Page 4 of Hate To Love You

“You’re being unusually quiet over there,” his eyes squint as if he’s trying to search me for any hidden secrets.

“I’m always quiet,” Holland and Mason shut their game off and put their controllers down on the coffee table, simultaneously looking at me and waiting for me to provide more of a response. Logan peeks over his phone slightly. God demit.

“Not this quiet. Usually, you would have given one of us shit by now. You’re not capable of sitting still this long,” Patrick knows me too well, and he’s not wrong about that. I get bored too easily. Another reason I hate sitting in those boring classes, listening to lectures about shit I don’t even care about.

“Jesus, fine. I met with my dad today.”

All three of their faces fall as concern takes over, and Logan looks back to his phone, no longer paying attention. It’s no secret that my dad and I don’t get along. They know the issues we have.

Patrick breaks the awkward silence that’s taken over the room by clearing his throat. “Shit, man. You okay?” I nod.

“I’m fine. Can we drop it?” Mason and Holland exchange a look before turning their attention to their phones. Patrick gives me a salute and goes back to his book.

Fuck, I need a drink. But I have class soon, and now that my father’s on my ass, I actually have to attend. Okay, class first, drinks after.

Chapter 4

Guinevere

The breeze feels amazing on my hot skin as I make my way across campus to my Literary Criticism class. This is one of my favorite classes so far this semester because I love reading and I enjoy talking about what I’m reading with people who are just as into it as I am. It makes the conversations so much better.

I stroll past Whittaker Hall and the library to get to Mallory Center where most of my classes take place since it’s the creative arts building. All the buildings on campus are old, but not necessarily falling apart. They’ve done a lot of renovations and added some modern amenities, but the outside architecture is absolutely beautiful.

Ellington University was founded in the 1920s by Augustus Ellington. The story goes that Augustus was building his family a home, which was intended to be what is now known as Ellington House, or the administrative building. It was the only building standing before Augustus died and it was never finished. His wife and children moved away, and no one ever saw them again. Today, it is one of New England’s grandest universities.

Many students who attend Ellington University are trust fund brats that come from families with more money than they know what to do with. I come from money, but I don’t show it off like most kids here. The only reason I’m even here is because my dad was an Elite member, and his one wish was for me to attend his alma mater.

As I step into the building, my mother’s name pops up on my phone screen. We talk every day, at least twice a day. Since my parents got their divorce when I was eighteen, my mom and I have gotten really close, but she’s kind of been smothering me lately. I didn’t want to leave her back home, but she insisted she would be okay.

It’s only about a two-hour drive from where I am in Connecticut to Barrington, my hometown in Rhode Island. My father moved to California after the divorce, so I don’t see him much, but he makes sure to give me updates about his life via his secretary sending me emails here and there. Him and mom are civil, but I don’t see them talking much either.

Their divorce wasn’t messy. It wasn’t drawn out or dramatic. It was quick, painless. Like ripping off a Band-Aid. At least, it was for them.

I grew up with happy parents who were the picture of romance. They were always together, they never fought, and they loved me. My dad constantly brought home flowers for my mom, and sometimes he’d even buy me some.

“For my little princess,” he’d say as he picked me up and twirled me around.

Up until I was about to leave for Ellington U, they were perfect. But the night before I left, they sat me down and told me they were getting a divorce. They admitted that they haven’t been getting along for a while which was obviously a shock to me.

I didn’t show them, but I was sick about it. I couldn’t believe it; they were so happy.

I watched as my dad packed his things and tried not to cry. Honestly, I don’t even think my mother cried.

My father left us loads of money, enough to live off of for the rest of our lives. He also set up an account for me for when I turned twenty-one, which was last year.

As soon as they signed the papers, my dad hopped on a one-way flight to California and hasn’t been back since. He says he likes the weather and being close to LA.

Being a famous actor affords him many luxuries, but it also takes a lot of his time away from me. I haven’t been out to visit him yet, and we rarely ever actually talk.

I answer the call and bring my phone to my ear. My mother’s sweet voice speaks on the other end. “Gwenny?” The nickname makes me cringe, but I’ve gotten used to it.

“Hi, mom,” I say with a small smile even though she can’t see me.

“How are you? You didn’t call me last night. I was worried. Are you okay?”

“I know, I’m sorry. I had a paper to write for my class this morning and it took a lot longer than I expected. I’m okay,” I assure her. She worries so much, and I hate that she does.

I hear her let out a breath on the other end.

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