Page 1 of Hate Game

1

RUE

My full bladder wakes me from a recurring dream slash nightmare of one moment kissing the boy of my dreams and being held by him to him ghosting me the next moment without a “goodbye” or admitting that what we had was real.

I’m having more of these dreams, and the ghosting part lingers longer, while the kissing and being held in his arms fade like the afterglow of a light being shut off. Afterward, I wake up with this god-awful emptiness, followed by an ache in my chest.

I read somewhere that our subconscious thoughts materialize as dreams. Or that the person we’re dreaming about has us in their thoughts. I doubt Malice Sterling thinks about me at all.

Eventually, I’ll have to get over him. He takes upallthe space in my heart, leaving little room for a different guy. Except the thought of getting over him leaves me feeling empty, followed by an ache in my chest.

I groan in frustration with my conflicting emotions for Malice and smush my face into the back cushion of the couch I’m crashing on. Two years is too long to hold onto my feelings for him. It’s time I let them go.

The song “Let It Go” fromFrozenpops into my head and replays repeatedly. No, no, no, it’s too early for an earworm. I yank the blankets past my ears and flop onto my other side on the lumpy couch. A pair of eyes stares back at me. I shriek. A large hand covers my mouth.

“Hush, Rue. You’ll wake the baby.”

Baby? When did my friend Shay become a big brother? I blink the sleep from my eyes. Unruly light blonde hair rather than shaggy dark brown. Bright blue eyes rather than green. It’s not Shay but my other friend, Winslow. He’s on his haunches with a wide grin.

He sticks his face closer to mine. “What interesting dream were you having? Come on, tell Daddy.” He does this gimme, gimme motion with his fingers.

Daddy? “Ew.” I shove him. He falls on his butt. “I’m not fully awake. You know I’m not a morning person.” I cover my yawn and pull the covers over my head.

Winslow pulls them down and tilts his head toward the other end of the couch. “Would that help?”

I lift my head and make out two plates and two mugs on the end table. I throw off the covers and dart toward the bathroom.

“Don’t you dare eat my portion.” I point a finger at him as I back up toward the bathroom. “One of these days, your stomach will get you in trouble with your future girlfriend. It’s common courtesynotto eat someone’s food unless you have permission.”

“Does this common courtesy apply toyourhabit? From what I’ve seen and heard, I think not.”

“Not fair bringing up my reputation when I’m half asleep, but thank you for making breakfast.” I roll my armandcurtsy before I hurry to the bathroom.

I close the door behind me, drowning out Winslow’s laughter, and do my business before sitting beside him on the couch. He passes me my plate and mug, having already set up our TV trays. Winslow said the metal trays are left over from his parents’ days of dating, which means they are over eighteen years old. I wish I owned something of my parents’, but they took anything that meant something with them.

“What baby were you talking about earlier?” I pick at my eggs.

Winslow forks a large piece ofmyeggs and shovels them into his mouth.

“Hey, you didn’t ask.”

“Then you better notdawdle.” He forks a piece ofmycut-up strawberry into his mouth next. “The baby is my cousin’s. They’re staying with us while her husband is at boot camp.”

“That’s nice of your parents.”

He shrugs. “My mom is close with my aunt. Now eat. We have a long day ahead of us.”

He’s bossy, but I do as he says. If Winslow says it’s going to be a long day, it’ll be a long day. He is very literal.

I scarf down my food and sip my coffee. The dark roast with a hint of vanilla, cinnamon, and nutmeg teases my taste buds and goes down warm in my throat. “This is so good. You make my coffee just right. Thank you.”

“Better than Shay and Red?” He sips his coffee and watches me enjoying mine as though seeing my happiness brings him joy.

“Most definitely,” I answer to his question. “Your cooking is better too, but don’t tell them.”

“Are you afraid we’ll have a cook-off and make you the judge of our cooking?” He smiles.

I roll my eyes. “You all arewaytoo competitive for your own good.”

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