?

This guy is intimidating. This guy is angry. This guy is watching me like I should be giving him an apology or explaining myself.

It is the same guy, though, because he’s wearing the same pair of jeans and the same black T-shirt he fell asleep in last night. The only difference in his appearance between last night and this morning is that he’s now able to stand up without assistance.

“What happened to my hand, Tate?”

He knows my name. Does he know it because Corbin told him I was moving in or because he actually remembers my telling him last night? I’m hoping Corbin told him, because I don’t really want him to remember last night. I suddenly feel embarrassed that he might recall my consoling him while he cried himself to sleep.

He apparently doesn’t have a clue what happened to his hand, though, so I hope that means he has no recollection of anything beyond that.

He’s leaning against my bedroom door with his arms folded across his chest. He looks defensive, like I’m the one responsible for his bad night. I roll over, still not quite finished with sleeping, even though he thinks I owe him some sort of explanation. I pull the covers over my head.

“Lock the front door on your way out,” I say, hoping he’ll take the hint that he is more than welcome to go back to his place now.

“Where’s my phone?”