The Conditions of Will

by Jessa Hastings

In that moment, I was sure of two things. One, Oliver had snuck off again with the new guy in his class from New York, and two, I was about to have sex for the first time, and it wasn’t going to be my choice.

I knew it

Beckett Lane raped me for a year, and my sister knew it too and did fuck-all to help me.

He drops his head as he laughs, then looks back up at me and the light from the sun makes his eyes look like little stars—or maybe the light’s just coming from inside of him?

Sure but you will never be BJ

It’s a different sort of startled. Startled in my heart, maybe? Because Sam should be a stranger to me, but he isn’t. Like I’ve dreamt of him all my life and I’ve just woken up and it’s bleeding through, and I know him…

So close enough that I can feel his breathing on my neck, and it’s so steady and there’s something about the steadiness of Sam Penny that makes me feel sad and afraid and hopeful and lost and confused, and I find myself longing for that steadiness, which I’ve never really had in anyone before but wish I had in my dad.

“You didn’t really know me,” I tell my dad. “You didn’t even try. And now you’re dead, so I can’t know you either.”

All I know is I wanted to be wanted and I wasn’t and now he’s dead, so I’ll never be.

Sam makes this little huff from his nose, like a nonlaughing laugh, and then he jerks his shoulder super fast and knocks Beckett in the face with the cue stick that was still yoked over his shoulders, and while Becks is reeling from that, Sam drops the cue and right-hooks him.

Hot

“I would have curb-stomped his head if Oliver let me.”

I make a note to remember forever the way his face is a nice kind of scratchy, and how his mouth is moving like a curtain blows gently in the summer at magic hour, and how he tastes like Skittles and smells like Tom Ford, how it feels when his breath washes over me and makes me warm everywhere.

“Scared?” I tilted my head inquisitively. “Should I be?” A frown flickered across his face like static on a TV before he shook his head and did an AU17 with his mouth, like he couldn’t believe I’d even ask. “No,” he told me, equal parts cocky and quite serious. “Never again.”

He was and is, beyond a shadow of a doubt, one of the most dangerous men in Britain, but he didn’t and never has felt in any way like a threat to me.

“What happened?” “Something happened with Julian’s sister.”

I'm screaming

How I felt when Anatole held me I was quite sure I’d never feel again, especially back then. At the time, Ani somehow felt like the safest place in the world. Probably because the truth—no matter what it costs—is to me, he was the only safe place to exist. He never lied to me. He would never; he knew what it meant to me, so I knew even as he was doing this—what he was saying must be true. That I would die if we stayed together. It almost felt worth it. Proper love always does.

Wondering and questioning why things are the way they are, not accepting the present and permanent—they’re all really solid ways to slow down progress.

“It’s gonna feel for a minute like I went and broke your heart and fucked you up, but I swear to God, Gige—it’s the other way around. You’re going to fall in love in a few months with someone who’s not like me at all, and I’m going to fucking loathe you for it.” He chuckles. “But I need you to…to let me go, because I probably can’t let go of you. I love you more than I meant to. I really did just plan on shagging you that night,” he told me, and I laughed even though I was still crying. Then he pressed his mouth against mine, and he never spoke to me again.

He rolls his eyes a little, and my heart sinks when I think of how we used to be. I can’t find the pathway back to the place in time where we only rolled our eyes at everyone else.

You know how there’s a good kind of hurting? Like rubbing out a cramp? Or great sex, sometimes? Being near him hurts me all over my body. I think it’s because he’s what all the songs are singing about. Every single fucking one of them, they’re singing about him.

“Have mine,” he tells me, offering me his mug, but I don’t notice what’s in his hands because I’m distracted (always distracted) by his face. “Your what?” “I meant my coffee, but…” He smiles. “You can have my—fuck—have whatever you want. Have everything.”

Tennyson makes a sound at the back of his throat, and everyone looks a bit traumatized except for me, because I dealt with it a while ago.

Sorry but this is annoying of her

He’s in black loose-fitting jeans, a gray T-shirt tonight, still—like always—no shoes.

Dogs OUT

It’s been seven days today since I first met Sam Penny and I can confirm with absolute certainty that I am completely in love with him.

Hm

“No one.” Oliver scowls. “I just don’t believe in marriage anymore.” “Well,” I sigh, turning back around to face the road. “I guess that’s good, because a big chunk of America doesn’t believe in marriage for you either.”

The nicest thing you can ever do for another human being is see them, and really see them, at that. To be understood is one of most base desires we as people have, and it was one that Oliver wasn’t only deprived of, but often quite deliberately denied. All our lives he wanted our dad to see him and to care what he saw, and I think just now my brother got a glimpse that our dad did.

She’s young. My age, maybe a tiny bit older. Dark brown hair, brown skin, big brown eyes. Probably biracial. Undeniably gorgeous.

Magnolia

It is, in fact, a man standing in front of us.

He's GAY and that is why he hates Oliver calling it

“We were right,” I tell Tennyson. “Alexis Beauchêne and Dad were having an affair.” I look back at Oliver as I point to our father’s lover on the porch. “And that man is Alexis Beauchêne.”

I knew it

“Sometimes I would meet him places, sometimes he’d come here, but really, all we would plan for is one week together once a year.”

Oliver crosses his arms over his chest, and that sort of signal-fires for me what’s coming next, because arm-crossing? That’s a physical barrier he’s placing between us. A shield, almost, and you don’t need a shield unless you’re going to battle.

And then it happens before I even consciously know I’m doing it—I lunge for her. I don’t know where I’m aiming, really.

Cheers!

Could that be true? If that’s true, it would maybe mean not that he didn’t love me at all, just that he loved me in different language to my native tongue, and he never knew how to say it—which, admittedly, is still tragically sad, but is arguably less candidly cruel. Could my father actually have cared about me enough to orchestrate that? Is that even possible?

I can tell how much it’s all wearing Sam’s patience thin. He’s usually the image of calm and grace—“cool as a cucumber.” That expression was invented to describe Sam in nearly every single scenario imaginable, except any scenario that pertains to me.