Page 5 of Love is Angry

I have no idea how Rhue and I ended up being in the same class, but here we are. I can only prepare for the worst and hope for the best as I continue to work toward my future. In the meantime, I am sitting way too close to a man who has invaded my mind and set fires within my body for far too long.

Rhue’s cologne gnaws at my senses and makes the nape of my neck tingle, yet his presence looms over me like a thick black storm that’s about to swallow me whole.

“Good morning, class! Welcome to Cornell,” Professor Harman says as he sets his briefcase on the desk and gives the entire auditorium a bright, albeit tired smile. “Unexpectedly, Isee a lot of you in the first year, once again.” His humor fades, and I recognize the strategy. “Unfortunately, less than half of you will make it into year two. This is not a discipline for the feeble-minded or for those who wish to ever settle with anything in their lives. I feel that I should warn you now, so you know what you’re getting yourselves into.”

I already like him. He means to scare the lesser students away. There are throngs of them in almost every discipline, I’m told. People who choose certain career paths because it would please their parents but not themselves.

People who drop out in the first year usually have a chance to make that wrong right and pick a better future for themselves. Those who ride out the dull misery until the end often end up miserable. My dad warned me against doing that to myself.

Rhue clears his throat, discretely reminding me that he’s here, while I try to listen to the rest of Professor Harman’s introductory speech. Broiling, I insist on ignoring him.

This is what my whole year is going to look like, isn’t it? The past will hound and haunt me relentlessly.

The present will be a torturous experience, and the future I’ve dreamed of whilst licking my wounds will pull itself away from me, sailing further from my reach until I am left on my own, empty on the inside.

I just need to focus on Professor Harman and get through the day. I’ll regroup and plan for the entire year ahead, if I must; but let me have this. It’s my life. It’s my future. Don’t let another Echeveria destroy my will to live.

Something tells me I won’t survive a second blow.

I barely made it out the first one alive.

Chapter 3

Back in Highschool: Rhue

When the captain of our hockey team, Lance, said seniors get to have all the fun and all the pain, too, I thought he was kidding. Or that he wasn’t being literal, at least. Yet my entire body aches, from head to my pinky toes. I took quite the pummeling during hockey practice. Two hours of grueling workouts, might I add. My bones hurt. My bones literally hurt. The flesh is hard as a rock and bruised. I’m probably black and blue on 60% of the surface of my body.

I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck. An 18-wheeler, to be precise.

But I’m happy. I’m excited. There’s so much energy still popping and crackling inside me that I have no idea what to do with it. I’m in desperate need of a hot bath to soak in, but I practice my lacrosse throws out in the backyard. I’m not as good at it as I am at hockey—ice is my mistress, after all. But hey, in the absence of a rink, it’ll do.

October is already as cold as winter in the evenings up here in Rochester. I wonder what Harvard’s seasons will be like. Mom’s thrilled about me getting in. Dad’s pleased. But aside from the prospect of being my own person, how do I really feel?

It’s been years of putting my own needs on the backburner that the impossibility of analyzing that question isn’t lost on me. It doesn’t matter. At least this isn’t one of those things that I’m just doing for my father. I never noticed it before, but seeing mom happy makes me brim with joy, too.

My mind flickers from my mother to Madison, my tutor. Another woman in my life whose happiness is like adrenalin. But Madison is the forbidden fruit. She should remain unthought about, untouched, untoyed with. Sometimes I’m sure it would do me good to remember that. More times than not, she feels like just the kind of game I want to play.

I reach the main gates leading to our family mansion, allowing the scenery to steal away the rest of my thoughts. This place is way too big, in my opinion, but it’s the only home I’ve ever known.

Tall, naked trees creak in the wind beyond the gates. I briefly imagine myself taking Madison under one of them. Pushing her slender body against the thin bark of the tree and opening her up, petal by petal, forcing the wind to give way to her moans.

Ah, fuck, I can’t wait until March or April. I want her. I need her. Now. Right now. Yesterday, preferably, or tomorrow at the latest. Tonight is Halloween. I could be any damn thing she wants. The thought of texting her crosses my mind. I’m not supposed to date my tutor, but hey… this ethics stuff isn’t really my jam and mom’s more forgiving than she pretends she is.

I step into the house and close the door behind me, taking note of just how quiet it is. The massive entry way, the open halls, the stagnant, picture perfect decorations. This truly is the kind of house that will never be a home. Even when the silence breaks, that feeling remains.

There’s clattering in the kitchen, followed by the clinks of crystal glasses. Marie must be cleaning up or something. If wewere an ordinary family and this house was half its size, we wouldn’t need Marie.

I play with the idea of my mother in the kitchen, the scent of cherry-pie filling the air as she rushes to the door. Just the vision alone makes me want to laugh out loud. I love my mom, but her cooking, well, that’s up for debate.

Shaking my head, I remind myself that there are hordes of people who would commit literal murder to live in a place like this. That I am fortunate. More fortunate than I can even begin to imagine. And even though my mother isn’t housewife material, even though she doesn’t bake or iron or hang out the laundry, she’s still one of the best fucking people I know.

Briefly checking my phone, I notice two messages from my sister, Laura. One of the messages lets me know that she’s out with mom for a last-minute Halloween shopping spree. The other is a picture of all the costumes and decorations that will fight for space in the attic. Mom always does that. She forgets about Halloween, then goes postal if any of us don’t treat Christmas, her favorite holiday, like it’s the single most important time of the year. She makes up for it, though, hence why she’s out with Laura buying all the spookiness the local Target has in stock.

My earlier buzz begins to fade. The more I think about a hot bath, the more relaxed I become. My muscles are turning into jelly. I’m itching for a nap, too. If I wake up before I have to take Laura to the school’s Halloween dance, I’m the fucking king.

I trudge up the stairs and head straight for my room.

Madison pops into my head again. Gah, she looked gorgeous earlier, during our tutoring class. Those curves were tightly wrapped in crimson wool—a simple dress cut just above the knees and matched with a pair of black leather biker boots. She’s got a set of legs that will work with just about anything. Even Crocs. And her feet…God, not that I have a fetish oranything, but that girl makes me want to lick her from her head all the way to her little toe.

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