Page 1 of Love is Angry

Chapter 1

Rhue

I am not supposed to be in Ithaca.

Harvard was my ticket. Their lacrosse team fell in love with my stats, my charm, my ego. I was bound to be their darling – a no bullshitter on the ice, heated, hungry, and scorching hot on the outside.

But things changed. I changed. With all of that, so did my goals and my vision for life as well as the path I’ve chosen to take.

The anger, though, remained. I’m not stupid enough to think it will ever go away. The Echeveria bloodline is filled with angry men paying for the past, current and future sins of their fathers. Speaking of fathers—mine thinks I’m shitting my dreams away. Truth is, it’s his dreams that I’m taking a big fat dump on.

Daddy dearest wanted Harvard, I chose Cornell. And hockey might as well be the new fucking lacrosse. At least it is for me. It has to be. Anything to put my old life behind me. Anything to show the old fart that his needs and his wants don’t make the whole damn world go round. To prove to him that he can’t haveeverything. Nineteen years of my life, sure, he had those. Mygirl, he got her too. My future, though, my future ismine.He can’t have that.

I take a deep breath, scanning the world around me. Collegetown is always moderately crowded, from what I’ve seen so far. It’s only been a few days since I’ve set foot in Ithaca, but that conclusion is one that is yet to be proven wrong. There are never too many people, yet it’s never quite empty, either.

Life moves forward here with students happily buzzing about their day. The storefronts are clean and mostly shabby chic. Flower shops open out onto the streets with bursts of roses and white lilies, their intoxicating fragrances reaching all the way into my car.

I flick the window button and seal myself in. For most people, the smell of flowers is a pleasant smell. All it does is remind me of death.

Of my mother’s funeral.

Of all the people with tight fists gripping bouquets of flowers.

The wreaths on my mother’s grave.

The fucking garden that was made out of our dinner table.

I shake my head. Memory lane is like a trip into hell and it’s not nearly cold enough out for me to want to take that ride.

It’s been a year since I buried my mother. The pain should have subsided by now. Except— it hasn’t. It just lingers somewhere in the background, dull and cold and ghostly.

I’m not sure if that makes me a good person – the fact that in some way, shape or form, I’m still mourning her loss. What I do know is that I’d do any damn thing to banish that feeling forever.

I gaze out the window again, shifting my thoughts to something else as I watch the cars go by. It’s not exactly rush-hour, but the traffic’s still thicker than pudding.

I wonder how many of these cars will end up in Cornell’s student parking lot. For the ones that do, I wonder what they came here for. What they’re hoping to get out of theirdegrees. What awaits them back home. If they’re better than me and happier than me. Or if, like me, they’re burdened with emptiness, a shit father, and a broken sister who they’ve tried and failed to fix.

Red light. I stop. There’s music playing in the background, but I don’t pay much attention to it. My mind keeps wandering.

Time might be perceived in a linear fashion, yet I tend to be all over the fucking place, suffering the past and the present, the memories and the experiences with an equally shattering intensity.

Green light. I’m driving again. It’s better when I’m focused on something. I’m always keeping busy these days. Whenever I stop, I unwittingly delve into the chain of events that brought me to where I am. I end up missing high school and the world as I knew it before Mom died. Before I saw Dad with…

I shake my head. I need to get a proper fucking grip.

There’s still some Redbull left in my can, currently abandoned in the cup holder. It’s a shitty drink, but it’s the only thing that gets me going in the morning—besides the pills, of course, but they’re doing regular urine tests at Cornell, so I’ve had to kick them to the curb. Plus, coming down from uppers is a fucking nightmare. I promised myself a clean slate, a fresh start, and this should be it.

Ithaca. Aspen trees. Pretty shop fronts. Clean pavements that get hosed every morning. Florists and small craft-beer bars that don’t stay open past midnight. It’s much quieter than what I’m used to in Rochester, but nobody knows my face here, so that’s an immediate bonus. Being a stranger has never felt so fucking good.

By the time I see the university clock tower rising ahead with its grey cap and sand-colored masonry, I’m already feeling a little better. More focused. Crisp, even. Something akin to a freshly squeezed lime over a glass of ice.

Once I park my Lexus in the parking lot, I know that this move was the right one. Here feels more like home than my father’s house ever could.

I briefly check myself in the side mirror, just to make sure I’m all there. My reflection speaks volumes. My eyes are slightly bloodshot, but that just brings out the dark blue in them.

My black hair is cut half-an-inch too short, my beard a little more stubbly than usual. The look is different from the one I’ve been sporting for as long as I can remember. I’m not sure I like it, but I wouldn’t exactly say I hate it either. Different is good. Different is refreshing. Different is just what the fuck I need. That and a long, long break from home. I feel my jaw clench just at the thought of going back to that place. My father will expect me back in the summer, but I’m planning on milking this whole living on campus deal for as long as I can. Screw what the therapist said about showing up and being present in order to help our family heal. Anyone who signs a contract with my father is a person I can’t trust.

My phone rings. I check the time first. I’ve got ten more minutes, tops, before I’m officially late to class. The caller ID demands my full attention, however. I made a promise to myself to never reject my sister’s calls.

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