Hopeful Undertone

Chapter 4: The Situation(ship)

Do you want to know the history of my friendship with Abram Morales? 

Fine. Let's do this. 

We met in eighth grade and bonded over a love of pop-punk music, which was a huge part of our angsty young lives.

Abram, if I haven't mentioned this yet, is pretty. 

I know that sounds weird, but there's really no other way to put it: The boy has a year-round tan, a sculpted face, curls that look like an ad for leave-in conditioner, the build of a soccer star, and green freaking eyes. Physically, he is just very, very pretty. 

Unfortunately, he also knows this. 

Ever since we met, I've been Abram's designated Best-Friend-Who's-A-Girl. We've shared food. We've shared a pair of earbuds. I was the casual-phone-call friend, the friend who attended his parents' vow renewal, the friend who went with him to buy his first car. 

And for a significant portion of that time, I was in love with him. 

When your best guy friend is an objectively attractive athlete who spends nearly all his free time with you, it's easy to start thinking of yourself as basically married. There was a reason I was constantly having to bat away questions about our relationship status at school. 

The problem was that Abram never seemed to return my feelings. Once high school started, he became a hot commodity. In between casual flings, he was still eating off of my ice cream cones and falling asleep on my shoulder—but otherwise, it was as if I were no more to him than a sister.

This was especially confusing to me because he was so flirtatious, constantly speaking Spanish or weaponizing those green eyes to win an argument. Somehow he managed to both ignore my feelings for him while simultaneously exploiting them on order to keep me hooked. 

This is how things went up until junior year, when I finally got a boyfriend. The boyfriend is not important to this story, but he should've been. His name was Eric.

Anytime the topic of my dating life came up around Abram, he would roll his eyes or make a snide remark. It got to where I felt guilty for making plans with Eric because I knew Abram would frame it as me bailing on the group.

This was totally unfair, of course. Abram got to see me five days a week, and he had so monopolized my time that it was a wonder anyone had considered me fair game to date in the first place. I had absolutely nothing to feel bad about. 

But then he would look at me with those green eyes, and he would speak his stupid Spanish, and he would tell me that the Yellowcard song we were listening to always reminded him of me, and I would get all confused again.

Halfway through junior year, just as winter was beginning to settle in, we were riding in his car when I mentioned having a date later that night. Somehow it came up that Eric had gotten me flowers for my birthday. Abram wanted to know what kind. When I answered, he just smirked.

"I knew it," he said.

"Knew what?" 

"He doesn't know you like I do." 

"Oh?" 

"Yeah," Abram said. "Your favorite flowers are peonies." 

The way he said it—the gentleness, the sideways glance he gave me, the wistfulness in his voice—sent me into a spiral of overthinking. 

Long story short, I broke up with Eric that week. 

The breakup coincided nicely with the Winter Formal, a legitimately fancy dance that Student Government plans each year. Sitting in on those meetings, visions of my own Winter Formal fantasy danced in my imagination. 

There I was, single again, and Abram seemed as all-over-me as ever. The timing had never been right before—I could see that. Now it was. 

As the date of the Formal approached, I assumed that all of us—Abram, Lyla, Stace, and me—would be going as a group, dateless. The day before the dance, though, a new face appeared at our lunch spot. 

"Hannah!" Abram said, wrapping her in a hug. 

The two of them exchanged flirty banter for a couple minutes. I didn't hear most of it; instead I had my eyes locked on her perfect teeth, her coy smile, her sleek brown hair. Then she left, and that seemed to be the end of that. 

I knew that Abram wouldn't officially ask me to the dance (in addition to being pretty, he was also immature and romantically clueless) but I also knew, based on how he'd been treating me since I ditched Eric, that we were back "on" again. Several hours in dim light with me dressed like a glittery snow goddess could be just the relationship-definer we needed. 

I don't need to tell you where this is going, do I?

When we arrived at the venue, there she was: the girl from lunch the day before, wearing a clingy yellow dress with a slit up the left side. She beamed at Abram and flew into his arms, and he pulled a matching freaking corsage out of his suit jacket.

And that was the end of that. 

Do I still have feelings for Abram Morales? Yes. Those feelings are anger, embarrassment, jealousy, bitterness, and—against every logical, self-respecting instinct I have in me—infatuation. 

* * *

I opened the card that had come with the flowers.

I know it's a week late, but someone needed to make you feel special. Happy birthday. XO 

My face burned. Ryan came up beside me.

"What'd loverboy say?" he said in his deep, teen-boy monotone, reaching for the note. 

Without thinking, I crammed the entire thing into my mouth. 

"Did—" Ryan said. "Did you just... eat card stock?"

I had no real answer but to slowly back out of the room, tightening my jaw. 

In the bathroom, I locked the door, spat the card out, and flushed it down the toilet. 

* * *

Later that night, I was in my room planning out what to bring to camp and texting Lyla about dinner when a separate text came through. 

Did you get my package? he asked.

Yeah I got it! So thoughtful. Thanks, I replied.

Peonies are still your favorite, right? 

I stared at the message for a moment. Then I left it on read, tossed my phone onto the highest shelf of my closet, and went back to packing.

* * *

Author's Note: 

Tessa, YOU 👏 DESERVE 👏 BETTER👏

What are your thoughts on Abram and Tessa's relationship? 

I think he's being carelessly manipulative, and the whole situation makes me feel icky. Either treat her like any other friend or ask her out, I say. On the other hand, it's her refusal to stick up for herself that allows people to keep treating her like dirt.

I can't wait to cleanse my palate with some wholesome Tyler content.

Keep reading! Talk soon!

💖