Page 6 of Hate To Love You

His smile is contagious as he throws an arm around my shoulders, tucking me into his side.

“Hey Gwenny,” he teases. He knows I hate that nickname, but he loves to annoy me. I’ve known Damian since we were in middle school. We met in seventh grade and have been inseparable ever since. His family moved into my neighborhood, and we hung out practically every day.

Everyone always thought we were dating, or we were going to get married one day. We did try to date once in high school, but we both decided that we were better off as friends.

When we graduated, we both applied to the same colleges, and when we were both accepted to Ellington, it made the decision easy. We take completely different classes since our majors are completely different.

Damian is a business major and I’m an education major. We wanted at least one class together so we’d always be able to see each other, even if we were too busy. So, when I suggested literary criticism, Damian agreed to enroll too.

“You know I hate it when you call me that. It’s bad enough that my mom still does it,” I roll my eyes at his smug expression. He loves to push my buttons. He pinches my cheek and I swat his hand away.

“What were you up to last night? You didn’t answer my text,” Damian pouts.

“I was working on the paper due today.”

His eyes go wide.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath. Well, safe to say Damian forgot about the assignment. He’s really very good at school, but since we got to college, he’s been big on partying. I can’t help the chuckle that escapes my mouth.

“Good morning, everyone. Sorry I’m late. Traffic was crazy this morning,” Professor Whitely scurries down the steps and sets her belongings on her desk. She pulls out some stacks of paper and her laptop.

Professor Whitely is pretty young for a college professor. She can’t be more than twenty-seven or twenty-eight. She’s a small woman, probably around five foot one, and her dark brown hair makes her hazel eyes stand out.

She’s almost always dressed in a long pencil skirt and a tight blouse which gives her this whole ‘sexy librarian’ look, and I’m sure that’s why ninety percent of the men in this class are here.

“Alright. Let’s talk. What did you all think about the book?” she pauses and looks around the room, waiting for someone to answer the questions. When no one responds, she continues. “Okay… who actually read it?” About less than half of the class raises their hands causing Professor Whitely to chuckle.

“Well, thanks for being honest, I guess. Okay, so someone who actually did the homework, tell me what you thought.” Again, no one answers. I raise my hand since clearly no one is going to get this conversation started.

Professor Whitely smiles, relief taking over her features.

“Yes, Guinevere. What did you think? Romance, or tragedy?”

The book was a romantic tale about a young woman traveling the world on her own and finding the love of her life, but eventually she has to leave and go home.

Instead of going with her, the man who supposedly loved her decided to stay there and not go with her. She was heartbroken.

He ended up coming back to her, realizing she was more important than where he lived. But in the end, the woman dies, and the man is left alone in a place he doesn’t know. It definitely wasn’t a happy ending, and I sobbed like a baby.

“I believe it was a story of romance. A testament to what true love can overcome.”

Professor Whitely smiles.

I hear a loud scoff come from somewhere behind me and my shoulders tighten. I whip around in my seat to find a face I recognize. It’s the asshole from the hallway. “Is something funny?” I ask, my tone impertinent.

The guy brings a hand to his chest as if to say ‘who, me?’. “I just think it’s odd that you think this story is anything but a tragedy,” he leans back in his seat, folding his arms across his broad chest.

“She finds the love of her life. He leaves his home to be with her. How is it not a romance?”

The guy rolls his eyes as if he’s already over the conversation which only makes my annoyance with him grow.

Leaning forward and placing his forearms on the table in front of him, he steeples his fingers. I can already tell this guy is an arrogant dick.

“So, it’s romantic that the woman dies in the end? It’s romantic that the man moved away from his home and everything he ever knew to be with a woman who died soon after? That’s not romantic, that’s tragic,” he argues.

I can partially see where he’s coming from, but I don’t want him to think that he’s won.

His brows lift as if daring me to say something that contradicts his statement. A strand of his dark black hair falls into his face.

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