43. Do You Hate Me?
43
DO YOU HATE ME?
MAGGIE
Fortnight By Taylor Swift
J oey kicks her feet up on the dash of our Jeep as I careen down the Pacific Coast Highway. The ocean sprawls out to our right, wide and glittering under the late afternoon sun, its white caps cresting like playful punctuation marks on the endless blue. Joey reaches for the radio and flicks it on, her fingers drumming against the console to the beat of some metalcore song that is way out of her league.
I wrinkle my nose and flick it off.
She mirrors my expression with exaggerated precision and turns it back on. “Joey, what the fuck?” I grumble, flicking it off again, my tone a mix of irritation and amusement.
“Your sulky brain is too loud, Maggie. I need tunes to drown it out,” she mutters, crossing her arms and leaning back in her seat with a huff.
“Since when do you listen to this?” I swear it’s like I don’t know who she is lately.
“I like it, is that so hard to get?” she asks defensively.
“Sorry,” I shake my head exaggeratedly.
Then I give her a light shove, causing the Jeep to swerve just enough to make her gasp and grip the door. “Maggie!” she scolds.
“Relax,” I say, tightening my grip on the wheel and grinning at her.
She plants her feet firmly on the floorboard, sitting up straighter. “Geez, if nearly driving us off a cliff is what it takes to get you to smile, then I’d rather you keep sulking.”
“Fine,” I concede, flicking the radio back on but lowering the volume.
Joey turns her face toward the window. For someone who just complained about my sulking, she looks lost in her own thoughts. I’ve always been able to read her like a book, but lately, the pages feel out of order.
I think back to what my dad said the other day. He’d told me Joey clings to the ranch because it’s all she’s ever known. Maybe he’s right. I’ve spent most of the summer away, wrapped up in my own mess of feelings.
“Joey,” I say, breaking the silence. Her head swivels toward me, her face brightening with an easy smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
Before I can say anything else, the radio catches my attention. A familiar tune filters through the speakers, and my stomach flips. I turn the volume up, my hand trembling slightly on the knob. “Oh my God!” I gasp, my voice cracking with disbelief as Felix’s song, “Out of Reach”, pours out of the speakers.
Joey looks at me like I’ve grown three heads. I point at the screen, my words caught somewhere between my chest and my throat. “Felix’s song!” I crank the volume higher and belt out the lyrics at the top of my lungs. My voice is terrible, but I don’t care. I’ve seen Felix perform this song a hundred times, but this—this is different. This is the radio. This is millions of people hearing his voice. This is everything .
I yank the Jeep onto an overlook, the tires crunching against the gravel as I throw it into park. My head pops out of the top of the Jeep as I keep singing, the ocean breeze carrying my voice into the vast expanse of sky and sea. When the song ends and the radio host’s voice cuts in, I flop back into my seat, breathless and reeling but with an odd sense of… sadness.
Joey tilts her head, assessing me. “What?” I ask as if I hadn’t just given a grammy award winning performance. “Do you have any idea what this means?”
“I do,” she says thoughtfully. “So why all of a sudden do you look so sad?” she asks.
“Because he’s on the fucking radio, Jo” I say, my voice breaking on the last word.
“You told him to focus on his music,” she reminds me gently. “And that’s exactly what he’s doing.”
“He wanted both,” I whisper, my throat tightening. “He wanted me and the music.” I feel selfish, irrational, for wanting to be part of this moment when I was the one who walked away.
Joey squeezes my hand. “I know things got way too intense between the two of you but you haven’t really dealt with it since you got home.”
I shake my head. “I thought I was pregnant. And then I wasn’t.”
“It’s not that simple and you know it.”
She’s right, of course. “Nothing’s been simple with him since the day I met him. I mean, what guy goes full on dad mode when his girlfriend says she thinks she’s pregnant?”
“A guy that loves you.”
I shake my head and pull my hand away. “He hates me.”
“I highly doubt that, Maggs,” her tone is light but certain.
“Look, after everything that happened on tour—it’s just better that I’m here,” I argue.
“You might not be talking to Dylan but I am. Felix is miserable without you.”
The last few days have been filled with a loneliness I can’t even describe. I turn away from her to process everything. I wanted him to be happy, have all the things he deserves. Did I have it all wrong? Did I fuck up yet again by leaving?
“Maggie, you weren’t a distraction by being there. You are unquestionably in love with that rockstar,” she says. “And he is unquestionably in love with you.”
She’s right. And I’m screwed.
“I don’t know what to do,” I admit, burying my face in my hands.
“Maggie, you’re a badass. Look how far you’ve come. Paper Skies wants you to direct a music video for them, like how fucking awesome is that? Everyone else knows how talented you are. It’s time you did the same,” she says, her words strong enough to penetrate the insecurities that have always surrounded me like armor.
“You can have your career and the rockstar too,” she says.
I give her a small smile and shrug. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Finish what you started,” she says simply.
“What does that even mean?”
“What about all that tour footage you’ve been sitting on?”
I groan dramatically. “You want me to torture myself by watching Felix be all hot and sweaty on stage? Do you hate me too?”
“It’s not a bad way to wallow in your sorrows, honestly,” Joey laughs. “Besides, it’s no different than googling him or the band every second of the day.”
“I do not google him every second,” I say with outrage. “Okay maybe several times a day, but that’s it!”
I put the Jeep in gear and pull out of the parking lot and back onto the highway.
“Where is this livestock supply store, anyway?” I ask, realizing I don’t even know where I’m going.
“Boy, you’ve been on one big-time rock tour and now you forget your roots,” she teases.
“Whatever,” I mutter, hitting the gas. “Just tell me where to turn.”
When we get into Malibu I pull into the parking spot and Joey unbuckles.
“You coming?” she asks.
“Nah, I’ll just wait for you here,” I tell her, and she gives me a knowing look.
“If you think I’m googling Felix, you’re wrong,” I gripe, shoving my phone back in my pocket.
She lifts an eyebrow. “Just text him already,” she says and then turns on her heel and heads into the store.
I pull it back out and stare at the screen, my thumb hovering over the keyboard.
Fuck it.
Me: I heard your song on the radio.
The response comes faster than I expect.
Felix: Yeah?
My heart skips.
Me: I had to pull over so I could sing at the top of my lungs.
Felix: The poor people that had to listen to that.
I laugh, my smile spreading across my face. What an asshole.
Me: I’m not that bad.
Felix:
I giggle, warmth blooming in my chest. Maybe Joey’s right and he doesn’t hate me.
Me: Shut up.
I hesitate, my fingers hovering over the keyboard again.
Me: I’m really proud of you.
I delete it.
Me: I miss you.
Delete.
Me: Do you hate me?
Before I can think twice, I hit send. My stomach twists as I shove the phone into my pocket and walk toward the edge of the property. What the hell was I thinking? What is he supposed to say to that?
My phone rings, and I drag it out of my pocket assuming it’s Joey wondering where the hell I am. “No, I didn’t get kidnapped,” I grumble, making my way back to the car.
“Sass,” a voice says, deep and velvety. My breath catches.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“Hi,” I say stupidly and smack my head.
“Hi,” he says back, and I cradle the phone to my ear just to hear him breathe.
“Sorry about that, I was…”
“I could never hate you, Maggie,” Felix interrupts, his words soft but certain.
I close my eyes, relief washing over me. For the first time in days, I feel like I can breathe again.
“Are you still there?” he asks.
“Yeah, I’m just… yeah,” I sigh, dragging the toe of my shoe along the cracked asphalt as I pace the length of the parking lot.
“Why would you get kidnapped?” he teases, his laugh low and warm.
“I’m just waiting outside a store for Joey to get done buying supplements for the horses. One of them has colic,” I reply.
God, that sounds fucking sexy and awesome, I internally scream, cringing at my own words. What is wrong with me?
“What are you doing?” I ask, trying to steer the conversation away from my awkwardness.
“Just getting ready for soundcheck,” he says, and I can picture him perfectly—his guitar slung over his back, the strap worn and frayed at the edges, his hair probably a little messy from running his hands through it too many times. Be still my fucking heart.
“Do you have to go?” I ask, silently begging for just a little bit longer with him.
“Soon,” he breathes into the phone, his voice dropping an octave, just enough to make my stomach flip.
If I could stay on the phone with him while he does soundcheck, I would—just to hear the chords of his guitar drift through the line and catch the way his voice lilts a little higher when he tests the mic. God, I want all of it.
“How are you?” he asks, and my heart skips a beat.
“Jaxson Steel wants me to direct a music video for him,” I blurt.
“Wow, that’s amazing, Maggs,” his voice sounds light and genuinely happy.
“Thank you,” I say.
“For what?”
“You showed Jaxson the one I was working on for you,” I stop myself because the mention of that video and the day I captured it just breaks my heart in two. “I guess he was impressed enough to want to work with me.”
“Well, you deserve it. You’re talented,” he says, making me feel all warm and fuzzy on the inside.
“What’s been happening on the tour?” I ask, trying to feign nonchalance but not doing a very good job of it. My fingers tighten on the phone, waiting for any information he’ll give me.
He chuckles, and I can practically hear the grin in his voice. “Well, Dusty finally got us back for the prank we pulled.”
My eyebrows shoot up, and I stop pacing. “Oh God, was it bad?” I laugh, wishing I could have been there to see it.
“If bad is somehow waking up in the middle of nowhere and hitching a ride back to the venue with some fans, then yeah, it was bad,” he says, his laugh breaking into something deeper, more genuine.
“What? How?” I laugh, trying to picture it, but if anyone could pull that off its Dusty.
Someone calls his name in the background, the sound faint but insistent, and my heart drops into my stomach.
“I gotta go,” he says, and I detect a bit of regret in his tone, as if he’d gladly stay on the phone with me longer if he could.
My chest tightens at the thought of the call ending.
I bite my fingernails. “I’m really happy for all the great stuff happening to you right now,” I say, and even though it’s killing me on the inside, I mean it. “You deserve it.”
He’s quiet but I can hear his uneven breathing before he says, “You too, Sass.”
And just like that, he’s gone, leaving me with nothing but the ache of wanting more.
* * *
I settle onto my bed and pull the laptop into my lap. My fingers hover over the keys, and I type into the search bar: Latest performance by Felix Krasinski.
I stare at the words for a moment, my chest tightening at the knowledge that I’m falling back into old habits, procrastinating on what I should be doing instead. I’m pathetic. With a frustrated sigh, I delete it.
Working on the music video for Paper Skies had been a dream, but since its release, my inbox has been depressingly empty. I didn’t expect offers to pour in, not really, but the silence still stings. I’d landed that job because Paper Skies already knew me—trusted me. And now, as I sit here, the unfinished music video I started for Velvet Drift looms in my mind like an unspoken challenge.
I pull the laptop back onto my lap. There are thousands of hours of footage to sift through, a daunting mountain of memories waiting to be carved into something meaningful. I decide to just dive in, clicking on the latest recordings and settle in.
There’re clips of Dusty yelling at the roadies, his voice a mix of irritation and exaggerated dramatics. I can’t help but laugh, shaking my head at his antics. It reminds me of the prank Felix told me about during our last phone call. That memory makes my chest ache in a way I don’t want to examine too closely. Since that conversation, we haven’t texted. I didn’t expect him to, but hearing his voice had stirred something in me—something raw and restless.
The next clip features Dex twirling his drumsticks, his grin boyish as he leans into the camera. My hand comes into view, shoving him away, and I hear my own laughter ring out, light and unguarded—I smile at the memory. Then, abruptly, the screen goes black.
A voice—his voice—filters through the speakers, and my breath catches. The camera jostles, and suddenly Felix is there, stepping into the frame.
He stands tall, his guitar slung low across his body, and even though the image is grainy, I know every line and angle of him by heart. He turns, propping the guitar against a nearby table, and my stomach flips as I realize what I’m seeing.
Felix, completely naked.
Heat floods my cheeks, and I’m frozen, riveted as he removes his sunglasses, placing them on the table. Then, he turns back toward the camera, his body unapologetically on display.
“Viewing pleasure, huh?” he teases, his voice low and laced with amusement. He steps closer, his movements slow and deliberate, and the camera jostles again, momentarily giving me a view of the ceiling.
My hand drifts to my neck, fingers brushing against my skin as if trying to summon the ghost of his touch. I remember so vividly the way his lips had pressed against this very spot, leaving a trail of sinful heat in their wake.
“Felix, I’m still filming,” I hear myself say, my voice breathy, tinged with laughter.
The camera flips, and suddenly we’re both in the frame. He’s behind me, his lips brushing against my shoulder, his hands moving with a confidence that makes my pulse race. It’s the way he watches as he pulls the bedsheets away from me, inch by inch exposing my unguarded skin.
“Eyes open, Sass,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, the sound even now sends a shiver through me. His hands are steady but deliberate as he spreads my thighs apart. Heat blooms in my cheeks, spreading down my neck, as I watch myself on the screen. It’s almost too much, like the past version of me would be embarrassed that the future me is watching. But I can’t stop.
His fingers trail slowly through my wetness, the deliberate pace makes my breath hitch. When he plunges a finger inside, I watch as my body reacts instinctively, a sharp gasp escaping my lips. It’s overwhelming, like I can feel his phantom touch.
Tears begin to spill down my cheeks, unbidden, as I watch the way he looks at me—like his world has been reduced to only us.
He tilts my face back to the camera and I look into the frame, my pupils dilated, and my skin is flushed pink as I fight to breathe while he pleasures me. His lips are close to my ear while his eyes remain steady. “So fucking beautiful,” he rasps, and then I watch as he makes me come.
I fall apart and he puts me back together, making me whole again. I watch every secret look, every worshiping touch while he fucks me dirty, fucks me like a man who can’t get enough, and makes love to me in every sense of the word. His expressions dance between tender affection and fierce dominance, a captivating rhythm that leaves no moment untouched. Near the end of the recording, when Felix’s jaw tightens and we stare into each other’s eyes as we come together, it’s almost my undoing.
This is love… pure, undeniable, and all-consuming. We are lost in it, bound by it, becoming it.
When the recording ends, I sit there for a long moment, the silence pressing against me like a weight. My chest feels tight, my heart a chaotic mess of longing and certainty.
I need to see more.
Scrolling through the footage, I start pulling clips, organizing them into folders. Performances, candid moments, behind-the-scenes chaos—I sort through it all with a practiced eye. But the clips I linger on, the ones I watch over and over, are the ones where Felix is smiling.
Because he’s always smiling at me.
There’s a jerky shot of me skating around him, the camera wobbling as he tries to tickle me, his laughter soft and reluctant. Another clip shows him running toward me backstage, the flashing lights casting him in a surreal glow as he wraps me in a kiss, the camera jostling wildly in my hands.
In one video, we’re lying on his bed, and he’s holding the camera. He makes a disgusted face as I teasingly lean in to stick my tongue in his ear. The memory makes me laugh, even as my chest aches.
More of Felix winking at me with a sucker sticking from between his teeth and smiling at me from on stage during his mic check.
And then there’s a shot of him sleeping.
Followed by—holy shit—a shot of me sleeping.
My heart stutters. When the hell did he film that?
In the same clip, Felix lays down beside my oblivious form, his movements careful and tender. He kisses my forehead, his lips lingering for just a moment before he looks at the camera.
“I love you,” he mouths, his eyes soft and unguarded.
My breath catches, and I press a hand to my chest, as if that will stop my heart from breaking wide open.
I want to feel that carefree and unbidden again, to go back to the place where the pressures and scrutiny of this life hadn’t consumed us, but I know that’s not reality.
My phone vibrates on the bed, the screen lighting up with Dylan’s name. Normally I’d let it go to voicemail like I have the six hundred other time he’s called, but I pick it up.
“Maggie.” Dylan says, but I remain silent. “Look, I deserve the silent treatment and those things I said, I was just under a lot of pressure—that’s no excuse—but I lashed out at you, and I shouldn’t have.”
He pauses as if he’s waiting for me to say something, and his breathing on the other end sounds like a sad puppy, so I throw him a bone.
“Go on,” I prod.
“You were right about how much you did for the band, and I should have given you more credit for that. You’re incredibly talented, and I was angry because I thought you were throwing it all away for some guy.”
“This is sounding less and less like an apology.”
“You’re right, I’m sorry. I can’t stand it when we fight,” he says, and I soften just a little as an idea forms in my devious mind.
“I know how you can make it up to me,” I tell him.
“Anything, Maggs.”
“How strong are your shoulders?”