Hate to Love You - Chapter 54: Chapter 54

He didn't show up for class again.
I couldn't decide if that made me angry or not. On one hand, his absence could hurt his grades, but on the other hand, I knew he was doing it to spare us both the awkwardness. Yet, it didn't make things easier. My hope that avoiding one another would alleviate the pain slowly diminished as each day felt worse than the last.
I missed him.
The constant ache in my chest refused to subside, and he was never far from my thoughts. I dreamed about him too. They were usually filled with memories or twisted scenarios, some of those nightmares were of him with someone else, or of him saying more hurtful things. I had yet to have a good night's sleep since he left.
And it didn't help that everywhere I went, people spoke about him. I'd hear his name or moniker every time I walked to class, or when I went to Beanz to get my morning coffee. Even the library wasn't safe from conversations about his upcoming game.
Which was today.
Part of me had considered going, maybe bringing my brother along as an excuse — just to ensure he was okay. I genuinely hoped he was, knowing full well the pressure he faced. But there was also a darker, spiteful side of me, one I tried to ignore, that hoped he was hurting just as much as me. I always felt so disappointed with myself when I entertained those thoughts. How could I ever want to hurt him or his future? I wanted him to succeed.
Maybe I just hoped it would be with me by his side.
I sighed heavily, dropping my pen to rub both of my aching eyes with the palms of my hands. It was only eleven in the morning, and already, I yearned to go back home, retreat into my blankets, and shut out the outside world.
At least when I moved for my internship, I wouldn't have to be constantly reminded of him. Sure, Topeka, Kansas wasn't too far away, but it would put some much-needed space between us.
Yesterday, I finally sent my answer to my advisor, Ms. Harold. And then I phoned my dad and told him everything. After listening patiently, he agreed to help convince my mother, knowing full well she'd put up a fight.
And this morning, as if to solidify the decision I'd made, I received confirmation that I was leaving after finals week, just before winter break. The news both terrified me and filled me with a profound sense of sadness. It was starting to sink in that I'd be leaving my family behind, saying goodbye to Dale, and... Tristan.
Forcefully swallowing down the lump lodged in my throat, I began packing up my things, preparing to leave the study room. It felt like I was admitting defeat, but I just couldn't seem to make any headway with my work. I thought being elsewhere would help me concentrate better, but instead of finding solace outside of the house, I felt even more on edge. Every passing face made me tense up, eyes darting around in search of him. It was becoming downright irritating.
After locking the door behind me, I returned to the front desk and handed the key to Jacqueline. Thankfully, she was the only one there, and her aversion to small talk allowed me to drop it off and leave without delay.
My car was parked quite a distance away because I couldn't find any empty spaces earlier, so I had to walk several blocks to reach it. I contemplated pulling up my hood to avoid being recognized and stopped for questions about Tristan, but I hated feeling like I was hiding, so I left it down and tried to ignore those I walked past. Some people gave me curious glances, likely recognizing me, but thankfully no one tried to stop me.
I was so focused on those around me that I almost didn't notice the figure approaching from the opposite direction.
And when I finally did, it was too late.
My heart stuttered in my chest, and my steps faltered as recognition set in. His once tousled locks were now shorn short, and a tattoo of a scorpion plastered the side of his neck — a fitting emblem for the venom that constantly coated his false words. His attire, a blend of leather and denim, hung loosely on his long frame, a style that once screamed 'bad boy'.
Unfortunately, he noticed me too, and a pleased smile tugged at his thin lips. He approached me as if we were old friends, his eyes roving over my body with a familiarity that made my skin crawl. I nearly gave in to the urge to run away, but my feet felt glued to the floor. No matter how much I screamed at myself to turn around and leave, they wouldn't listen.
As he drew closer, my body tensed, and I felt myself clamp up even more, unable to move or speak.
"Well, well, well, look who it is. I heard you were still around," he drawled, his voice smooth and laced with amusement. "It's been too long — missed you, babe."
Babe.
The word hung in the air, a mockery of the endearment he had no right to utter. Still, it was enough to snap me out of my panic-induced daze, reigniting the flames of anger inside me.
"What are you doing here, Dylan?" I demanded, my tone sharp and defensive, fingers tightening around the straps of my bag.
His smile widened, unfazed by my hostility. "Just passing through, visiting a... friend," he shrugged, replying casually as if it were the most natural thing in the world for him to show up out of nowhere. "Totally wasn't expecting to bump into you, but hey, why don't we catch up over lunch or dinner? My treat."
I stared at him in disbelief. "Are you seriously asking me to have lunch or dinner with you? After everything you did to me?"
Dylan's appearance, while not unattractive, faded into mediocrity as he stood there, his features lacking the captivating allure that Tristan effortlessly possessed. Once charming, he now seemed ordinary and wholly unremarkable. His dark eyes lacked the intensity that used to unnerve and control me; now, all I could imagine was gouging them out with rusty nails.
He shrugged, feigning innocence. "Hey, water under the bridge, right? Besides, you know I could never forget you. You'll always hold a special place in my heart — no other girl even comes close."
How many times had I heard those exact words? Too many to count. They fell flat, failing to stir any of the emotions he was hoping for.
"Really? So why couldn't you ever keep it in your pants?"
He chuckled dismissively, waving it off. "Come on, Hannah, it didn't mean anything. Just a bit of fun. But you... you were always different. I came back to you and I would have continued to do so if you hadn't so cruelly left. I'm still heartbroken about that, you know. Not even a goodbye message. What about my closure?"
I bristled at his attempt to twist things, to paint himself as the victim. "I'm not interested in your twisted games, Dylan," I sneered, contempt dripping from every word. "I'm not some naive little girl you can manipulate anymore. Your sweet talk doesn't work on me."
A condescending smirk played on his lips. "Feisty as ever. I always liked that about you."
God, this fucking asshole. I used to be so careful around him, afraid of how he'd twist my words if I ever stood up for myself. Any time I tried, he'd use my own voice to shame me. The few times I summoned the courage to speak out, he mocked me mercilessly, leaving wounds that cut deeper than I cared to admit. So I learned to hold my tongue, tiptoeing around him to avoid setting off his spiteful temper. The fear of his irritation kept me silent, trapped in a cycle of submission and self-doubt.
"Oh, spare me your patronizing bullshit, Dylan. 'Feisty' is just another word for 'difficult to control,' right? You can keep your backhanded compliments to yourself." I needed to leave.
Dylan didn't even flinch. Instead, he offered another charming smile, his gaze unrelenting. "You've got it all wrong, Hannah. You never heard my side of things. I think we should sit down and have a proper chat about everything—"
"I said no, Dylan," I cut him off, my voice sharp as I moved to bypass him, being careful not to touch him.
But he was relentless. His hand shot out, gripping my wrist tightly, and I froze in place. Disgust and rage surged within me, and I turned to glare at him, warning him silently not to push any further.
"Come on, babe," he said smoothly, like we were sharing some private joke. "Don't be like that. We're just gonna talk. You owe me that much after ghosting me last year."
Did he actually believe he was the one wronged in all of this? God, if I didn't understand why my younger self fell for him, I'd be tempted to give her a good shake. How had I ever been infatuated with someone so insufferable? I did understand, of course — that version of me had been desperate for affection, but I still wished my younger self had exercised better judgment when it came to picking men.
"So why don't we find somewhere nice and private?" Dylan continued, his voice smooth as silk, dripping with false sincerity. "I promise all we'll do is talk."
Gone was the fear and sadness that once consumed me. Every dismissive remark, every attempt to undermine my words, brought me closer to slapping the shit out of him. The only reason I held back was because of the people around us. They would be witnesses, and knowing him, he'd bank on that. "I said leave me alone," I hissed, pulling at my wrist.
But Dylan wasn't finished, his mouth already opening to unleash more lies. Before he could get a word out, a familiar voice cut through the tension, causing the two of us to look up in surprise. We both turned to see Tate's grey Land Rover slowing to a stop by the curb. He leaned toward the open passenger window, frowning as he glanced between us.
"Everything alright?"
Dylan's smirk faltered, replaced by a flash of irritation at Tate's unexpected intervention. Relief washed over me at the sight of Tate, but it was quickly overshadowed by a surge of dread. The last thing I needed was for this to get back to Tristan. This was my mess, my fight. I couldn't let Tate get dragged into it, or worse, go running to Tristan about what happened.
"Yeah, everything's peachy," I retorted, my voice tinged with defiance as I shot Dylan a withering glare. "Just catching up with an old acquaintance. He was just leaving, actually."
Tate's gaze shifted between the two of us, his eyes narrowing slightly as he assessed the situation. "You sure?" he asked, not moving from his spot.
Dylan, desperate to regain control, waved his hand dismissively at Tate like he was an annoyance. "Hey, we were just talking. You can run along now, dude."
But Tate wasn't buying it. "Hannah, do you want a ride home? I can drive you."
"No, thanks, Tate. I have my car a few blocks away." I gave him a tense smile, hoping that would reassure him.
Dylan scoffed, his grip on my wrist tightening slightly, his irritation clear. "This doesn't concern you, dude. Just move along and mind your own business."
Tate's response was swift, and he climbed out of his car with the ease of a mountain lion, coming around the front and walking over to us. Tate towered over him, his imposing presence immediately upsetting Dylan's bravado as he tensed at the approaching man.
I could do nothing but stare at Tate with wide eyes. I should have known he'd step in. Not only because of my link to his best friend but also because that was the kind of man he was. Why couldn't I have met him before Tristan?
Tate's voice was low, calm, and unwavering as he asked, "And who are you, exactly?
Dylan's attempt at maintaining his facade of confidence faltered, his gaze scanning Tate's build. "I'm... I'm just an old friend."
ate's eyebrows shot up, clearly unimpressed. "Funny, because it doesn't look like Hannah wants anything to do with you. And if she's not interested, then I suggest you leave her alone."
Dylan's face flushed with indignation, his grip on my wrist tightening further, making me wince. Before I could unleash the scathing retort building within me, he interrupted, addressing Tate directly. "Listen, dude, I don't know who you think you are, but this is none of your business. Hannah and I have history, and whatever's happening here is between us."
My patience was wearing dangerously thin. "God, you're delusional. If by 'history' you mean a cautionary tale about bad decisions, then sure, we've got history. Now, let go of me before I make you regret it." My other hand found his wrist, pinching as hard as I could.
Tate's eyes narrowed on the hand around my wrist. "You heard the lady. You have three seconds to let go before I take matters into my own hands. And trust me, dude, you won't like it."
Dylan's hand shot away from my wrist like he'd been burned, and I couldn't help but rub the sore spot while suppressing a triumphant smirk. He really was the worst of the worst — just plain pathetic — and I was glad I could see that now.
But true to form, Dylan wasn't about to back down, especially not with his ego on the line. With a defiant glare, he squared his shoulders and sneered at Tate, dripping with arrogance. "Who the fuck do you think you are to threaten me? You don't know who you're messing with — my father could bury you. So why don't you mind your own business and stay out of ours?"
Tate didn't flinch. His steady gaze remained locked on Dylan, unfazed by the threat. He took one deliberate step forward, his voice cool and unbothered. "That's where you're wrong. It is my business, especially when someone I care about is being disrespected."
"Someone you care about?" Dylan shifted his attention to me. "Hannah, who is this asshole? Don't tell me you fucked this bla—"
"Dylan!" I gasped, horrified by what he was about to say in front of Tate.
Tate's face remained composed, but I could feel the tension thickening in the air. He didn't acknowledge the racial slur, his calm voice betraying none of the anger I knew he must be feeling. "I'm not letting you near her again," he said, his tone unyielding. "She's leaving, and you're staying right here. We're going to have a few words."
Dylan's eyes blazed with fury, fists clenched tightly at his sides. "You think you can threaten and intimidate me?"
"Tate's right, Dylan. It's over," I interjected, my voice firm with resolve. "I'm not going to talk to you. I want nothing to do with you, and I hope I never see you again. I mean it."
"You'll come around, Hannah. You always do," he shot back, his tone dripping with sure confidence.
Before I could even respond, Tate stepped forward. "I don't think so. Hannah, go to your car. I'll handle this."
I hesitated, torn between my desire to get away from Dylan and my reluctance to leave Tate alone to deal with him. But Tate's reassuring nod convinced me to heed his advice, and I quickly turned and made my way back to my car, casting a wary glance over my shoulder as I left.
I sure hoped Tate wasn't arrested for murder.