P.S. I Hate You, page 2
Darkness drapes over Jace’s good spirits. “Nobody asked for your help, did they? Move out of my way. You're blocking the counter.”
My lips part as I stand there stunned. Correction: Jace isn’t an asshole. He’s only an asshole to me.
But Cindy comes to my rescue. “Don’t be rude, Jace. Why don’t you set the table, hun?”
I nod, twisting this way and that. Jace silently leans over and flips open a cabinet door, where a stack of white dishes sits inside. “Thank you,” I say, but get nothing in return.
Little by little, I learn my way around the kitchen and set out three place settings at the table. I'm busy minding my own business, but I can feel his eyes bore into my back. My skin crawls with unease. What am I doing wrong? I just want to show my appreciation. I may have grown up with housekeepers, but I'm just as capable of helping around the house as anyone else.
Cindy attempts to serve the food, but Jace stands in her way. “You go ahead, Mama. I got this.”
Cindy smiles. “My sweet boy.”
My heart aches for my own mother. Jace and Cindy have such a strong connection. My mom and I had a special relationship, but we were more akin to friends than mother and daughter. By the time I was a teenager, her business had grown so successful that I was pretty much left to fend for myself. Sure, she was there, but not like this.
The ache dies to a dull throb. What would my life be like had my mother raised me in this type of environment? Would she still be alive? Would she have found a husband? Settled down? The idea of having a reliable relationship becomes almost overwhelming. Maybe I wouldn’t feel like such an intruder here had my upbringing been normal.
With dinner on the table, we gather round to eat. Jace falls into his chair, refusing to make eye contact, but I can’t help but watch him from across the table as he helps his mother cut her meat. “You’re on knife restriction,” he grumbles with a wry grin.
Butterflies wing in my stomach. I put a spoonful of carrots on my plate and take a bite. The sweet tang of honey melts on my tongue, then explodes in buttery goodness. I hover my fingers over my mouth. “Oh my God.”
“Everythin’ alright?” Cindy asks.
“This is delicious.”
“Mom’s clumsy, but she’s a great cook.” For a split second, Jace graces me with the same adorable look he does his mother.
The day started in a blur. When I got off the plane, I was too wrapped up in my own emotional torment to notice, but after a shower and a nap, I’m staring at Jace as if I’m seeing him for the first time. He’s … beautiful. An Abercrombie model in Walmart threads. I’m taken aback by the rushing in my gut. I want to run my fingers over that gorgeous layer of day-old growth dappling his chiseled jaw. I wonder if it’s soft or scratchy. Either way, I bet it would feel incredible skating across my skin.
But as quickly as the awakening came, a cold door closes it out. He drops his gaze and shovels a forkful into his mouth like a philistine lout. Like my mom always used to say: you can’t polish a turd, I guess.
Cindy stabs at a piece of chicken. “Are you excited for your first day at Hell's Bend High tomorrow?”
“Nervous. I hope they like me.”
Jace snorts.
Cindy shoots him a look, but her upbeat voice doesn’t falter. “They’re gonna love you.” She reaches out and covers my hand in hers. “Oh, that’s a pretty ring,” she says, twisting the tumbling row of emerald-cut diamonds to the front of my finger.
“It was my mother’s.”
Her eyes widen. “Oh my stars, it was! I remember that ring.”
Emotion lodges in my throat. “You do?” I whisper.
“She ever tell you the story behind it?”
I shake my head.
Cindy pulls her lips to the side. “Welp…that’s one for another day, I guess.”
I glance at the ring that’s been on my hand since I was thirteen. She told me it was the only thing of value she brought with her when she moved to New York, but she never mentioned any history behind it. I ache to know the story of her past, but I get the feeling I’ll have to draw it out little by little.
Dinner continues with polite conversation while Jace stews in silence. He eats like a wolf who’s not seen a meal in days. I’ve never seen a person consume so much food in such a short amount of time. I suppose, when you’re that burly, it takes a lot of sustenance to stay sated. Still, when I take a piece of chicken from the platter, I’m almost afraid he’ll bite my hand.
I lean back in my chair, my belly so full it could burst. Jace takes his and Cindy’s plates to the sink, then comes back to clear the table. I rise to help but collide with his thick chest in the small kitchen. He grasps my shoulders to hold me steady, then pushes me aside like I'm garbage.
Cindy stands. “You kids look like you can handle this. I’m gonna go watch Dancin’ With The Stars.”
She lays her hand on Jace’s chest, and he leans down with a kiss on her part. “Thanks for dinner, Ma.”
“Sure, baby.”
“Thank you, Cindy. Everything was incredible.”
With another warm grin, she heads for the den.
I start picking up the empty platters and bowls, but Jace knocks against me with his hip. “Didn’t I already tell you no one needs your help? Quit the fuckin’ good girl act.”
“I am trying to be helpful, and you aren't allowing me to."
“If you wanna be useful, go back to New York where you belong.” He carries the empty dishes and piles them on the counter.
“Have I offended you somehow?”
“Your face offends me,” he snaps without looking back.
“Ew.”
He scrapes the remains of our dinner into the trash and sets the plates in the sink. I flip on the faucet and load the sponge with detergent.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“The dishes.” Soap suds gather on the platter below. I scrub it clean, then set it in the dish drain nearby.
“Let’s get something straight here.” Heavy footfalls stomp across the thick paneled planks. My shoulders curl as Jace meets me toe-to-toe. “You are not a part of this family. This isn’t some fuckin’ sitcom where we welcome the newly poor girl into our home and teach life lessons until we’re all BFFs. This is real life. My life. Stay the fuck out of it.”
The weight of his animosity sits on my chest. He stares down at me as if I’m a bug invading his household. "Oh, are you gonna cry again, princess? Here's a tip: your tears won’t work on me. My mom can believe anything she wants. She can believe you're the broken girl you portray but not me. I call bullshit on your act. So trust me when I say you don’t fit in here. So if you know what’s good for you, you’ll lay low, under the radar low, unnoticeable low. And stay the hell out of my way."
I open my mouth to defend myself, but he just turns on his heel and storms away.
I don’t know what I did to make such an enemy of Jace Wilder, but I have to find a way to fix it. Cindy has offered me a gift, a second chance, and I can’t blow it by being enemies with her son. If I have to grovel, beg, and plead, I will get Jace Wilder to see that I’m not some dumb rich socialite. I can handle myself anywhere. I’m a Cartwright.
Chapter two
I stare at my reflection in the mirror, twisting left and right to make sure my outfit is perfect at every angle. I wasn’t given a lot of time to pack—a process which usually takes a great deal of planning on my part—so I ended up with a variety of things that don’t quite go together.
Still, I was able to piece together a Chanel pleated skirt and a DKNY flutter-sleeve blouse that looks cute enough for my first day at a new school. I slip my feet into my good-luck Louboutins, take a deep breath, and wander out into the kitchen.
Cindy stands at the stove with her back to the door. The smell of bacon and eggs floats through the simple space. I meander to the coffee maker that sits beside a small wooden sign that says, don’t shit where you eat and grin. What a weird thing to say.
“Good morning,” I greet, staring at the dark brown trickle filling the carafe below it.
“Mornin’,” Cindy chimes. She turns to dump a pile of eggs onto a plate. “I made you some breakfast.”
“Um…” I push a lock of hair behind my ear. “I’d really just love some coffee.”
“Nonsense. You need a good breakfast to start the day.” She pads past me and sets the plate on the table near a waiting glass of juice.
When she turns toward me, her gaze flits from my head to my feet, then back up to my eyes as her lips pucker.
“Is there something wrong?”
Her chest rises and falls. “Now, I ain’t one to criticize, but you may want to consider wearing something a bit more casual.”
Holding my arms out at my sides, I stare down at my clothes. The white top is airy and light, with delicate faux buttons leading to a black-and-white-striped miniskirt. I found it simple, an elegant yet understated ensemble that fits in anywhere. “What’s wrong with my outfit?”
“You look beautiful, but I’m just not sure that’s the impression you want to give off, at least on your first day.”
I offer a sidelong glance. “Why wouldn’t I want to look beautiful?”
Heavy footsteps thump in from the hall. My heart hammers to the beat as Jace enters. Ripped blue jeans hang off his hips, the bottoms shoved into loosely tied boots that scuff when he walks. The light glimmers on the gold ring hugging his nostril. Had I not noticed that yesterday?
He scowls in disgust. "When’s Barbie going back to Malibu?"
His remark earns a dish towel whipped at his head. "Enough, Jace. That is not how you say good mornin’. Have some breakfast and mind your own."
He grumbles good morning and shuffles to the coffee maker. Cabinets slam, the violent ting of the spoon against ceramic. Without a word, he takes his mug and drops into a seat at the table. Long legs stretch in front of him. I don’t know if it’s him or his personality, but his presence seems to take up all the space in the tiny house.
He lights a cigarette then throws the pack of Marlboro Reds on the table, exhaling a long string into the sky. Cindy waves it away. “How many times have I told you? Take that shit outside.”
With another grumble, he swipes the pack off the table, takes his mug, and pushes through the back screen door.
“He’s pleasant in the morning,” I joke.
“You’ll get used to him.” She pulls out the chair in front of the plate of food. “Now, eat up before it gets cold.”
I can’t remember the last time I ate breakfast, let alone a steaming pile of home-cooked eggs. Sarah was a good mom but a terrible cook. We lived on takeout until she made enough money to hire someone to cook all of our meals. I devour every morsel on my plate without coming up for air.
Cindy’s warning is long forgotten as I gather my bags for school. Jace sits on the stoop, his back curled as he leans his elbows on his thick thighs. I step out into the morning sun, squinting my eyes. He flicks his cigarette butt into the yard and rises as I come up beside him, then stomps toward the truck while I continue on the dirt path. “Where the hell you goin’?”
His voice carries on the breeze and sends a flock of birds flying from the trees. I stop short. “The bus stop.”
He rolls his eyes and blows a laugh out his nose. “Just get in the truck, Ellie.”
I watch him climb in, waiting to see if he’s serious. When he punches the horn, I do an about-face. I climb in beside him and pull the door closed. “Thank you. I appreciate the ride.”
“Whatever,” he mumbles. The engine comes to life with a roar, and we drive off in a cloud of dust.
Every so often, I think I see his gaze drop to my bare legs before lifting back to the road. I convince myself it’s all in my head, but I can’t ignore the soft caress of his pinky while he’s shifting gears. Is he doing it on purpose or on accident? Either way, a single touch is enough to have me squirming in my seat.
Rusty pickup trucks line the lot at Hell’s Bend High School. I scan the rows of Fords and Chevys, American flags decorating their windows. My stomach twists in knots. I jump down from the cab and unconsciously wrap both hands around the strap on my shoulder as if I’m worried someone will come along and steal my backpack.
Jace hops out and immediately disappears into the school. As I watch the students file in, my breath hitches in panic. Jeans, T-shirts … the sporadic cowboy hat. I thought my outfit was casual, but now I understand what Cindy meant. My gaze drops to the ring on my finger. The tumbling row of emerald-cut diamonds glints in the sun, reminding me of everything Mom taught me before she died.
If you walk into the room as if you own the place, it won’t be long until you do.
With my head held high, I filter in amongst the crowd and stop when I see the main office. My heels clack on the tile floor. I approach the desk and wriggle some life into my trembling fingers. “I’m Ellie Cartwright. Today is my first day. I was told to report to the office to get my schedule.”
The large woman behind the desk does a double take. “Oh,” she says, tapping on the keyboard in front of her. She ducks to make a quick call, then leans into a microphone and pushes a large red button. Her announcement cries overhead. “Chris Boone, please report to the main office.”
A few moments later, a girl with short red hair pushes through the doors. “Hi. You must be Ellie.” She stands with her arms at her sides, a silver chain swooping at her thigh and disappearing beneath her Faith No More tee. My first thought is that she’s in desperate need of a makeover, but when she smiles, it lights up her face in a way that makes her beautiful regardless of the man-sized clothing and holey sneakers. “I’m Chris. I’ll be helping you get to your classes today.”
Relief drops my shoulders from my ears. “Oh great. I have no idea where I’m going.”
Same as Cindy this morning, Chris’s gaze runs down the length of my body. “You’re not from Texas, are you?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Let’s just say you look straight up out of Vogue magazine, and this here’s probably more of a Guns and Ammo crowd.”
I blow out a strong breath. So much for making a good impression. The secretary prints my schedule and slides it across the expansive desk. I hold it with my thumb and forefinger, looking down at the small type font. “Looks like my first class is history with Mr. Brenner.”
“Oh,” Chris says with a mischievous grin. “You’re with me, then.” She turns on her heel and pushes open the door for me to walk through, then follows. The halls are mostly clear now, save for a few stragglers roaming about. Chris falls in step beside me. “So where are you from?”
“Tri-state.” Lines form across her small nose, and I smirk. “New York, New Jersey area,” I explain. The idea that this isn’t common knowledge across the United States feels wrong to me. The tri-state is the hub of the world. It’s the center of everything: arts and theater, culture and business. If the United States were a body, New York would be its brain.
My lips stretch into a full smile. I guess that means Texas would be its butt.
“Is it how it looks on TV?”
“No, but it’s still the best city in the world, and I hope to get back there someday.”
“What brought your family to Texas?”
My stomach hardens. I lick my lips, letting the berry taste of my gloss melt on my tongue. “I like your accent,” I say, changing the subject.
The corners of her eyes crinkle with her lazy grin. “I don’t have an accent. You have an accent.”
I giggle. “I suppose that’s true.”
“Here we are.” She waltzes through the doorway of our first class and hands a man who I can only assume is Mr. Brenner a late-pass. My gaze scans the room for available seats as I wander in behind her. The stares of twenty-something pairs of eyes bore into me. It sucks being the new kid.
Mr. Brenner’s gruff voice barks. “Ellie Cartwright. Welcome to Hell’s Bend. There’s an available seat in the back.” He raises his hand and points at an empty desk in the corner.
I offer a curt nod and stroll to the back. “Nice outfit, Barbie,” someone mocks under her breath. A round of quiet snickers follows. Silently cursing the sound of my own shoes, I drop my bag on the floor beside my desk and swing into the attached chair.
A kid with tumbling blond curls turns and rests his elbow along the back of his seat. “I know you. The crypto scandal, right? Your mom was that chick.”
My mouth goes dry. I open it to speak, but nothing emerges.
“Enough, Austin,” Mr. Brenner scolds. Safe for now, but it’s just a matter of time until the entire school knows my shame. My mother was a big deal, but I was hoping it would take people longer to put two and two together. So much for flying under the radar.
An ache swirls low in my gut. I miss my old school, my old life. But mostly, I miss my mom. I know children lose parents all the time, but you never expect it to be yours. We think of our parents as indestructible gods who’ll always be there. Until they aren’t. It rattles the core of our foundations. I took everything I had for granted. If only I knew then what I know now.
Pressure begins to build between my brows. I perch my head on the tips of my fingers as Mr. Brenner drones on about the Vietnam War and hippie culture. I’d hoped in a town as rural as this, no one would have heard about the unethical behavior surrounding my mother’s death. But the truth is, it doesn’t matter. Be it the ends of the Earth or Timbuktu, I can’t escape it. The incident will follow me wherever I go.
Forty agonizing minutes later, I find myself back in the hall with Chris by my side. She doesn’t ask about my mother or the supposed “scandal” Austin let out of the bag. Instead, she makes polite conversation en route to my next class.
“Look, it’s Paris Hilton!” The cry comes from somewhere inside the crowd of people ushering in the opposite direction.
A second baritone follows suit. “More like Kim Kardashian, except with half the ass.”
Howling erupts. Chris hooks her arm in mine and drags me away. “Ignore them.”
