Hostile by Nicole Dykes
ONE
I stare at the blue frosting on the cupcake in front of me and try like hell to feel joy. Any kind of joy. Hell, at this point, I’ll settle for feeling anything other than the ugly bitterness dragging me down daily.
I’m eighteen.
Eighteen years old and should feel like the luckiest guy in the world but the truth is . . . I’m broken. Undeniably broken.
“You aren’t going to eat your cupcake? I think that’s bad luck.”
I smile when I hear Bree’s voice behind me and then see her red Converse sneakers before she plops down on the front steps next to me. I turn to look at her, setting the cupcake down. “What other luck is there?”
Her eyes narrow, and then she rolls them. “Please. We’re the definition of good luck, Rhett.” She slightly turns to gesture to the big-ass house belonging to the steps we’re sitting on. “Foster kids adopted by rich people who aren’t assholes but instead, are amazing.”
I swallow hard and try to force a smile, but it just doesn’t come. Because I know how lucky I am. Or how lucky I should feel. My parents were young when they had me. Really young. And then, they lost me to the system several times before my mom took off and my dad permanently relinquished his parental rights to me, leaving me to drown in foster care. I bounced around from house to house, each one worse than the others.
I met Bree and Fletcher in foster care. They became my family. We rarely ended up in the same place but usually stayed in the same area and the same schools until Bree literally ran away from her foster father and into Rhys.
Rhys. A badass tattoo artist. Loyal and fierce. He didn’t rest until she was safe. He and his wife, Blair, adopted Bree and then eventually, Fletch and me as well. They’re amazing. They have money and a love most people only dream about.
They moved us into this big-ass house that’s full of shit I could never have imagined, including a heated pool in the backyard I use frequently. We each have a car of our own, although I rarely drive mine because I feel guilty. I feel like I didn’t earn it, so I shouldn’t drive it.
They want us to focus on school. And they pay for a fancy prep school kids like me would never have a shot at. And I hate it. I fought going there for a while, but when Fletch gave in and went, I went too. To be with Bree and him. I hate the pretentious, preppy rich kids at that school. I hate the teachers who tell me I’m not applying myself. I hate the football games and the players who rule the school simply because they can catch a ball. I mean, a fucking dog can do that, but sure, let’s give them props.
I live under the same roof—a safe roof, I might add—with Bree and Fletcher, my best friends in the world. But I feel like I’m suffocating every single day when I wake up and go into my very own bathroom with the heated marble floor.
I stare at myself in the mirror, and all I feel is that I’m a fraud. That this is not me. That I don’t deserve any of it.
But I can’t tell Bree that. And I can’t tell Fletcher. Because they’re nothing but grateful, as they should be. And I, for sure, can’t tell Blair and Rhys because they’re everything I could have ever dreamed of and amazing people I do love. But none of that changes the fact that there’s something broken deep inside me.
Something clawing its way out, and I’m sinking every single day. And now, I’m eighteen.
“Yeah, you’re right. I’m just in a mood.”
Bree nudges my shoulder with her smaller one, and I turn to look at her, wishing like hell I could explain it. To describe to her everything swirling around in my mind, but I don’t know how. Fletcher and she are the best things to ever happen to me and yet, I can’t talk to them anymore. Not about me.
Her small hand slides through my hair that’s grown out a little too long, and she rests her hand on the back of my head, searching my eyes with hers. I think she’s trying to comfort me. I’m sure she’s worried. I’ve been a moody asshole for a while now. But then, I notice her eyes on my lips and see her starting to lean in.
Oh. Shit.
No.
“Bree.”
“It’s okay, Rhett . . . Really.”
She moves in closer, and my heart threatens to escape my chest with how fast it’s pounding. And not with the good kind of anticipation you should feel before a kiss. This is full of dread. “Bree, don’t,” I finally choke out.
She pulls back, looking shocked. Then, there’s the hurt look I was dreading. She doesn’t say anything and drops her hand.
“I’m sorry.”
She just stares at me, and I’m afraid she might cry. Which Bree does not do. “I . . .”
“It’s not you. It’s not.”
Now, she looks pissed, which, honestly, is a little easier to deal with. “Don’t give me that bullshit.”
“It’s not, Bree. We’re friends. Best friends.”
“Oh yay. What every girl wants with the guy she—”
“Don’t.” I shake my head and hold up a hand, hoping to stop her. Because I knew this was coming. I knew she was starting to see me that way, and I can never reciprocate what she feels. Not only because she’s my friend, but . . .
I shake it off because . . . No, I’m not going there. I don’t allow myself to go there.
“Don’t?” Yeah, she’s back to looking hurt.
Goddammit, why do I even exist? I should be in love with her. In the perfect world, I would be in love with her. Bree is beautiful—beyond beautiful. Every guy in our class salivates for her, but she wants no part of the preppy douchebags at our school.
No. She wants her moody, broken best friend.
I look away from her, that suffocating feeling coming back in full force. “Don’t say what you were about to say.” I lock eyes with her again. “I’m not worth it, Bree.”
“You’re . . .” She folds her arms. The hoodie she’s wearing is too big for her because it’s mine. “Don’t give me that self-deprecating bullshit. You’re amazing, Rhett. I mean . . . you’re so kind. You volunteer at shelters on the weekend, and you paint murals for free to make the world more beautiful. You’re . . .”
I stand up, trying to pull air into my lungs. “Stop. Don’t make me into some sort of saint. I’m fucked up, and you know it.”
She stands too. “No more than the rest of us.”
“You think two fucked-up people make a whole? They can’t. They just break each other more. I’ve seen it firsthand.”
Her eyes darken, and she’s pissed. And hurt. I hurt my best friend. “So, because I’m a former foster kid, you can’t love me back?”
Goddammit. “Don’t say you love me.”
“But I do.” Her eyes are shining with tears, and I want to die.
I hold onto her small shoulders with a loose grip. “I love you too, Bree . . . Just . . .”
“No.” She wipes at a tear, and I die a little more. “Don’t tell me it’s not like that. Or that you love me like a friend or a sister.”
But I do.
“I’m sorry.” I wipe another tear away with my thumb. “I’m so sorry.”
“Happy birthday,” she barely whispers before she pulls away and goes back inside, away from me.