Loathe to Love You by Ali Hazelwood

            I should probably work on that.

            By one p.m. I am mortally bored. I nap; I watch a YouTube video on the plate arrangement of the stegosaurus; I paint my nails a pretty red matte color; I write a half-assed post for my Bachelor blog on my expectations for the next season; I practice braiding my hair in a crown; I wonder whether I’m a workaholic, decide that I probably am.

            I can’t remember the last time I was inside all day. I’ve always been a bit restless, a bit too antsy. Much too active, my parents would say as they tried to enroll me in every possible team sport to keep me busy. They aren’t bad people, but I doubt they wanted a kid, and I know for sure that they weren’t fans of whatever changes my arrival brought to their lifestyle. Probably the reason they were never huge fans. We talk maybe once or twice a year now—and I’m always the one who calls.

            Oh well.

            I lean my forehead against the chilly glass of the window, feeling an odd sense of isolation, as though I’m disconnected from the entire world, swaddled in a muffled white cocoon.

            I should start dating again.

            Should I start dating again?

            Yeah. I should. Except that . . . men. No, thank you. I am well aware that #NotAllMen are condescending shitlets like Sean, and I’ve had my share of perfectly nice boyfriends who didn’t feel the need to Actually me when I tried to have a conversation. But even at their best, all my romantic relationships felt like work. In a way Sadie and Hannah and Helena never did. In a way actual work never did. And for what? Sex? Jury’s still out on whether I even care about that.

            Maybe I should skip the dating and just visit Sadie in NYC as soon as the weather gets better. Yeah, I’ll do that. We’ll make a weekend out of it. Ice-skate. Get that frozen hot chocolate thing she’s been raving about, the one she insists is not just a rebranded milkshake. But in the meantime it’s still snowing, and I’m still stuck in here. Alone.

            Well, not alone alone. Liam’s around. He came downstairs this morning, large hand brushing over the smooth wooden railing, looking . . . not quite disheveled. But he didn’t bother with his usual suit. The faded jeans and worn T-shirt made him seem younger, a more human version of his aloof, stern self. Or maybe it was the hair, dark as usual, but sticking up just a bit in the back. If we hated each other a tad less, I’d have reached up and fixed it for him. Instead I watched him step into the roomy entrance until it didn’t feel quite so roomy anymore. No high ceiling is that high when someone as tall as Liam stands under it, apparently. I stared at him half-mesmerized for a few moments—till I realized that he was staring right back. Oops. Then he looked out the window, sighed deeply, and headed back upstairs. Phone already on his ear as he gave calm, detailed instructions about a project that’s probably aimed at freeing the planet from the evil clutches of photosynthesizing plants.

            I haven’t seen him since, but I heard him. Laughter here. Barefooted steps there. Creaking wood and the beep of the microwave. Our rooms are one and a half hallways away. I know he has a home office, but I’ve never been in there—a bit of a tacit Do-not-go-to-the-West-Wing, Beauty and the Beast situation. I’ve considered snooping around when he was gone, but what if he put live traps around? I picture him coming home, finding me wailing, my ankle tangled in a snare. He’d probably leave me there to starve.

            Plus, he doesn’t go out much. There are those couple of friends of his who come over to do surprisingly nerdy stuff (which reminds me a bit too much of me, Sadie, and Hannah making brownies for a Parks and Rec marathon—which in turn is vaguely painful—so I pretend it doesn’t happen). His workdays seem to be sixteen hours long, even when I’m not being a petty gremlin about signing for his mail, but that’s about it. I wonder if he dates. I wonder if he sneaks a different girl into the house every night and tells her Shh, be quiet. My squatting ginger roommate will key my record player if we’re too loud. I wonder if I’m simply failing to notice the masked orgies he has in the kitchen every weekend while I’m tucked under my granny quilt, carefully composing my blog posts.

            I wonder why I wonder.

            When I pad downstairs for dinner, the house is dark and silent. And cold. Honestly, how is Liam not freezing? Is it the seventy pounds of muscles? Does he coat himself in baby-seal fat? I shake my head as I raise the thermostat and heat up more food than I need to eat (but, crucially: not more food than I can eat).

            There are a few living/sitting/front/lounge/whatnot rooms on the first floor, but my favorite is the one connected to the kitchen. It has a large, comfortable couch that probably cost more than my graduate education, a soft area rug I like to stealthily caress when I’m home alone, and the pièce de résistance: a giant TV. I move my (many) food containers to the walnut coffee table and let myself plop down on the couch.