Loathe to Love You by Ali Hazelwood

            Liam is so heavy and tall that the cushion dips when he sits down, and I have to tense my abs and readjust to avoid sliding toward him. I hand him a plate and a pair of chopsticks, pretending there’s nothing unusual about any of this. He does the same as he accepts them with a brief nod, his fingers never accidentally touching mine.

            “What are you watching?” he asks.

            “The Bachelorette.” No sign of recognition. “It’s this stupid, amazing show. Reality. You don’t have to watch with me. Save yourself while you can.” Surprisingly, Liam stays put. Still looks a bit like he wouldn’t mind trashing the entire house, but his expression is slightly less bloodthirsty. Progress? “So, Sheryl, the girl in the green dress—the only girl—has a few weeks to choose a husband among all the guys.”

            Liam squints at the TV for a moment. “Based on what? They all look the same.”

            “They do, don’t they?” I shrug. “They take her on dates. And chat. Toward the end they might even have sex.”

            Is he flushing? No. It’s just the light. “On-screen?”

            “Hey, it’s ABC, not HBO.” I put a spring roll on his plate. Then I take a look at him—his arms filling his shirt, his chest, his general . . . hugeness—and add two more. How many million calories does he need a day? I should find out. In the name of science. “You see the guy wearing glasses he obviously doesn’t need in the vain hope of looking less imbecilic?”

            “Blue shirt?”

            “Yes. We’re rooting for him.”

            “Are we.”

            “Yep. Because he’s from Michigan. And I went to U of M for undergrad,” I explain, licking a drop of hoisin sauce off my thumb. His eyes linger on my lips for a too-long moment, then abruptly slide away.

            “I see.”

            “It’s a great place. Ever been?”

            “I don’t believe so, no.” He’s still not looking at me. Maybe he holds a profound and irrational hatred for Ann Arbor?

            “Where did you go to school?”

            He seems mildly surprised that I’m asking. Fair, since I haven’t exactly excelled at turn taking and conversation making in the past. “Dartmouth. Then Harvard Law School.”

            “Right.” I nod knowingly. “That sounds . . . cheap.”

            He has the decency to look sheepish, so I take pity on him. “Want some cashew chicken?”

            “Ah . . . Yes, please.”

            “Here. You can finish it, I’ve already eaten, like, ten pounds of it.”

            He nods. “Thanks.”

            Liam Harding. Being polite. Wow. “You’re welcome.”

            For a couple of minutes we are silent—Liam watching the TV, me sneakily watching Liam as he eats ravenously, large quick bites that are youthfully endearing. Then he turns to me.

            “Mara.”

            “Yes?”

            “You clearly are some kind of genius.”

            Uh? Am I? “Is this—are you—making fun of me?”

            He looks dead serious and faintly offended at the idea. “You’re basically a rocket scientist.”

            “Basically being the operative word.”

            “And Helena, who had ridiculous standards, chose you to work with her. You’re obviously remarkable.”

            Oh God. Is this a compliment? Am I going to blush? “Um . . . thanks?”

            He nods. “What I don’t understand is, why is someone as smart as you watching this shit?”

            I smile into my fried rice. “You’ll see.”

            One hour later, when Sheryl says, “I think our relationship has come a long way, but I am not convinced that it could develop any further . . .” I slam my hand on my armrest and yell, “Oh, come on, Sheryl,” just as Liam slaps his armrest and yells, “Sheryl. What the hell?”