Loathe to Love You by Ali Hazelwood

            “They knew we—” The sound chokes somewhere in his trachea. Liam clears his throat. Twice. “They knew we were trying?”

            “Yeah.” Mara blushes a little, and Liam takes a step closer.

            This time, it’s his hands on his hips. “What did you tell them?”

            “Just . . . you know . . .” The way she hand-waves is very suspicious and reveals something:

            Her friends know everything about their sex lives for the last two months.

            Every. Single. Thing.

            “What about Ian and Erik? Do they know I’m having a baby?”

            “I’m not sure,” Mara says, evasive.

            Too evasive.

            “Mara.”

            “Well, Erik sent over celebratory croissants. They were really good. I left you one, by the way. Well, half. And Ian texted me to ask if we’re going to call the baby X Æ A-Xii. It’s an Elon Musk joke. And Elon Musk is an engineer, so it’s kinda funny—”

            “I know who Elon Musk is.”

            For maybe half a second, Mara looks contrite. It all melts when her arms slide into the loops of his and she hugs herself to his chest. “They’re really happy for us,” she murmurs against his shirt. “I’m really happy for us.”

            Okay. Fine. Who cares? So everyone knows about their sex schedule. Big deal. What’s some reproductive life talk among friends, after all?

            “I’m happier,” he murmurs against the crown of her hair. “I’m happiest.”

            But while Mara brings him dinner (half a croissant that looks more like one third), he checks his phone, scrolls past the group chat he shares with Mara’s friends and their partners, and zeroes in on the text thread with Ian and Erik. It was pinging today while he was busy in court. Ian, trying to convince Erik to buy a PS5 to play the FIFA 22 game. As if.

                             First of all, you assholes could have mentioned I’m having a baby.



            Liam’s just too happy to be mad.

                             But more importantly: FIFA 19 is a million times better.





ERIK


            The phone buzzes in Erik’s pocket, but he doesn’t check what for.

            He doesn’t move. Doesn’t take his eyes off Sadie. Doesn’t step away from his strategic position—leaning against the fridge—which allows him a full view of the kitchen, and, above all, of his wife.

            It’s not because she’s pretty, or mesmerizing, or his happy place—even though she is all of these things. It’s not because he’s in love with her, or interested in what she’s doing, or enthralled by the way she moves—even though he is all of these things.

            The reason he won’t look away from his beloved spouse on this beautiful April night is a bit more basic, and vaguely embarrassing:

            Abject fear.

            Not quite of Sadie, but of what she might do to his brother. His poor, unsuspecting, clearly terrified brother.

            Anders has been “finding himself” all over the world for the past several years, and has therefore never met Erik’s wife before today. Maybe if he’d showed up to their wedding in Copenhagen . . . but he was too busy picking plums in Australia. Which means that his knowledge of Sadie is undoubtedly secondhand, most likely through Erik’s parents. And, oh, Erik can just imagine his mom’s review. What a kind, radiant, lovely bride. A brilliant, gentle young woman. A bit superstitious—she forbade anyone to gift knives and she put six pennies in her shoe, which fell out while she was walking to the altar—but so lovely. The football-shaped wedding cake she insisted on—unusual, but delightful. She’s perfect for your brother.

            Yup. Erik can just imagine. Just like he can imagine Anders shitting himself as Sadie leans over the kitchen table to hiss at him: “Who the hell do you think you are?”

            “I’m— I—” He points at Erik. To no one’s surprise, his finger is shaking. “His younger brother—”