Hate to Love You - Chapter 51: Chapter 51

Hannah
My heart stopped as his words registered in my brain.
"What?" I whispered, breathless.
Drugged him? Tried to rape him? Shock blasted through my system, and my heart rate began to pick up again. I tried to twist around to face him, but his grip wouldn't let me. Instead, he lay next to me, staring up at the roof of the tent.
He cleared his throat. "There was this girl who followed me around for a couple of months — to parties, classes, the football house. And to all my games. And then she started messaging me. A lot, all the time, no matter how much I blocked her. At first, I thought she was just an over-enthusiastic fan."
"She's the one who stalked you?"
I didn't need his confirmation. His voice stayed even as he continued. "It got worse when I made the mistake of kissing her while I was drunk at a party, and she took that as way more than it was. Started threatening the girls I hooked up with, telling everyone she was my girlfriend, sending me weird packages with hair, letters, all kinds of creepy shit in them. Enough to freak me and those around me out."
A sick feeling pooled in my stomach as he kept talking. I didn't want to know where this was going, even as I suspected that I already knew. It had crossed my mind when I'd voiced everything before, but because I couldn't imagine it, I'd dismissed the thought immediately. He was just so Tristan — it seemed like no one could touch him, much less hurt him like that.
"I got a restraining order. Felt stupid about it, but my parents insisted. And the cops weren't going to do a thing except warn her unless something serious happened. But I wasn't worried. She seemed like this small, harmless girl. What could she really do to me?"
The cops didn't do anything? Even though he was Tristan Beckett? Was it because they thought he could handle himself? That because he was a guy, nothing could happen to him?
"We were having a party during rush week. It was late, and I was already nearing blackout drunk when she dosed my drink. The last thing I remember is making out with some other girl. Apparently, I passed out and some of my buddies carried me up to my room. That's where she found me — on my bed and dead to the world."
I chose to stay quiet, letting him finish.
"I woke up with her on top of me, naked. She was trying to unzip my pants. I think I made a noise because she realized I was awake, and started talking to me. I couldn't really make out any of the other stuff, but she kept apologizing over and over again — the whole time."
It was sickening to think she had remorse but still went through with it. That meant she knew what she was doing was wrong, but chose to ignore it, chose to violate another human being in one of the worst ways possible.
"Did she...?" Acid rose in the back of my throat.
"No." His voice was flat, empty. "I couldn't get hard. She tried, but nothing worked. And I don't think she just wanted to fuck me — she wanted to trap me and tie us together forever. Probably thought she could get pregnant and that would be it."
The detachment in his voice made it feel as though he were recounting someone else's nightmare, not his own. The notion that anyone could do something like that to him made me want to hurt them in ways I couldn't even put into words. He was brushing it off, trying to make it seem small, inconsequential, but it was obvious the incident still haunted him. It was as if he believed that shoving it deep enough into his memory might erase it altogether. I wasn't sure he even realized that himself. I felt torn — part of me wanted to comfort and hold him, and the other wanted to find that girl and make her pay.
"By then, I was starting to rapidly decline. The mix of drugs and alcohol was a lethal cocktail. I started throwing up and seizing, and because I was on my back, I choked. She panicked. When she realized I might die, she ran, didn't even call for help. I fell off the bed from the convulsions. Lucky for me, she left the door open, and that's how Tate was able to find me. Recognizing that something was seriously wrong with me, he and a couple of the guys rushed me to the hospital to get my stomach pumped and get me treated. Saved my fucking life."
"You... you almost died?" My voice was barely a whisper, the horror setting in.
"Yeah. They all thought it was alcohol poisoning at first, but the tests showed I had half a gram of GHB in my system. Enough to overdose and kill me, even without the booze. I would have died if they hadn't acted fast that night."
He nearly died. She could have killed him.
Imagining a world where he didn't exist felt wrong. I'd never known true hatred until I'd heard of this nameless, faceless monster. I wanted to do worse to her, so much worse, and I wanted her to hurt more than he ever did.
"I'm so sorry that happened to you, Tristan. I don't even know what to say." My voice came out soft, almost trembling, as I reached for his arm and squeezed it, trying to offer some kind of comfort.
A wave of regret washed over me for pushing him into sharing this. But now, I understood him in a way I hadn't before. All the pieces fit together — why he didn't drink, why he hesitated when I handed him the water bottle earlier, why those messages had triggered such an extreme reaction. It all made sense now.
"Don't say anything," he murmured, his tone final. "There's nothing to say. Nothing really happened, and I'm fine now. It's over. In the past."
While, before, I would have argued with him, I chose not to this time. I was tired of fighting, and this revelation had erased all the irritation I had with him. At that moment, my sole desire was to comfort him without further upsetting him, and my instincts were telling me to tread carefully.
"Please tell me she didn't get away with this — that she was punished. She violated the restraining order; that alone should be enough."
He shifted. "I never officially pressed charges against her, but her lawyer agreed to all the stipulations set by mine. One of those conditions was that she sought professional help. Plus, she was banned from Dale campus and coming within a hundred feet of me; any breach would have resulted in an immediate arrest."
Aghast, I turned to face him, propping myself up on my elbows to peer down at him with furrowed brows. "What do you mean you didn't press charges? She should be in jail for what she did. You could have died."
He ran a hand through his hair, frustration evident in his movements. "It's not that simple. If I'd pressed charges and gone through with a court case, everything would have gone public. Given that I was underage and heavily intoxicated, it wouldn't have looked good for my football career — so we buried it. Only a handful of people know: my family, coaches, lawyers, Tate, a couple of the guys, and now you."
"So... she's just out there, facing no real repercussions for what she did to you? What if she tries again? What if she comes back and hurts you?" My voice broke on that last word and I looked down, needing to gather myself.
He wrapped an arm around me and pulled me over him, hand settling on my back. "Babe, nothing's going to happen to me. I'm not going to make that mistake again. And trust me — she's not coming back."
"You don't know that."
"I do," he insisted, his fingers stroking up my spine in a soothing motion. "No one's going to do that to me again. I'm careful now. I've left that lifestyle behind."
"But are you really?" I asked, frustration creeping into my voice. "What about tonight? What about all the girls before me? Because that's not being careful, Tristan."
What about after me? The thought gnawed at me, stoking jealousy I struggled to swallow down. Would he just go back to his old ways once I was out of the picture, or would he find someone else to take my place? The uncertainty made my chest tighten.
"Are you suggesting I be a monk? Let her dictate how I live my life? No — fuck her, I'm fine and I can do whatever I want. And I was perfectly safe tonight."
"But she does influence you. You don't drink because of her, and you said you fucked around as a distraction — to replace and forget about those memories. She's still affecting you, in ways you won't admit. Ignoring it won't help you heal. You can't just push it down and pretend it never happened. Trust me, I know."
As I spoke, I noticed him growing increasingly tense, his demeanor turning colder with each passing moment. A part of me wanted to stop, to let it go, but I couldn't. I couldn't bear the thought of him suffering in silence and pretending he was okay.
"I didn't ask for a therapy session, Hannah," he interjected sharply. "I don't need you to tell me what's wrong with me."
His words were like a knife, and I felt the sting immediately. But instead of pulling away, I forced a sad smile. "But that's what we do, remember? We talk about what's wrong with us. You managed to break through my defenses when no one else could, and though it scared me at first, it doesn't anymore. You don't need to put on an act around me, Tristan. I know what it's like to be hurt."
Silence lingered between us, thick and uncomfortable. I didn't know what he was thinking, but I kept going regardless.
"And I get that you don't want pity, but it breaks my heart that you had to go through that. And yes, I do feel sorry for you, but that doesn't mean I think you're weak. She's the one who was in the wrong. She stalked you, drugged you, tried to hurt you. None of that was your fault. You didn't make any mistakes."
He made a noise of disagreement. "You wouldn't get it. In my head, I should have been more careful, taken her more seriously, and I didn't. Do you realize how stupid I felt lying there in that hospital bed? My mom was crying her eyes out next to me, and I couldn't help but feel like it was my fault." It sounded like it pained him to admit that. "That's when I knew I had to turn things around. My dad was already pissed at me for messing around and wasting my potential — and I was, so I stopped the drinking, the constant parties, the unhealthy lifestyle. And sure, I didn't leave the girls behind, but I like sex. Sometimes I need to get rid of the pressure and sex is a way to do that. Was it also a distraction? Fuck yeah. But it was either that or let it fuck with my head. I chose the better option."
I pursed my lips, frowning at his skewed perspective. Obviously, to him, the assault was a harsh lesson learned from a past mistake — a necessary lesson that had toughened him up and realigned his priorities. But how long could he continue to bury those issues? Would he leave it long enough to bite him in the ass?
Dwelling on the inner workings of his stubborn mind only added to my weariness, so I decided to let it go. The long grueling day, as well as the weekend as a whole, combined with the sex, had taken a toll on me and I felt that exhaustion deep in my bones. I couldn't wait to get home to my bed and pillows. I was done with this.
"Okay," I said, my voice low.
"Okay?" His surprise at my acceptance was evident.
"You're right — I don't know what's going on inside your head or what's best for you. Only you do." I cleared my throat, faking a yawn. "Let's call it a night. I'm struggling to keep my eyes open."
I peeled his arm from my waist and shifted away, tucking myself into bed. Wrapping myself in the blankets, I turned to my side, facing away from him as I shut my eyes. He stayed still for a couple of long moments before sighing again.
I kept my eyes closed as he undressed and then climbed back into bed beside me. He remained silent, and eventually, sleep claimed him. Long after his breathing had settled into a soft rhythm, I lay wide awake in the darkness.
If tonight had taught me anything — it was that he really wasn't ready. What had once felt like an exhilarating connection now seemed like an uneven tug-of-war. He could care about me and still not really want me — not when he wouldn't let himself want me. I would be the only one left heartbroken when this inevitably fell apart, and the longer this continued, the more damage I was going to take.
His presence behind me was both a comfort and a torment, a constant reminder of everything I could never have.