Hate Me by Jillian Dodd Page A

to my family. To him. To my home. To our beach.  
    I know I can’t keep going like this.  
    I hear him say, “Keats?”
    My eyes fly open. “Sorry, I was just thinking about surfing.” I start to get tears in my eyes. “God, I miss you. For two years, I saw you almost every day. I feel like a piece of me is missing.”
    “I feel like a part of me is missing too. I miss everyone. Our beach.”
      “Are you getting tired of traveling?”
    “The flights are a bitch sometimes, and I complain about it. But then I find myself on another amazing beach. Kinda like our summer of waves—all the beaches we discovered. Except bigger and better.”
    “It was a good summer.”
    “Yeah, it was. So, I’m sorry, I haven’t had time to get together with the guy on the takeover stuff yet. I will, though. This week or next, maybe.”
    “But, I thought that’s why we were talking tonight, so we could get started? We need to start now, B. You don’t understand. There are a lot of moving parts to this.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “It has to be timed so that it hits Vincent all at once.”
    “What does?”
    “A hostile takeover alone won’t do it. I have to push him from every direction. The publicity for Mom’s movie starts this week. We have to start this week.”
    I’m starting to panic. I need this to go according to plan. It has to.  
    “Oh,” he says. He closes his eyes and looks down. I notice he looks stressed.  
    “I have something I need to tell you.”
    “Okay.”
    “Something was delivered to my hotel room earlier.”
    “What?” I say, instantly on edge.
      “A box. In it was a framed photo of me, taken when they handed me the trophy this past, uh, weekend,” he stutters again. He’s shaken.  
    “Can I see it?”
    “Garrett made me send it to him, hoping for forensics.”
    “He won't find any.”
    “Probably not, but I took pictures of it. The ones I texted him when I got it.”
    “Send them to me.”
    I watch as he grabs his phone off the table. He gives me a bleak look and I wish I could reach through the phone and brush the lines of stress from his face. They just don’t look right on him.
    My phone vibrates with the text.
    “I know this is going to upset me so, before I see it, I just want to tell you how proud I am of you. How, through all this shit, you've grown and focused and taken a chance on your dream.” I put my fingers against the computer screen.
    He mimics me, our hands touching tenderly onscreen.  
    “I was serious when I said I wouldn't be here without you. That night at the Undertow was a turning point in my life.”
    In both our lives, I think, remembering falling straight into Vincent's arms.  
    I keep my hand glued to his as I look down and see the photos pop up on my screen. I click on the first one, making it bigger. It’s of a plain white gift box, white tissue paper pulled open, and black rose petals sprinkled around an ornate black picture frame.  
    I look up at him. “I just looked at the first photo with the black rose petals, so I know it's from Vincent. B, have you been keeping anything from me?”
    He stutters, “Uh, um . . .”  
    “Look, it's okay if you have. My mom did the same thing, trying to protect me. So, if you've gotten other things from Vincent, or seen him, tell me now.”
    “What? Uh, no. He's never been spotted, other than Long Beach. But, except for Hawaii, my tournaments have been out of the country.”
    “And he’s never sent you anything else or threatened you in any way?”
    “No. Other than not being able to see you, this whole thing really hasn't affected me that much. Until now.”
    I look at the second text. This one is a close-up version of the photo inside the picture frame. I can see B holding a trophy above his head in victory. It's exactly as I imagined the scene when I heard it. But then I notice writing on the bottom. I quickly zoom in to read, I wouldn't be here without you. I love you, Keats. I smile until I notice