Loathe to Love You by Ali Hazelwood

            “But today—that is, yesterday—the entire legal team I run ended up having to work past midnight. Because of some very important missing documents.”

            I tense. He cannot mean—

            “Don’t worry, the documents were found. Eventually. After my boss tore me and my team a new one. Sounds like something went wrong when they were delivered.” If he could incinerate people with eye lasers, I’d be long cremated. Clearly he knows everything about my little afternoon spite-attack.

            “Listen.” I take a deep breath. “It wasn’t my proudest moment, but I’m not your PA. And I don’t see how it justifies you banging all the pots in the house in the middle of the night. I have a long day tomorrow, so—”

            “So do I. And as you can imagine, I’ve had a long day today. And I’m hungry. Which means that I’m not going to keep it down. At least not until I’ve had dinner.”

            Until about ten seconds ago I was angry in a cool, reasonable way. All of a sudden, I am ready to wrestle the knife out of Liam’s hand and slice his jugular. Just a tiny bit. Just to make him bleed. I won’t, because I don’t think I’d flourish in jail, but I’m also not going to let this go. I’ve tried to have measured responses when he refused to let me install solar panels, when he threw away my broccoli stir-fry because it smelled “swampy,” when he locked me out of the house while I was on my run. But this is the final straw. I’m done. The back of my camel is broken in two. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

            Liam pours olive oil in a pan, cracks an egg in it, and seems to revert to his default state: forgetting that I exist.

            “Liam, whether you like it or not, I. Live. Here. You can’t do whatever the hell you want!”

            “Interesting. You seem to be doing exactly that.”

            “What are you talking about? You are making an omelet at two in the damn morning, and I am asking you not to.”

            “True. Although there is the fact that if you had done your dishes this week I wouldn’t need to wash them so noisily—”

            “Oh, shut up. It’s not like you don’t leave your stuff around the house all the time.”

            “At least I don’t stack garbage on top of the trash can like it’s a Dadaist sculpture.”

            The sound that comes out of my mouth—it almost scares me. “God. You are impossible to have around!”

            “That’s just too bad, since I’m here.”

            “Then just move the fuck out!”

            Silence falls. An absolute, heavy, very uncomfortable silence. Just what we both need to replay my words over and over in our heads. Then Liam speaks. Slowly. Carefully. Angry in a scary, icy way. “Excuse me?”

            I regret it immediately. What I said and how I said it. Loud. Vehement. I am many things, but cruel is not one of them. It doesn’t matter that Liam Harding has displayed the emotional range of a walnut; I said something hurtful and I owe him an apology. Not that I particularly want to offer him one, but I should. The problem is, I just can’t stop myself from continuing. “Why are you even here, Liam? People like you live in mansions with uncomfortable beige furniture and seven bathrooms and overpriced art they don’t understand.”

            “People like me?”

            “Yes. People like you. People with zero morals and way too much money!”

            “Why are you here? I’ve offered to buy your half about a thousand times.”

            “And I said no, so you could have spared yourself about nine hundred and ninety-nine of them. Liam, there is no reason for you to want to live in this house.”

            “This is my family’s house!”

            “It was Helena’s house as much as it’s yours, and—”

            “Helena is fucking dead.”

            It takes a few moments for Liam’s words to fully register. He abruptly turns off the stove and then stands there, half-naked in front of the sink, hands clenched around the edge of the counter and muscles as tight as guitar strings. I can’t stop staring at him, this—this viper who just mentioned the death of one of the most important people in my life with such angry, dismissive carelessness.