Page 77 of The Way I Hate Him
The forbidden temptation.
The powerful yearning.
It drained out of me, leaving me spent and drunk.
And Jesus Christ, it’s so good. Probably one of the best songs I’ve ever written.
The only problem is . . . since every last word is about Hattie, I can’t share it with the world.
Why? Because she’d know. She’d know it was about her when she heard the lyrics. It’s why I can’t give it to the studio.
It’s why I’m currently drinking.
And it’s why I’m staring at Ruben’s text, feeling agitated.
Ruben:Just checking in.
Yeah, that’s all he’s doing, checking in. And I know it’s his job, but Jesus fucking Christ, I can’t just perform when he says perform.
I tip my bottle back in my mouth, take a giant swig, then wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and text him back.
Hayes:You’re annoying the shit out of me. Fuck off, Ruben.
There. That should do it. I set my phone to the side and clutch my bottle close to my chest just as my phone rings next to me.
Of course, the fucker calls. I shouldn’t have expected anything less.
I lift the phone, answer it, then press it to my ear.
“What?” I say.
“Want to talk about it?” he says, knowing me all too fucking well.
“No,” I answer.
“Hayes, come on . . . what’s going on?”
Ruben is the type of guy who presses, who won’t let you get away with not speaking your feelings—hence the phone call. Normally, I’d tell him everything is fine, but everything doesn’t feel fine.
Everything feels out of control.
Uncomfortable.
Agonizing.
And I need to get it off my chest.
“What’s going on?” I ask. “Well, besides the fact that I think I like a girl who I shouldn’t like, and fuck is she beautiful, and sweet, and her freckles, fuck, Ruben, her freckles. She’s . . . she’s charming, and she listens, and she makes me feel less alone, and I don’t like that because I shouldn’t like her, I shouldn’t want to talk to her, to be near her, but hell do I want to be near her, all the goddamn time. I want to go talk to her right now, and she smells . . . she smells so damn good, and the song I wrote, yeah, that’s about her, but there is no way in fuck I can hand over the song to you despite it being really fucking good because if she found out I liked her then everything would be ruined, ruined for her and I can’t ruin her, she’s so much sunshine and promises, and I can’t ruin that . . . so, yeah, despite that, everything is just fucking great.”
“Okay,” Ruben says calmly. “That’s a lot to process. Let me see if I’ve got this right. You like a girl. You shouldn’t like this girl. But you wrote a song about her. But you can’t turn it in.” Wow, he’s good. “Why can’t you hand over the song?”
“Because she’ll know it’s about her. Immediately. She’ll know, and she can’t know.” I shake my head. “She can’t know that I like her. No one can know.”
“That’s fair,” Ruben says. “Can I ask, why can’t anyone know?”
“It’s Ryland’s little sister,” I say, dragging my hand over my face.
“Ryland, the guy who hates you?”
