Suffer Love

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2016 by Ashley Herring Blake

All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to
[email protected]
or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.

www.hmhco.com

Cover photographs: © Felicia Simion / Trevillion Images (couple); © Pixelworks (photo illustration/composition)

Cover design by Carol Chu

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

ISBN 978-0-544-59632-0

eISBN 978-0-544-59691-7
v1.0516

For Mom.

 

And for my big brother,
Brandon, who dreamed
big and inspired me
to do the same.

Is love a tender thing? It is too rough,

Too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.

—W
ILLIAM
S
HAKESPEARE
,

R
OMEO AND
J
ULIET
,
ACT
1,
SCENE
4

His hand is warm on my bare back. Soothing. I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from leaning into it. Perched on the edge of the bed, I squint through the darkness and spot my shirt on the floor over the air vent, billowing up like a sheet drying in the wind. I slip it over my head and shiver, the cotton icy against my skin. His hand and the warmth vanish, along with any desire I had to remain in this room for longer than it'll take me to get from the bed to the door.

“Are you sure you don't want to stay a little longer?” Josh asks as I stand up. He props himself up on his elbows, his long body still sprawled across the bed. Party sounds filter upstairs and under the closed door, the steady
unst, unst
of the music pumping its way through beer-thick laughter.

In response, I toss him his shirt, straighten my still-buttoned jeans, smooth my hair.

“C'mon, Hadley.” His words blend into a soft slur as he drapes his shirt over his lap.

I crack open the door. “So, um, this was fun . . .” My voice trails off as the hallway light blazes into my eyes, bringing me back to reality.

“Hello? Name's Josh. I'm in your English class.”

I turn to face him, his close-cropped hair coated bronze in the dim light. He tilts his head at me, his full mouth open a little, like he really can't believe that I'm going to leave him here, half-naked and blue-balled. I force my lips into a smile. The one that pulled him toward me from across the room an hour earlier and had him whispering into my hair within ten minutes of hello.

“I know your name.”

And then I leave.

Alone in the hallway, I press my back against the door, my fingers gripping the handle, and close my eyes. I take a deep breath and wait for all the pleasantly blurred lines to sharpen again. I can still feel his fingers on my face, caressing it like he actually cared. Like I actually cared. As always, it's a nice illusion. A break from the normal chaos going on in my head. I know it'll all come rushing back later, when I'm lying in my bed, staring through the dark at the ceiling in my perpetually silent house, but for now, it's nice to feel a hint of calm.

Down the hall, the bathroom door opens and Sloane Waters steps out in a denim skirt and a white top so sheer I can see the lace edging of her black bra. She freezes when she spots me, her top lip curling as if she smells something bad. Sloane had it in for me before I even officially met her. At her infamous back-to-school party a month ago, I made out with Isaac Jorgenson. Granted, Isaac was her ex and we might have ended up in her bedroom, but they broke up a year ago and she's dated half the football team since then.

Sloane's narrowed eyes roam over my rumpled hair and wrinkled shirt. I feel my cheeks warm, but I pull my expression into one of indifference and brush past her. She's mercifully and unusually silent. As I pass, I get a whiff of her grape bubblegum smell, so cloying I nearly gag.

Downstairs, I swim through the sea of writhing bodies and into the living room of some guy whose name I can't even remember. The music is so loud that I feel like it's coming from inside my skull. Despite the crowd, Kat manages to find me seconds after I surface.

“So?” she asks. Her breath smells like orange Tic-Tacs. She slips a blue plastic cup into my hands.

“No, thanks.” I push the cup away, but she shoves it back with an eye roll.

“Lighten up. I'm not trying to get you drunk so I can have my way with you. It's just water.”

I pinch her arm and she swats at me. The water is cool and clean and washes away Josh's lingering taste of beer and spearmint gum. We make our way to the edge of the huge living room where it opens up into the kitchen. I lean against the wall and drain my cup, my heart rate finally slowing after having Josh's lips on my neck.

“So?” Kat asks again. She tucks her short blond hair behind her ears and takes a sip from her beer. A couple squeezes past us, the guy's hands on the girl's curvy hips. Kat presses into me as if she's afraid she might catch something.

“So what?” I look at her arched eyebrows. Kat was born and raised in Woodmont. We've been best friends since we were twelve and met in the swim class my dad taught. We've always lived a town apart until a few months ago, when my parents convinced themselves that a change of scene would help untie the massive tangle that is our family. They truly believed the move from Nashville to suburban Woodmont for my senior year would
make the whole thing easier
and bring my father's little girl back from whatever pit I had banished her to. Four months later, Kat is still the only flower on the crap pile that is my new life.

“You're not going to tell me anything? Come on, Josh Ellison? He's cute. He's supposed to be the best third baseman the school has had in, like, a decade.”

“Really.”

“Yes. God, Hadley. Don't you know anything about him?”

“I know he plays baseball.” I move my eyes around the room, tucking its inhabitants into neat little boxes. Seventeen girls, eleven boys. Sweaty, scruffy, clean-cut. Bored, nervous, horny, drunk. My gaze lands on Matt Pavers, Josh's best friend. He lifts an eyebrow at me and I look away, tugging my shirt lower over my hips.

“Do you like him?” She sticks out her forefinger, counting. “Henry was too cocky, Isaac was too Ivy League–obsessed and wore argyle socks and was, well, pretty much still Sloane's. And Jeremy was . . . what? Didn't he smell like soup or something?”

“Pot roast.” My correction slams into her granite stare. I cross my arms over my chest, my empty cup dangling from my forefinger, and shrug. “What? It was like kissing him right after he downed Grandma's Sunday dinner.”

“So do you like Josh?”

I release a breath. “No, Kitty Kat. I don't like him.”

“What's wrong with him? He's nice.”

“And a total player.”

“Well, yeah, I guess so, but—”

“Liking him isn't the point.”

“Here we go.” She snorts and then coughs and I bite back a laugh. She's never been good at disdain, no matter how heartfelt. “Well, what if he likes you?”

“I doubt it. Josh Ellison stores his brain in his pants. He isn't the dating type.” At least, I don't think he is.

Since everything in my life went to crap, I haven't exactly been on the prowl for heart-fluttering romance. I would have sworn off guys altogether, but there's something about the way they look at me right before they lean in to kiss me. Head tilted, eyes fixed on mine, thumb swiping across my cheek. It reels me in every time. I would hate myself if it weren't so damn therapeutic.

Plus, it's not like I've ever let anyone beyond second base. In the past six months, there have only been a few guys, but whenever Kat talks about it, she turns into her mother and starts blah-blah-blahing about control issues and daddy issues and vulnerability issues and trust issues. Her mouth forms a neat little knot, her tongue running over her teeth the way she does when she's trying to figure something out. After all, she was friends with the old Hadley. The old Hadley believed in romance and lasting love. Craved it, would wait a lifetime for it, same as Kat.

The new Hadley knows better.

“Have you seen Rob?” I ask, to change the subject.

She tries to resist. The battle between her quest for my rehabilitation and shameless drooling over her five-year-long crush wages in her face. Eventually a grin presses dimples into her cheeks. “I saw him while you were upstairs. He smiled at me. Can you believe it?”

“And?”

She puts her cup to her lips but doesn't drink. Even in the dim light, I can see the crimson spilling into her face. “And what?”

“Kat, just go talk to him.”

“I can't. He was playing pool with his swim buddies, and besides, what would I say? ‘I think you're gorgeous and I've loved you since the first day of seventh grade when you walked me to the cafeteria because I got lost'?”

I shrug. “Might be a bit too subtle. I'd go for ‘I think you're a god and I want to bear your children.'”

She smacks my arm and laughs.

“Or better yet,” I say. “How about ‘Hi. Great party. Nice job on the four hundred IM last week. Wanna dance?'”

“Oh, God, I can't ask him to dance.”

“You can and you should.” I try to nudge her forward a little, but she angles out of my reach. “You can't just wait around for some grand gesture, Kat.”

She shakes her head. “I'm not like you, Hadley. I want more than five minutes of feeling special.”

My jaw nearly hits the floor. Kat focuses on her cup, picking at a snarled piece of plastic on the rim. Before I can question her, tense voices, sharp and high-pitched, rise up behind us. Kat and I turn and see Sloane and Josh arguing in the kitchen. Josh's brows bunch together and Sloane gestures wildly. Jenny Kalinski stands between them, biting her bottom lip, her dark pixie hair framing her petite features. I watch Josh shake his head and try to pull Jenny toward him. Sloane pushes his chest, her face contorted.

My breath catches when I hear my own name wedged in between some foul words. Josh flinches and rakes his hand down his face. He grabs a beer from a nearby cooler before stumbling out the back door onto the porch.

A sick feeling settles into my stomach. I run the pad of my thumb over each of my fingertips, one by one. I watch Jenny try to follow Josh.
Index finger.
Sloane grabs Jenny's arm and stops her.
Middle finger.
Sloane's red glare takes flight and lands on me.
Ring finger.

“Uh-oh,” Kat says, her eyes wide on the scene. “Hadley?”

I don't respond, but stiffen my spine as Sloane crosses the room, Jenny in tow.
Pinkie finger.

I gulp down my surprise as Sloane gets in my face. She's so close, her features blur together into one snarling mess. I step away, my back hitting the wall.

“God, Sloane. What the hell?”

“Running out of single guys, Hadley?” she asks. “What do you think you're doing with Jenny's boyfriend?”

Jenny and I lock eyes. Hers are red and watery and huge, like an ingénue in an old silent film. The effect is so familiar, something knots up in my chest.