1 Love and hate

Date = 5 September

About 2 years after COVID.

Right now, I, Melaena Blackburn, am 19 years old. Nineteen and three months to be exact.

Place = San Francisco (Uncle John’s house)

Obviously, the setting of The San Francisco Boys — WILL BE IN SAN FRANCISCO.

 

POV - Melaena

It’s all in the eyes. Or so they say.

And they have a point.

Green eyes fly into my mind — brilliant green like summer apples covered in dew. Eyes with the ability to haunt my dreams. Day or night.

He moves his fingers under the lace of her panties, yanking them off. Moving slowly he kisses his way up her thigh, turning his head so his breath tickles her. She lets out a deep moan, moving her hips in anticipation.

I imagine my fingers combing through that silky raven-black hair … his mouth on me.

He moves in, tongue lashing against her clit while his hands move under her hips pulling her into his face. She lets out a cry of pleasure, while he licks and sucks, moving his fingers into her wet ….

“Urgh!” I groan and close my eyes. Every single frickin time it’s the same. I can’t even read a trashy book without thinking of him. It’s not easy hating someone.

I press my legs together to dissolve the aching itch that forms between them as I throw the stupid book on the ground. Kiara peeps out of the closet.

“Melaena!” She’s using my full name for effect. “Stop reading yourself into a climax!” A pair of jeans hit me in the face before I can react.

“You’d better get packing! We’re leaving early in the morning,” she shouts excitedly, pulling clothes from the shelves and throwing them on the bed. I stare at the heap thinking that she’s the one who needs to pack.

Kiara is a fashion-obsessed individual, unlike me. I will wear anything I like without considering who designed it or how much it costs.

She stops and looks at me, her eyes filled with mock.

“Please tell me you’re not sex dreaming about HIM again.” She picks up the book and peers at the cover picture.

“I’m not,” I lie in a snotty tone, knowing it will push a button.

“We’ve been on a year-long trip around the fucking world so you can get him out of your system,” she chastises. Swearing for real … she must be on a roll.

But she’s right. This past year, Kiara and I have been backpacking throughout Europe — a gap year we called it.

The purpose of it all was to clear my head … for me to decide what I wanted to do with my Donald Ducked life. So we traveled from one holiday home — belonging to one of my brothers — to the next … so I could clear my head and decide what I wanted.

But mostly I needed to get away from HIM.

It was a great year. My brothers dropped in whenever possible. Even Uncle John and Axel joined us thrice — for Christmas, Kiara’s 19th birthday, and again for mine.

But not him.

So tonight I’m going to see him face-to-face again for the first time in twelve months.

And my head is still a mess, so much that I haven’t decided what I want to do with my life — but that’s my own stupidity, and I’m not sharing it with the others — so I randomly picked an art major.

“And the first day back, he’s haunting your mind again,” Kiara continues her charade. I just snort and pull my knees up to my chest.

Crap.

But … this time she’s wrong. He’s been haunting me the whole time.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get him out of my system … I hate him too much for that.”

She peers from the cupboard again with her war-face expression and growls out a snort.

She’s a realist who doesn’t believe in the nitty-gritty stuff like soulmates … love … or even hate, for that matter. She dates good-looking blokes mostly for sex. A modern-day woman who takes what she needs and gives what she wants … her words, not mine.

I, on the other hand, dream about …. well, let’s just say I dream about something different, something special, the sort of storybook love where two people’s eyes meet and BAM — true love forever. Like a Romeo and Juliet kind of thing — skipping death, of course. Okay … let’s rather say I dreamed about it … in the past …

Cause I’ve learned that real life is no fairy tale. Nope, real life is a frickin horror story. Where Romeo leaves poor Juliet in the tomb to go fuck a slutty brunette on the side. And as if that’s not enough, he’ll move on to the next brown-haired bimbo right the next day. And the next and the next.

The universe is cruel and mischievous, that’s for sure. Why else would it give me those eyes meet — BAM — part, just to let fate intervene and twist it into a screwed-up ball of claustrophobic frustration?

Yep, the perverted universe likes jokes, especially when it comes to love. No wonder people are getting more and more skeptical to risk their hearts … the living happily-ever-after dream is all just a warped cliché.

I would know — because of all the boys in the world, fate set me up to have my BAM moment with HIM! And it happened more than once — I had TWO BAMs!

TWO. Two moments. With the same boy.

And they were really, really good BAMs.

Until they were not.

The first one, at least, didn’t immediately turn into a disaster … it started with one. I was 9 (yeah, it kicked off young) and our principal decided to introduce us to cross-country running. The whole school was to participate. And the field they laid out for us was very close to the proclaimed and mysterious haunted house.

A house with a legend. It says a monster from hell guards the place — ripping anyone who dares to trespass on the property into shreds.

Real people actually died in that place.

Jackson told me … and my brothers never lie.

It was a stupid idea … I know that now … but back then Jason Steward — the local class bully — dared a bunch of us to slip away and investigate the house. Anybody who chickened out would have been labeled a namby-pamby … and knowing Jason … he would make it stick until we graduated. I was not going to sink my social status before it even started. High school was still coming.

However, it didn’t go quite as planned. The outing went haywire. Both Kiara and I got hurt, grounded, and ended up in detention — with Axel. Jason and the runaways never got caught. And we never blabbed them out. I’m no rat. Neither is Kiara nor Axel.

But much good did it do — in the end, my social status still nosedived and sank sensationally in my freshman year — but the two incidents are not related. That’s a whole different story.

But at least some good prevailed from the whole haunted house ordeal — Axel became a very important part of our group, and I learned a thing or two about life.

I should tread lightly when I’m in a haunted house;

I could only trust a handful of people;

And cross-country was not my thing.

Oh, I also had my first BAM moment with some green eyes.

Eyes I would not see again until the first day of my seventh-grade year, starting at Harvard-Westlake. I was annoyed because I landed in the principal’s office … not once, but twice on the same day. Innocently blamed.

Granted — I dumped some pink milk onto a senior’s head and gave Jason a perfect shiner, but it was not undeserved. I don’t like bullies.

Anyway, when Logan called out to me at the end-of-school time, I slammed my locker shut and turned around, ready to share my beef and wail about the unfairness of the system, knowing my brother would at least pretend to understand. Cause Kiara didn’t.

But no words escaped my mouth. My breath and everything else got sucked out with force by teasing bright apple eyes. The hot-as-hell eight-grader standing next to my brother filled out his uniform better than Thor himself ever would, his raven hair was messy, and that skew smile churned the cafeteria food in my tummy.

And BAM — another moment. Same eyes. Same boy. How could it not be fated?

At first, I thought … this is it — the true storybook meet-cute at the locker on the first day of school.

And I felt every feeling in the book. The increased heartbeat, the butterflies, the sweaty palms. I thought for sure he was the one.

But fate laughed in my face — turns out the boy Logan started a lifetime BFF friendship with was the same boy who helped Kiara out of the hole at the haunted house and the same boy who gave me his jacket cause I was cold. But he wasn’t sweet anymore … he turned into an obnoxious, arrogant asshole.

Someone I would learn to hate. And I mean passionately HATE.

Who knew that hate feels disturbingly the same as love … your stomach flips and twists; your heart rate increases way over the limit of normal; you get drunk and high on adrenaline; obsessive thoughts and behaviors cloud your mind; and you feel out of control.

“You still have his jacket in your cupboard?” Kiara flings something against my head. “Don’t you ever learn?”

I stare at the black leather jacket as if seeing it for the first time, and not as if I’ve had it for the past 10 years. Running down the right sleeve is a green M with the words ‘Monster Energy’, while the Reaper skull with wings decorates the other sleeve between smaller patches of different logos. On the back is a huge green number 13.

I quickly fold it and stuff it into my bag. To burn later. Probably.

But Kiara is wrong again. I did learn my lesson. The hard way.

Another piece of clothing hits my head.

“Are you done packing?” she asks. I nod and close the suitcase. I can come back for the rest anytime I want. It’s not as if we’re moving out of state … just to our own beautiful townhouse complex.

The one built on the site of our last family home. The one we only lived in for a month or so, before Mom was murdered … what … eight … almost nine years ago.

The home that mysteriously burnt down to ashes only a week after her death.

Faulty wiring, the investigators said.

It was then that Uncle John decided to build five separate dwellings on the property — one for each kid. It’s ideal … we all stay together but separate. Except for Jackson. He never stays there … gave his place to Axel.

It’s there where we will reside while at Stanford … Kiara is enrolled to study accountancy, while I decided to study art … for now. And then I’ll see where life leads me. I’ll probably keep on freelancing for both Take 2 Interactive and Rockstar games, or I could try getting in at Googleplex or Applepark.

I put the discarded novel on top of my suitcase. I don’t know why I even bother to read it. It’s not well written, the grammar sucks — a bunch of crap, really. And the couple on the cover is so cliché. The whole stereotypical romantic pose makes my skin crawl with frustration. I sigh deeply. I’m so uptight my neck is pulling into a spasm.

“You know he’s going to be here tonight?”

Of course, I know. That’s the whole darn problem.

I hate Damion Grimm so much that I feel sick whenever he’s around and frustrated when he’s not.

He’s like an itch under my skin I just can’t get rid of — and I swear it’s increasing in intensity each year. It’s getting almost unbearable — so much that I’m scared of doing something irresponsible one of these days — like ripping off his balls … or worse … licking them.

Yeah, there’s that. Don’t judge — I have a theory.

Because the feelings of love and hate are so closely related, a person’s hypothalamus gets confused and wrongfully floods the body with dopamine, a neurotransmitter that produces feelings of euphoria and pleasure. It’s why hate can feel so thrilling and, at times, even addictive, and why you can’t stop thinking about the hated person. The problem is that it also triggers the release of estrogen, which increases your libido. And voila … you want to seriously jump the bones of the person you hate. It’s biology.

I realize Kiara is staring at me, tapping her foot impatiently, waiting for a response.

“Yes.” I pull my lips into a serious pout. I need her off my case.

“But I’m seeing Ren remember,” I say, having learned the trick to dealing with Kiara is a solid diversion. However, the same trick applies to me — I’m easily distracted.

“So is he your for-real boyfriend now?”

“You know it’s complicated,” I say. “He’s the first guy who’s ever actually asked me out.” I pout at Kiara, who looks at me like she’s watching a wounded kitten try to be brave.

“Not the first,” she says gently. “You’re forgetting Jake.”

I groan. The hunky junior who ghosted me freshman year? I lean back against the dresser.

“How can I forget? I sat in that stupid coffee shop for two full hours. Two.”

“At least he had a dramatic excuse,” Kiara says, folding one of my shirts with unnecessary care. “He was in an accident.”

I wince. Yeah. He apologized profoundly the next day. Wouldn’t look me in the eye. Said he fell off his bike.

“And it wasn’t a lie.” I pause. “The guy looked like he’d wrestled a truck and lost.”

“So,” she says dryly, “maybe that’s why the curse started.”

“Still,” I argue. “He could’ve tried to work past it. Instead, he acted like eye contact might kill him.”

“Maybe he nearly did die,” she says.

“It wasn’t because of the curse,” I snap — too fast, too defensive. After Jake, rumors started that any guy who dated me would suffer unbearable pain. And just like that, the Mel-curse was born. My social life didn’t just dip — it nosedived and never recovered.

Kiara frowns. “Why then?”

“Exactly. Why would anyone bother ruining my dating prospects?”

“Or who,” she adds.

For a long time, I blamed my stupid brothers. But they swore they didn’t start the rumor — and my brothers don’t lie. They’re terrible at many things, but lying isn’t one of them.

I sigh. “I always suspected Pink Scarlet.”

Kiara snorts. “Of course you did.”

Pink Scarlet. Poor girl. Life hadn’t been generous to her — a large black mole on her hairy chin, mousy-brown locks like a dirty wet mop, and she was big … huge as an ox — and for reasons known only to the universe, she hated me on sight.

“Could be,” I say. “I still can’t believe she had a prom date,” I mutter. “And got laid. Twice.”

Kiara shrugs. “Men are adaptable creatures.”

After Jake — and the curse — my reputation never recovered. Every guy in school quietly slid me into the ‘safe’ category. They’d sit near me at lunch. Talk to me. Joke with me. But never get close. Spin-the-bottle skipped me. Dares avoided me like I was radioactive. And the only people who ever asked me to dance were my brothers … and Axel.

I even went to prom with Axel. Or rather, my brothers assigned him to me like a duty shift.

I exhale, shaking my head. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

Kiara looks up.

“Ren asked me out,” I say. “And he’s survived more than two dates.”

I smile despite myself. “No injuries. No mysterious accidents. No curses.”

That has to count for something.

It’s not that he’s the love of my life. That would imply feelings. This is more … strategic loneliness. Desperation with a polite smile. A curse-breaker.

Sure, he’s sweet. Easy on the eyes. Objectively boyfriend-shaped. But that stupid gland in the middle of my brain — the one responsible for chaos, obsession, and questionable life choices — is on strike. No hormonal cocktail. No fireworks. No butterflies. Not even a sad sparkler.

Nothing.

No love. No hate. Just a flat emotional line, like my soul forgot to plug itself in.

Annoyingly, that gland only seems to wake up when my brother’s best friend is within a five-mile radius. Like it’s hardwired to that asshole. Like someone misfiled a wire during my emotional construction, and now everything short-circuits only around HIM.

I grab my sea turtle soft toy, Pan — yes, Peter Pan — and hug him to my chest like he’s a licensed therapist. If answers exist, they’re clearly hiding inside cheap stuffing and button eyes. My thumb traces the tiny red heart embroidered on the underside of his right back flipper. I’ve done this a thousand times. Muscle memory. Comfort ritual. Emotional nonsense.

“If you hate Damion so much,” Kiara says coolly, “why do you still sleep with HIS turtle?”

I snap my head up. “It is NOT his turtle.”

She raises a brow.

“He merely financed it,” I rant. “And I keep it as a reminder of the evil lurking beneath his stupid, pretty-boy exterior. Like a talisman. Or a warning. Or emotional evidence.”

“Mmhmm,” she hums, unconvinced. Then her eyes narrow. “Then why does Pan smell exactly like some hunky biker we both know?”

I freeze.

Then — traitorously — I inhale.

Deep. Slow. Shameless.

Homme Sport. Dior.

I may or may not have bought an entire bottle. And I may or may not occasionally mist Pan with it. Not just because of him — obviously — but because it is, objectively, one of the greatest smells ever created by mankind. Fresh and raw. Clean but dangerous. Like lemon and bergamot had a one-night stand with confidence and bad intentions.

It’s crisp. Cool. Masculine in a way that feels unfair. Smooth, animalistic, addictive.

I mash Pan against my face, breathing him in like a lunatic.

“I just like the smell,” I say defensively, shoving the turtle toward Kiara’s nose. “It’s … nice.”

She sniffs. Pauses. Then exhales a long, tired sigh.

“Mel,” she says, rolling her eyes, “you are a disaster.”

I clutch Pan tighter. Yeah. That I am.

“Have you forgotten how he treated you?” she snaps.

I press my lips together as something sharp stabs straight through my chest.

No. I haven’t forgotten. I don’t think I ever will.

That kind of thing brands itself into you. Especially if it happened more than once.

Kiara snorts and snatches Pan from my arms, swinging the poor turtle back and forth like evidence in a courtroom.

“He bought you THIS,” she says, thwacking me lightly on the head with the stuffed toy, “and then what happened?”

Before I can marshal a defense, she barrels on.

“He knew you had a crush. He flirted. Held your hand. Took you out. And then — surprise— the very next day he’s kissing another girl.”

I sigh. Because she’s not wrong.

He begged me to go to the boardwalk with him. And he looked distracted … sad even … like he needed the escape. So I went … and somehow it turned into the perfect night — rides and laughter, sticky fingers from ice cream, his hand warm and sure in mine. He won Pan for me at one of the games because he knew I liked turtles. I’ve never told him. He just … knew.

That’s what made it hurt so much.

The next day, I caught him kissing a brunette at school as if none of it had ever happened. Like I hadn’t existed.

“He’s a player, Mel,” Kiara says gently but firmly. “A bad-boy disaster, like all the dysfunctional guys in our orbit. Sad, but true. Be grateful you saw it early.”

I am grateful. I’ve learned my lesson. Too bad I didn’t learn it the first time … it took another devastating blow for me to get the message.

One she doesn’t know about.

And yes, to be fair, that time he didn’t exactly invite me politely. He kidnapped me — dramatically, stupidly, under the cover of night — and dragged me to the zoo. I remember feeling absurdly touched that he remembered the date we met for the first time.

The exact date he rescued us from the haunted house years ago.

March first.

It felt important. Like a circle closing.

That night felt different. Special. And somewhere between the tigers and the crocodiles, I lost my teenage heart. And fell for him. Hard. It wasn’t a silly crush anymore. It was real.

But the curse struck … before I could tell Kiara I fell in love — before I could tell anyone — he showed up the next day with a black eye, a new girl on his arm, and not a single glance in my direction. I felt humiliated. Used. Small.

And very much cursed.

I never told anyone. Not even Kiara. And without a word, me and him … we both pretended it never happened.

I did it because I was embarrassed … and because I didn’t want my brothers committing murder. Damion probably did it because … well … he tends to keep his own strange, silent score.

I cried for weeks. Quietly. Privately. And with every tear, the hurt hardened into something darker.

Now I can honestly say I hate him. Truly. Thoroughly.

So I ignore him. I ice him out. I speak only when forced to, and even then, I’m cold enough to frost glass.

Naturally, this inspires him to annoy and antagonize me at every opportunity. And he’s very, very good at it. He can push me from calm to furious by just opening his stupid mouth.

More annoyingly, he can also … get me from dry to wet … with just one look.

Yes. Hate does that sometimes. It’s chemical. Stupid. Unfair. And entirely separate from the very real pain he caused.

Every time I see him with yet another slutty brunette, the resentment digs in deeper. And there’s been a lot of brunettes.

“I know he’s a shag-rat,” I say, “But have you noticed he only goes for brunettes?””

“So he has a type,” Kiara deadpans. “They all do. Enrique likes gingers, Ilkay likes dark hair, so does Axel, Logan prefers blondes, and Jackson likes any vagina that’s pretty and breathing.”

I snort. She’s not wrong. Dysfunctional, the whole lot.

“Maybe I should just stick with Ren,” I say, mostly to myself.

Ren is kind. Safe. Good. He treats me well.

But there are no sparks. Not even a flicker.

And he’s already talking about marriage and kids.

I’m nineteen. I still G****e how long pasta needs to boil. And what do I know about babies … won’t even know which side of it is up or down. I certainly don’t want kids for another good ten years or so.

So I am definitely not planning a future with minivans and matching pajamas anytime soon.

Honestly … I’m not even sure I want to sleep with him. Definitely don’t want to marry him.

Kiara once told me that sometimes she has to fake enthusiasm and orgasms because it’s just … blah. She illustrated this by poking her finger into her throat.

I DO NOT want my first time to be blah.

“I’d dump him and move on,” Kiara says. “The curse is broken. You’re back in the game.”

I sigh. How do I tell her it’s not the curse? That it’s my own stupid hypothalamus chemistry malfunctioning. That I only feel anything around one specific green-eyed problem?

That every time I kiss someone else, his frickin green eyes pop into my head like it’s mocking me?

I wish I could delete Damion from existence. Because my mind, body, and heart are locked in a three-way war, each one fighting for a different outcome.

My mind knows better — warning me to stay miles away from the cock-ass.

My body is a traitor — lusting for his cock and his ass.

And my heart … the poor thing just wants to survive this mess intact.

And the worst part?

I honestly don’t know which side I am on.