Page 19 of Hate the One You're With
She raises an eyebrow, clearly caught off guard by the authoritative tone, but a hint of a smile tugs at her lips. There’s a flicker of something in her eyes—interest, maybe even a bit of admiration—that makes my chest tighten. She likes the challenge, and I can tell she’s not used to someone pushing back.
“Okay, then,” she replies, her voice softer, almost teasing. “We’ll see about that.”
I can’t help but smirk, sensing the subtle shift in the air between us. This might be more fun than I thought. Still, a small voice in the back of my mind reminds me she’s young, so I dare to ask as we walk toward a table, “So, what are you, sixteen?”
She laughs, a light, easy sound that catches me off guard. “Turned eighteen in April.”
Her admitting her age makes me relax, my shoulders easing as we sit down. We start eating, the tension from before melting away with each bite.
“So, being eighteen means you’re free to roam wherever you want without getting into trouble, huh?” I tease, taking a bite of my sandwich.
She grins, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Pretty much. I’m like a grown-up now—minus the whole ‘getting into trouble’ part, of course.”
“Oh, of course,” I play along, nodding seriously. “Because no eighteen-year-old ever gets into trouble.”
“Hey, I’m just trying to enjoy my freedom before the world decides I’m too grown up for fun.”
“Good plan,” I agree, a smile tugging at my lips. “Just don’t get caught skipping math tests too often. I hear that’s where they draw the line.”
Her laughter is infectious, and for a moment, it feels like we’ve known each other longer than just a few minutes. It’s easy, natural—like we’re both in on the same joke, and neither of us wants the punchline to come too soon.
Chapter Eleven
Emmersyn
“You lefta lot of money with my brother,” Clarissa says the moment I pick up the phone.
“It wasn’t enough,” I protest.
While Caleb went to check on his dad, I tried to pay for the medical bills. The billing person laughed at my attempt, telling me it only covered a day—and he had been there for a week already, with more charges onthe way. Thankfully, she handed me an envelope, and I left it with Caleb, claiming it was something important for his sister.
That money has to help with something, right? Like a month of groceries or the mortgage or . . . It’s been a long time—four years—since I’ve had to sit down and pay the bills for the house, but I have an idea of how much things cost. Mom was very adamant that I learn to be independent and knew not only to balance a checkbook but have a budget.
We were very strict with our budget and always saved money to have one vacation somewhere sunny and tropical for her birthday. She liked to go to bright sunny places, have fruity drinks, and swim. Maybe when I start working, I’ll save so I can do one of those things again.
“We agreed you wouldn’t give me money,” Clarissa insists, sticking to her wild idea. “Just marry my brother, and then you can use the trust to help my parents.”
I roll my eyes. She’s relentless. Now that I’ve met Caleb, I admit he’s definitely better than several guys from Grandma’s list. Like Preston Bancroft III, who’s a C student at Yale and will be taking over his father’s dermatology practice. I wouldn’t want him to touch me with a ten-foot pole, let alone a scalpel.
Then there’s Frédéric Scott Wallace, who, at twenty-four, still lives in his parents’ guesthouse and collects rare action figures—he once told me they were “an excellent investment.” Someone should probably break it to him that Beanie Babies aren’t action figures, they’ll never be valuable collectibles, and they’ve been out of style since dial-up internet.
And let’s not forget Sebastian Wainwright, who brags about his tennis skills but can’t even hold a racket properly—despite being a “professional” tennis coach who’s been kickedout of every country club on the East Coast. All of them just care about their investments, trust funds, and how much more they could be worth if they became Emmersyn Langley’s husband.
I wish my grandmother hadn’t announced to the world that I was planning to marry after graduating from high school. Honestly, all I want right now is for one of the schools I applied to offer me a scholarship, not just say you’ve been accepted. But that’s unlikely since I’m a Langley, and Langleys don’t need financial assistance or scholarships.
Why give me anything when they’re probably waiting to take something from me?
“You met him, right? Caleb? Isn’t he nice and sweet?” Clarissa pulls me out of my thoughts.
“What?” I snap back to the conversation.
“Are you even paying attention to me?” she demands.
“Of course I am,” I lie, trying to refocus. “It’s just . . . I don’t want to get married.”
“Which I totally get. That list your grandmother gave you is full of losers who would just mooch off you,” she says.
At least one person in my life understands.
