Hate My Guts

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I don't sleep at all. Instead, I take turns crying and staring at the wall. I never knew I could cry so much—I never shed a tear for Noah.

Not even on our last night together—I knew it would be the last time we had sex, but he didn't at the time. I made sure to do all the things he liked, like suck on his balls and scratch his chest. Reverse-cowgirl rode him until he came, which I got down to swallow because he liked to look at me when I did it. And I smiled for him.

We cuddled afterward, watched his favorite horror movie. I dropped the ball as I got dressed to leave. I didn't even give him time to react or try to persuade me to stay. At least with the twins I hesitated. Or, at least, my body did.

As I drag myself up to get ready for class—as much as I don't want to go and have to face Arlo in Art History, I know Lila would have questions that I can't answer yet—I open my glass jewelry box beside my bed.

My collar sits inside, patient and obediently waiting for me to put it on again. I trace the embroidered O and A on either side of the gold ring, like maybe the essence of the twins is caught in the stitches. My heart jerks at the perfect little thing I won't ever wear for anyone else and fresh tears bubble inside me.

I don't bother showering or changing; I've still got on my leggings and LU hoodie from the night before. I do go into the bathroom and immerse my face in cold water in the sink, try to ease the redness under my eyes, before pulling my hair up in a bun.

The apartment is quiet; Lila took today off to recuperate from our vacation. She's probably still with her mystery-man in her bedroom, sleeping off a hangover.

As I stare blankly at the Keurig as it spurts out some coffee for me, soft footsteps pad up behind me.

I turn, expecting Lila, but it's Roark.

He's shirtless and disheveled, that morning-after-sex glow all around him. I should probably be happy for him that he's out of the friend-zone, but I don't feel like ever being happy again.

He gives me an easy smile and flips on the kitchen light, which I didn't realize wasn't even on. "Hey, Lila's sister."

I bring my attention back to the coffee machine before he can see my face. "Hey, Lila's friend."

Out of the corner of my eye I watch him grab a glass from a shelf above the sink and fill it with water. "You got in late, didn't you?" he asks.

I just nod.

"College-boy keep you up, too, huh?"

He's joking, playful, no doubt had the time of his life the night before. Part of me wants to sob and part of me just wants to push him over. "You could say that."

He leans against the sink and gulps his water. The coffee machine stops and I chuck a bunch of ice cubes from the freezer in the black coffee.

"You want a ride to campus?"

I'd give anything for Arlo and Ollie to scold me for getting a ride with a guy, but knowing they won't be looking out for me hits my state of mind like a brick. "No, it's alright. Arlo's coming to get me."

"Okay, then. Stay safe out there," he says, filling up the glass again and shuffling out of the kitchen.

Arlo isn't in Art History. The seat beside me—his seat—remains cold and empty. My first instinct is to text him to see where he is, if he's okay, but I'm not entitled to that anymore.

It's probably better this way, anyway. It's easier for them to be mad at me. I hope they do. I hope they hate my guts.

I hate my guts.

After class, which I don't even remember what topic we're covering, I find myself headed towards our coffee shop. It's like my feet take me there against my own will. Like a muscle memory I didn't realize I was building all these weeks.

I know Arlo won't be in the café, but I go inside and take up our booth, anyway.



You've probably blocked us, but I'm going to text anyway because if I don't at least think I'm talking to you I'll lose my mind.

Just making sure you're okay.

I'm taking an Incomplete in Art History. Can't go back there.

Ollie's drinking again. More. Never talked about it with you, but sometimes he goes overboard.

I'm fine.

I don't hate you.

Ollie doesn't either.

You're wrong, of course, about why you broke up with us.

I know why you really did it, Wren. Would you be mad if I called you dumb?

Ollie hurt me that night, sure. But he hurt himself more, I think.

He blames himself.

He's never had something to lose.

I miss you.

I didn't block the twins, so I get every single message they send me. Every phone call and voicemail over the next two weeks. Oliver leaves voice memos only late at night, but Arlo texts throughout the day. It's torture to listen to, to see, but I deserve it.

I'm a coward. I cut and run. It's an MO if I do it more than twice (three times, technically?), but even if I could take it back, reset, would things have gone differently?



Roark stays over regularly at our place now, and he offers to give me rides to campus when it snows. When I finally broke the news to Lila about breaking up with Arlo (and Ollie), she was surprised and confused. At first she thought maybe he'd "tried to get fresh." Roark, who was there with us in the living room eating takeout gave me a knowing look like he knew very well we'd been "getting fresh" for a while. Thankfully, he didn't let on to Lila.

One morning, a few weeks before Christmas, he gives me a ride. Tries to crack jokes, but I can only offer him grimaces. I can't remember the last time I truly laughed. I feel like it would hurt if I tried.

He tries to cheer me up by getting us Starbucks on the way, and I savor the hot cup in my hands. So hot it hurts, but I continue to grip the mocha.

When we pull up outside my Art History building he gives me a final wave and disappears into the grey swirl that's become the city.

"Never learn, do you?"

I jump at the sound of the voice—his voice—and my coffee drops from my hands, paints the sidewalk in chocolate.

Ollie stands behind me, Arlo next to him.

Warmth spreads through me at the sight of them, even if they're looking worse for wear; they've got bags under their eyes and look even more intimidating than usual.

I don't care, though, just to see them makes me happy, no matter how selfish it is.

Arlo comes forward, and, without thinking, starts wiping the burning liquid from my hands onto his jacket. He's so close—his scent fills me up. I try to make an outline of his face, burn it into memory. Why hadn't I tried to memorize him before?

He doesn't meet my gaze, though, and when he's satisfied that I'm not at risk of developing second-degree burns he steps back. The air cools immediately.

"What are you doing here?" I ask in a quiet voice.

Ollie's eyes are dark and flat—their little spark is gone. "Wanted to give you something." He turns his head to nod at Arlo, and I catch a glimpse of his star necklace.

Arlo produces an envelope out of his backpack and hands it to me. Not a glance at my face, any signs of recognition. It hurts my heart to see him act like this towards me; but I know I deserve it.

I take the navy blue envelope from him. "What's this?"

Ollie's jaw clenches. "Open it."

With trembling fingers I do as he says. The cardstock is thick and embossed:

You are invited to attend

The Camden Family's annual Christmas Party

Saturday, December 21st

Below the date is what I assume to be Dr. Camden's address. I stare up at them. "Your dad's Christmas party?"

Now Ollie looks uncomfortable, but he nods. "Felix wanted you to come. He doesn't know..."

His voice cracks, and it shatters my heart.

Arlo speaks up for the first time. "The party counts for a months' worth of lunches, so we have to go. We said you'd probably be going home for Christmas break but he insisted we give you the invite, anyway."

The invitation suddenly feels very heavy in my hands.

"Just think about it," Ollie says, already turning away. "It's not like you owe us or anything. After the shit we put you through."

My mouth opens but no words come out—I reach out for them, but they're already gone.

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