Page 17 of The Boy I Hate

Her narrative was a diary of sorts, the way to get things out of her head so she could letthemgo.

DearRenee,

She beganas she always did—though Renee rarely ever received them. Samantha had hundreds of messages like this, if not thousands. Some were letters of excitement and joy, others fears and anxiety. But many were confessions. Too many. They were unedited, unanswered, unsent. Letters from a teenage girl who was confused, heartbroken, and needing someone to talk to. Letters from a drunken newly twenty-one-year-old woman, who for some reason was thinking of Tristan when on a romantic getaway with herboyfriend.

Ican’t waitto see you! To see you in your wedding dress. Tohugyou!

I can’t wait to catch up on all you’ve been doing since leaving LA. I know we’ve talked nearly every day, but it’s different when I can see your face. I’ve missed you so much. So much more than I can say in this letter. So much—that I find myself sitting next to your brother for the nextfourdays.

He sayshe doesn’t remember me; is that even possible? That he couldn’t remember the girl who was at his house more often than her own? But I guess that doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is that he showed up, and that I’m on my way toseeyou.

Imiss you!I miss your stinky ballet shoes! I even miss tripping over your dance bag you always left by the front door. I miss us sitting on the couch, binge watching Netflix. I worry we’ll never do thatagain…

Iknow it’s silly,but I always pictured us growing old together. You’d live next door and come over to borrow sugar. But you’d stay awhile…so our babies would crawl on the living room floortogether.

We’d goto cocktail parties, see romcom movies because our husbands never wanted to go. We’d always give them a hard time, but secretly we’d love it. Because it would be like old times, like sitting under blankets watchingNetflix…

* * *

Six yearsearlier

Maple syrup drippedfrom the bite of waffle held midair on Samantha’s fork. A sea of breakfast foods covered the plate in front of her: waffles, eggs, toast. But she’d neglected to take a bite of any of it. Breakfast wasn’t her favorite meal on any given morning, but today the food was especiallyunappealing.

She’d tossed and turned all night long, barely able to get more than an hour’s rest. Her stomach was rolling with anxiety and guilt. The feeling that still lingered now. It was guilt over kissing Tristan, but also about holding back the truth from Renee. Samantha and Renee shared everything with each other.Everything. Last night was the first time in their Nine-year friendship that Samantha had gone to bed knowing she hadn’t told her friend thetruth.

Samantha’s mom had once told her that the secret to a happy life was never going to bed knowing you’d been dishonest. At the time, she’d thought her mom was trying to convince her to confess about the cookies she’d stolen from the pantry, but the advice haunted her last night. Because an untold truth felt an awful lot like a lie. Like stolen cookies leaving a sour taste in the bottom of herstomach.

Tristan sat directly in front of her now, though she hadn’t looked up once. She felt bad ignoring him, because in spite of how upset she was about Renee, last night had been one of the best of her life. She was just afraid. Afraid that if she met his eyes again, even for a second, everyone in the house would know he’d taken a piece of her heart last night. They’d see the confusion whirling in her brain. Because last night she’d gone out with a boy, knowing he was the one she hated, but in just a few hours he’d made her question everything she’d believed foryears.

It was like finding out Santa wasn’t real, and then playing each moment you’d sat in his lap over and over, wondering how you could’ve not known. The fake beard, the constant change in appearance, the fact he would wear such a warm suit in the middle of summer at the fourth of July parade. Being with Tristan had shattered her sense of self, her trust in her own judgment and everything she thought she knew about everyone. She found herself piecing memories of Tristan together, trying to make sense of it all, but then pulling them apart again because it never did. Because he wasn’t a dumb jock that hurt everyone like she’d always thought. That was a lie, and if anything, those lies hadhurthim.

“Are you alright, dear?” Mrs. Montgomery’s voice called from the other side of thetable.

Samantha startled from her thoughts, uncrossed her feet from under the table, and glanced down the row of chairs to her best friend’s mother. Mrs. Montgomery’s gold hair was tied up in a messy bun on the top of her head, her long neck poised elegantly as she sipped from a large mug ofcoffee.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Samantha forced a small smile and shoved the piece of waffle into her mouth. “Justtired.”

Mrs. Montgomery grinned, but only half-heartedly. “I hope Renee didn’t keep you up all night with her coughing. I’m afraid this trip hasn’t been much fun for you,hasit?”

Samantha shook her head. “Oh no, it’s been great.” She swallowed her food. “And it wasn’t Renee. I was up late…” She cleared her throat. “Reading.”

Tristan made a small sound from across the table, but Samantha ignored him, not daring to look up for fear everyone would see herblushing.

Mrs. Montgomery turned to say something to Mr. Montgomery, never seeming to notice her discomfort, and eventually went back to reading hernewspaper.

The plan had been to leave right after breakfast, and Samantha couldn’t wait for it. She was anxious for the departure, anxious to be back at the Montgomerys’ so she could talk to Renee privately. She needed to tell her what happened. To confess—and clear her dirty conscience of the kiss she couldn’t stop thinking about. But she couldn’t do it here, not knowing they’d be stuck in a car for five hours back to LA. She’d tell her when they got home, as soon as she got her alone, no matter how difficultitwas.

A creak sounded from the other side of the room and Samantha turned around. Renee stood on the very top of the staircase, her hair a tangled and unbrushed mess, held high by a yellow scrunchy on top ofherhead.

“Well if it isn’t my little ball of sunshine!” Mr. Montgomery shouted. “It’s good to see you out of bed andalive.”

Renee croaked out a word that sounded something like “morning,” then came down the steps, and crossed the distance to pull out a chair next toSamantha.

“How do you feel, honey?” Mrs. Montgomery asked, as Renee satbesideher.

“Better,” she answered, reaching across the table for the platter of waffles. “Do we have any orangejuice?”

Everyone began passing plates and pitchers. Chatting about everything and nothing, as Samantha stuffed her face with maple-covered waffles and bacon. She hoped that if she kept her mouth full for long enough, everyone would forget she was there and not askquestions.

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