Even if it Hurts: A Toxic Romance Read online

“Neither can I.”

  I lose my smile as soon as I’m out of her sight. Giving my bedroom door a push, I haul my heavy-ass backpack inside, trying not to think how I’ll find time to finish my homework. I started it at lunch like I have every day of this school year, but lunch isn’t long enough to put a very big dent in my workload.

  I guess I’m staying up late again.

  It’s what I have to do most nights in order to get everything done, but most nights I don’t have to do as much cooking as I do tonight.

  Oh well.

  Complaining about it—even just in my own head—won’t change anything, so I shove down the stirrings of fatigue I’m already feeling after a long day of school, and head to the bathroom for a nice, refreshing shower.

  After my shower, I tie my hair up in a cute ponytail with an orange scarf, then I head to my room. I put on a white, airy peasant-style sundress—the kind I’d wear traversing the cobbled streets of Italy if we could afford such an expensive vacation. I grab my favorite sunglasses and put them on top of my head, also like I would if we were sightseeing today and the sun was still up for a few more hours.

  As I make my way out to the living room, I pull up YouTube on my phone and start the first loop of Italian background music I picked to play while I cook dinner.

  Mom grins as soon as the lovely music starts playing and turns to look up at me as I enter the room. “Mood music?”

  “Feels like you’re in Italy listening to it, doesn’t it? Now, come to the kitchen, let’s get the smells going.” Pausing, I wait to see if she needs help, but it must be a good day today because she makes it to the center island without any trouble.

  “You don’t have to hover,” she tells me as she takes a seat. “If I need help, I’ll ask.”

  “All right.” I know she’s a little sensitive about it, so I don’t want to make a fuss. Instead, I dust that comment right under the rug and start collecting ingredients. “I’m going to start with the gelato since it takes the longest in the freezer.”

  It wouldn’t take as long if we had an ice cream maker, but we do not, and buying one just for this was definitely not in the budget. I pull out the gelato tubs I ordered on Amazon, a pair of them for $15. That was more within my budget, so the long way it is.

  Mom sits at the island and we talk and listen to music while I get the gelato started. Once that’s done, I dump it in the container and put it in the freezer, then I set the first alarm.

  Next, we make a mess on the counter making pasta from scratch. It’s a laborious task, but at least the pasta this recipe calls for can be made without a pasta machine. I only needed a cheap pack of bamboo skewers, and Mom enjoys helping me shape it until we have enough for dinner.

  I’m trying to do everything as traditionally as possible, so instead of a food processor, I grab a mortar and pestle for the assembly of the sauce. Mom laughs, thinking I’m joking.

  “Nope, we’re doing it old school,” I tell her as I drop garlic in and get to crushing.

  Turns out, that process sucks. My arm is not happy, but I keep at it until I need a break, then I grab the pecorino cheese and grate some in the bowl.

  My alarm goes off, so I have to pause to mix the gelato. Then I’m back at it, adding basil and a pinch of salt. Before long, we have two plates of authentic Italian pesto alla Trapanese.

  “This looks incredible,” Mom says, reaching for her plate, but I tell her to go sit down and I’ll bring it to her. She starts to object, but I cut her off with a firm raise of my eyebrow.

  “If we were in Italy, a hunky Italian waiter would be serving you. Under no circumstances would you be serving yourself. I don’t want to hear it.”

  Reluctantly, she goes in and sits down. While the pasta was cooking, I made quick work of setting a table for two with a white linen tablecloth and a candle in the center.

  I bring in our dinner and a plate of sliced Italian bread. I grab us goblets of water and the wine that paired best with this pasta, then I start the next music playlist and we enjoy a nice dinner.

  After dinner is over, I clear the table, move it out of the way, and turn on our first movie of the night, Oceans 12.

  We watch The Talented Mr. Ripley next, and as the credits roll, Mom says, “That’s what I never did. I should have pulled off a heist.”

  I crack a smile and look over at her. “Hey, there’s still time. I go to school with plenty of rich assholes we could rob if you need help finding a target,” I joke.

  Mom cracks a smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I know you don’t want to,” she says, looking down at her lap, “but there are some practical things we need to talk about, Aubrey.”

  I pluck the sunglasses off my head and put them on the end table between the couch and Mom’s trusty recliner. “Not while we’re on vacation. Where should we go next weekend? We could stick with Italy but get more specific—maybe Rome on Saturday, Venice on Sunday? I’d like to see Rome and stop by the Trevi Fountain. Or we could hop the train to Paris. There’s this restaurant inside the train station in Paris that Janie was telling me is really good. I looked around a bit and found a recipe for their mashed potatoes. I can look at the menu and find something else I can cook. We can binge Emily in Paris, and I can order one of those Amazon experiences, maybe a walking tour of the city, or I think we can tour the Eiffel Tower. Personally, I think I can kick ass at French cuisine, so I’m down if you are.”

  “That sounds nice,” she says, her tone a bit subdued by my dedication to changing the subject.

  “It’s decided, then.” Pushing up off the couch, I add, “I’m going to check on the gelato.”

  Mom sighs but makes no further attempts to ruin our night with ugly reality.

  Chapter two

  Aubrey

  We’re on night two of Italy—more delicious pasta, but tiramisu for dessert. Tonight, we watch Under the Tuscan Sun and Letters to Juliet.

  I am mentally and physically exhausted, but I still have to clean up after dinner. Mom offers to help, but of course, I tell her no and take care of everything myself.

  She’s tired, too, so we call it a night.

  Mom goes to sleep, while I unpack my book bag and set my textbooks and notebooks in stacks across my queen-sized mattress. Lunch was especially noisy today and I couldn’t concentrate, so I didn’t get the head start I usually get.

  My phone lights up on the bed beside me. My gaze flickers to it, my brow creasing as I see a new text message and who it’s from.

  Jane Sebold, an old friend of mine from school.

  Before my entire life tore apart at the seams and it fell on me to single-handedly hold the pieces together, I used to hang out with Janie all the time. We were best friends, and I know she was hurt when I had to take a step back, but I could only spread myself so thin before I couldn’t even hold myself together anymore. Something had to give, and unfortunately, it was Janie that needed me the least.

  I think about her often, especially when I see her at school, but we don’t talk much anymore. I can’t even remember the last time she sent me a text message.

  Grabbing the phone, I touch the screen to brighten it so I can read her message without sliding it open. It’s just one line: What are you doing?

  In general, or right this moment?

  I slide the message open so I can type back. “Homework. You?”

  “Still?” she texts back. “God, you must have got a late start.”

  “Yeah, I was doing stuff with my mom,” I type back.

  “Oh, sure. How is she doing?”

  “Pretty much the same. Just taking things one day at a time. How have you been?”

  “I’m good,” she texts back. “Really good tonight. I’m actually at this really cool party and I was wondering if you’d want to meet me here. We haven’t hung out in a while, and I’m sure you could use a break for some fun.”

  I’m torn. It would be nice to see Janie again and hang out like old times, but I’m so tired. Plus, if I go over there I’ll be around other people. That means I have to shower again as soon as I get home, and just thinking about doing all of that when I’m already exhausted…

  I text back, “I wish I could, but it’s late and I still have a ton of homework to do.”

  “It is Friday,” she points out. “The homework isn’t due until Monday. You can always do it over the weekend.”

  She knows I like to get my homework out of the way on Friday night so I don’t have to think about school again until Monday, but it’s not just that. Since most of my weekend time is already set aside to work and hang out with my mom, I also need to get some sleep over the weekend. That’s when I catch up so I can function throughout the week. I’m always worn down by Friday night.

  If I go to this party to see her, that means no homework gets done tonight. That means I have to do all of it tomorrow, so I’ll have to stay up late again, which means I get zero hours of extra sleep this weekend.

  This is why I let the friendship go in the first place. I do not have time for it.

  But, despite all my good reasons, I feel guilty about telling her no. Even though I tried explaining to Janie that it wasn’t personal, I know she took it that way. Why wouldn’t I hang out with her if I truly wanted to?

  She doesn’t understand that I’m stretched so thin I feel see-through, and I literally can’t juggle one more ball, no matter how much I might want to.

  I don’t expect her to understand what life is like for me now, though. Why would she? She’s never had to shoulder so much responsibility. Grown men have turned away from the weight I have to carry every day.

  For a moment, I feel sad for myself, but as soon as I realize what I’m doing, I stop. There is definitely no tim
e for that bullshit.

  Out of time.

  That perfectly sums up my entire life right now, actually. I need more time, and there’s no way to get it.

  It’s a frustrating realization. I really want to have time for Janie, I just… don’t.

  Right?

  It feels impossible to add one more ball to the ones I already have in the air, but every bit of this has felt impossible, and here I am, doing it.

  So I don’t get enough sleep this weekend—that’s why coffee is a thing.

  Surely I can rearrange my plate to fit just one more thing.

  I check the time. It’s a little after 11—way too late to go to a party, but showing up now could work in my favor. I don’t have to stay as long as if I had gone when the party started, but I’m still putting in an appearance, so at least Janie will know I’m making an effort.

  I’m already dressed in my “vacation clothes,” so I’m pretty much ready. I grab my purse and smear some lip balm on my lips, then I clear off my bed since I expect to be dead on my feet when I get back home.

  Am I forgetting anything?

  Oh, right.

  Usually, I would tell Mom I’m leaving. Actually, in the past when I actually did normal teenage things, I guess I would have asked.

  It doesn’t feel like I need to anymore.

  Thinking things like that can only possibly make me sad, so I shove it down, slide my purse strap on my shoulder, and quietly make my way out of the house.

  ___

  Chase Darington’s mansion is something straight off the pages of a glossy magazine. It’s in an elite, hillside neighborhood where a lot of the rich kids from my school live. They have the beach in their backyard, but homes designed with lavish pools and so many expensive playthings, they’re hardly impressed by what nature has to offer.

  A wave of foreboding creeps down my spine as I park in one of the empty spots along the long, winding driveway that curves around the house. The place is already packed full of cars. There must be a ton of people here.

  I hope I left enough room in case the people in front of me need to leave.

  Not that I’m likely to stay longer than anybody else. I literally just want to pop in, talk to Janie for a bit, and then go home. I don’t enjoy hanging out with these people at school, and I feel like I don’t belong here already.

  I don’t even know where to go. I make my way to the front door, but when I knock, nobody answers.

  I can hear music blasting from inside the house, so they probably can’t hear me.

  There’s more ruckus around back. A girl shrieks, some guys laugh, and I hear a huge splash from the pool.

  More music plays in the backyard. I guess since people are obviously back there and no one is coming to the door, I can just walk around back.

  I feel awkward about it, and the feeling intensifies when I round the corner and find a couple making out with half of their clothes off in a private cabana.

  “Whoa,” I murmur, quickly turning my head to look away. I almost apologize, but I don’t think they even noticed me.

  Not far from there is another piece of furniture with two guys sprawled on it, one glancing over at the couple in the cabana with a smirk on his face.

  “Hey, beautiful, where are you going?” asks a guy from the swim team as I walk past him. “Not feeling chatty, huh?”

  Ew.

  There are too many people here. I’m not fond of crowds, and I don’t see Janie back here.

  I’ve never actually been to one, but this isn’t what I expected of a high school party. I pass another couple making out by the pool, then move out of the way as I’m nearly splashed by a guy and girl flirting and playing grab-ass in the sloshing water.

  “Hey, you made it!”

  I turn in the direction of the voice and see Mallory coming toward me wearing a smile and a peach-colored bikini, but curiously lacking her entourage again. I think I can count on one hand how many times I’ve seen Mallory without Anae and Shawna in a social setting, and now she’s approached me alone twice.

  I offer back a smile. “Yeah, here I am.”

  “Great.” Her smile widens. She turns and gestures to a wet bar area. “You can grab a drink over there. We’ve got everything. Here, I’ll take your purse and put it in the coatroom.”

  My grip on my purse tightens. “Oh, that’s all right. I’ll keep it on me.”

  Her eyebrows rise in surprise. “It’ll be kinda hard to swim and keep track of it. Not like any of the poor people are here tonight, but—” She freezes, realizing what she said.

  I offer a thin smile. “It’s fine. I’m not going in the pool. I have to keep my phone close in case my mom needs me, so… thanks, anyway.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Déjà vu hits as she adopts the look of a lost robot. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  “All right,” Mallory says, walking toward the bar and clearly expecting me to follow.

  I do because I expect she won’t go away until I satisfy her, and I want to go find Janie. Maybe she’s inside.

  Mallory lingers until I grab a drink—two, actually. There’s bottled water, which is what I grab, but she insists I have a real drink. She grabs bottles of liquor from behind the bar and makes me something herself.

  I thank her and take the red Solo cup, then I make my way inside the house to look for my friend.

  I find a lot of people inside—including one pair of definitely naked teenagers snuggled up beneath a fur blanket in the downstairs guest bedroom—but I don’t find Janie.

  I suppose as many people as there are here, we may keep missing each other while we’re circulating. I find a corner off to myself where no one will bump into me, then I shift my drinks so I can reach into my purse and grab my phone.

  I text Janie to ask where she is, but there’s no immediate response.

  “Is that for me?”

  I turn, startled, as a guy I vaguely recognize but don’t know the name of gets a little too close and takes the drink right out of my hand. “Um…” He takes a sip, watching me over the rim. “I guess it is now.”

  He smiles, lowering the cup and moving closer. “I’m Kevin.”

  “Hi, Kevin.”

  “Aren’t you gonna tell me your name?”

  “No.”

  Inexplicably, he smiles like I’ve just said something sexy. “Hard to get, huh? I like it.”

  I couldn’t be more turned off. “Not playing hard to get. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go look for my friend.”

  I move around him and start heading back the way I came, but the guy follows me.

  “I can be your friend.”

  He says it like I’ll be enticed. I roll my eyes, hard. “No thanks.”

  As aggressively as he began, I think he might keep coming, but fortunately, he seems to get the hint because when I look back, he isn’t there.

  At least he took that drink I didn’t want off my hands. What a pal, that Kevin.

  I check my phone once I get back out near the pool. There’s still nothing from Janie.

  What the hell?

  Someone shouts “hey!” behind me, but it doesn’t occur to me they could possibly be addressing me until someone grabs my shoulder and yanks me around.

  I have to look up, my eyes widening as I look into the angry red face of Kalea Danson. I was in a group project with her once, and back when I used to sit with people at lunch, we sat at the same table a couple of times, but we don’t really know each other.

  She’s definitely looking at me, though.

  Angrily. Very angrily.

  “Um… me?” I question.

  Her eyes narrow. “Who else?”

  I’m so confused. “I don’t know. Can I help you with something?”

  “Yeah.” She shoves me and I fall back a couple of steps—not only because I’m taken completely off-guard, but because Kalea Danson is the only girl on the school wrestling team.

  She’s huge.

  I’m not.

  I would never intentionally anger her.

  “What the hell was that for?” I ask, not even angry, just confused.

  She turns her phone around and shows me a picture of me and Kevin talking upstairs. It must have been when he first approached and took my drink. He’s definitely giving me a sexy look, but my back is turned, so you can’t see that I’m definitely not reciprocating.