Page 14 of Hateful
“Hell is hot.”
“Shut up.”
I grin at him and get changed.
Honestly, I’m not hurting for cold-weather workout clothes. I’ve got plenty of oversized hoodies and enough sports bras and bandages to turn myself into a head-to-toe mummy if need be. I tug the drawstrings on my hood when I hit the icy cold air outside, shiver, and start jogging away from the school, picking a random direction.
I vaguely remember the dean saying something about hiking trails, so I scan the horizon for signs of one—and sure enough, find a narrow path heading into the woods near the school. It’s nice and open. The trees aren’t too dense close to the path, and I can see the bushes between the trunks.
It’s bitterly cold. I’m immediately grateful for my layers of clothes, but as I keep running down the trail, I become a little too hot. I won’t need to wear three pairs of socks next time.
The woods here aren’t quite like the ones back in Ohio. The trees are different. I huff and puff my way up the trail, then pause and turn back to head back to school. I’m not sure how long it’s been, but I’m hungry now, and I want some breakfast.
At least one thing in my life is consistent.
I see some animal tracks on my way back. Were they there before? There are some mildly large pawprints that make me wonder if I need to be worried.
A vague memory returns to me from the beginning of last year. Beck, or was it Heath, made a comment about wolves on my first day here at Bleakwood. I thought it was just a joke, but from the size of the paw prints in the snow, I’d do well to be careful.
I emerge from the forest and start jogging back toward the school—only to freeze in my own tracks. Standing near the tree line some ways away is Heath. He’s bundled in his winter clothes, his dark hair even darker against the snowy backdrop.
We look at each other for a moment. I haven’t interacted with him at all since I got back to school. Not so much as an unfriendly hello. Our eyes meet, and for a moment I feel a pang in my stomach.
Part of me wants to rush over to him and talk to him, ask him about his Christmas break—but the more rational bits of my brain remind me I should be avoiding him at all costs. He’s my bully, not my friend.
Just like the rest of them.
But then Heath waves at me, a boyish grin breaking out over his face. I should ignore him. I should head the other direction, wait for him to disappear.
But that look on his face, it makes that pit in my stomach grow until it’s a massive, bottomless chasm, and I have no choice but to wave back before he slips back inside ahead of me.
Ignore them,I remind myself.
Even when I know that isn’t going to be possible. Not when the way his grin widened at the sight of me made that pit in my stomach dissolve into butterflies. Not when the memory of seeing him standing there against the snowy mountains is imprinted on the backs of my eyelids long after he’s gone.
Heath.
If only he was as ugly on the outside as he acts sometimes, it would make this whole thing just … so, so much easier.
* * *
Monday morning findsme perfectly fine, but the same can’t be said for Rafael.
“I told you not to party on a Sunday night,” I sigh at him as I shove my foot into my shoe.
“Shut up with your logic.” He rolls over and pulls his blankets over his head. “And turn the light off.”
“I need to see, Mr. Hangover.” I grab a clean hoodie and tug it on. “It’s not my fault you were up until five in the morning drinking.”
Rafael groans. “You’re making my head hurt.”
“Youmade your head hurt. Want me to tell the nurse you’re sick?”
“Do whatever you want.”
He throws a pillow at me, which I dodge and toss back onto his bed before grabbing my backpack and heading out.It’s nice to be on the other end of the hangover stick for once. Back when The Brotherhood had it out for me, drinking and the following hangovers were starting to be a regular thing.
I can do without them.
