Loathe to Love You by Ali Hazelwood

            “No. It’s . . .” He stands from the table and clears his throat. “Excuse me. I’ll be right back.”

            As he walks out, I hear him chuckle. On the other side of the phone, a female voice is saying his name.





Six


            Four months ago

            I take a careful step out of the shower, letting my toes dig deep into the thick, soft mat. It turns out to be a lethally poor choice, because I do it in the same exact moment Liam opens the bathroom door to take a step inside.

            It leads to me jumping. And flailing. And yelling:

            “Aaaaaaaaah!”

            “Mara? What—”

            “Aaah!”

            “Sorry—I didn’t—”

            My entire body is slippery and frantic—not a good combination. I almost lose my balance trying to wrap the shower curtain around me. Then I do lose my balance, and I’m positive Liam can see everything.

            The outie belly button Hannah always teases me about.

            The sickle-shaped lacrosse scar above my right boob.

            Said right boob, and the left one.

            For a fraction of a second we both stand motionless. Staring at each other. Unable to react. Then I say, “Can you—could you, um, hand me that towel over there?”

            “Ah—sure. Here you go. I . . .”

            He extends his arm and turns the other way while I wrap the towel (his towel; Liam’s towel) around myself. It’s fluffy and clean and it smells good and—who uses black towels, anyway? Who produces them? Where does he even buy them, Bloodbath and Beyond?

            “Mara?” He is standing under the doorframe, pointedly looking away from me.

            “Yes?”

            “Why are you in my bathroom?”

            Crap. “Sorry. I’m so sorry. My shower isn’t working, and . . . I think there’s something wrong with a pipe, and . . . I don’t know, but I called Bob.”

            “Bob?”

            “The plumber. Well, a plumber. He’s coming out tomorrow morning.”

            “Oh.”

            “But I went for a run earlier, and I was all sweaty and smelly, so . . .”

            “I see.”

            “Sorry. I should have asked before. You can turn now, by the way. I’m decent.”

            Liam does turn. But only after about ten seconds of what looks like a pretty intense internal debate. His expressions are never the easiest to read, but he seems a little flustered.

            A lot, actually. As in, even more than I am.

            Which is odd. I’m the one who got boobsposed, and Liam is probably very used to being with naked women. That is, actually naked women. Way more naked than I currently am. Let’s be real—his ex is likely a Victoria’s Secret Angel who recently quit modeling to finish a doctorate in art history and become a junior curator at the Smithsonian. She has an impeccable belly button and knows what PlayStation button to press to throw a grenade. Did I say his ex? They’re still dating, for all I know. Having a very athletic sex life. I’m talking role play and toys. Butt action. Lots of oral, which they both excel at. Okay, this train of thought needs to crash right now.

            Maybe he’s just embarrassed for me? Not that he should be. I’m pretty. I mean, I think I’m pretty. Cute, in a befreckled, wish-I-was-two-inches-taller, slightly-self-conscious-about-that-hump-on-my-nose way. Sometimes, usually after Sadie has put eyeliner on me, I even think I’m beautiful. But I’ll never be as attractive as Liam. Is that why he’s doing this weird thing—staring while obviously trying his best not to stare?

            “I’m so sorry I didn’t warn you. I thought you were out of town or something. Because you didn’t come home last night, and . . .” I feel a bit embarrassed that I noticed. But how could I not? Ever since the snowstorm, we’ve gotten into this weird rhythm. Dinner together at seven. Not that there’s an acknowledged agreement or anything, but I know from before that he used to eat a little later, and I know from my whole life that I used to eat a little earlier, and somehow we converged on a time that works for both of us . . . Maybe I was close to texting him last night. But decided not to, because it seemed like crossing some kind of unspoken line.