Loathe to Love You by Ali Hazelwood

            “Do you know him?” Merel interrupts me.

            “What?”

            “I was wondering if you two know each other?”

            “No. No, I . . .” Once humped his leg. It was fantastic. “Barely. Just in passing.”

            “I see. I was just curious. It would explain why he was so determined about denying your project. I’d never seen him quite so . . . adamant that a proposal not get accepted.” He waves his hand, like this is not important. “But you shouldn’t concern yourself with this, because I have already secured alternative funding for your project.”

            Oh. Now this I did not expect. “Alternative funding?”

            “I reached out to a few team leaders who owed me favors. I asked them if they had any budget surplus they might want to dedicate to your project, and I was able to put together enough to send you back to Norway.”

            I half gasp, half laugh. “Really?”

            “Indeed.”

            “On the next AMASE?”

            “The one that leaves in February of next year, yes.”

            “What about the help I asked for? I will need one other person to help me build the mini-rover and to be in the field. And I’ll have to travel quite a way from home base, which might be dangerous on my own.”

            “I don’t think we’ll be able to finance another expedition member.”

            I press my lips together and think about it. I can probably do most of the prep work on my own. If I don’t sleep for the next few months, which . . . I’ve done it before. I’ll be fine. The problem would be when I get to Svalbard. It’s too risky to—

            “I’ll be there, out in the field with you, of course,” Dr. Merel says. I’m a little surprised. In the months we were in Norway, I saw him do very little sample collecting and snow plodding. I’ve always thought of him as more of a coordinator. But if he offered, he must mean it, and . . . I smile. “Perfect, then. Thank you.”

            I slip out of the room, and for about two weeks I’m high enough on the knowledge that my project will be happening that I manage to do just that: not let anyone know. I don’t even tell Mara and Sadie when we FaceTime, because . . . because to explain the degree of Ian’s betrayal, I’d have to admit to the lie I told them years ago. Because I feel like a total idiot for trusting someone who deserves nothing from me. Because being honest with them would first require me to be honest with myself, and I’m too angry, tired, disappointed for that. In my rants, Ian becomes a faceless, anonymous figure, and there is something freeing in that. In not letting myself remember that I used to think of him fondly, and by name.

            Then, exactly seventeen days later, I meet Ian Floyd in the stairwell. And that’s when everything goes to shit.



* * *





            I spot him before he sees me—because of the red, and the general largeness, and the fact that he’s climbing up while I’m going down. There are about five elevators here, and I’m not sure why anyone would willingly choose to subject their bodies to the stress of upward stairs, but I’m not too shocked that Ian is the one doing it. It’s the kind of glory-less overachieving I’ve come to expect from him.

            My first instinct is to push him and watch him fall to his death. Except I’m almost sure it’s a felony. Plus, Ian is considerably stronger than me, which means it might not be feasible. Abort mission, I tell myself. Just squeeze by. Ignore him. Not worth your time.

            The problems start when he looks up and notices me. He stops exactly two steps below, which should put him at a disadvantage but, depressingly, unfairly, tragically, doesn’t. We are at eye level when his eyes widen and his lips curve in a pleased smile. He says, “Hannah,” a touch of something in his voice that I recognize but instantly reject, and I have no choice but to acknowledge him.

            The staircase is deserted, and sound carries far. His “I came looking for you” is deep and low and vibrates right through me. “Last week. Some guy in your office said you don’t work there much, but—”

            “Fuck off.”

            The words crash out of me. My temper has always been reckless, one hundred miles per hour, and . . . well. Still is, I guess.