Loathe to Love You by Ali Hazelwood

            I feel a shiver of something warm run down my spine, as though I’m being held. Which is weird, since I haven’t hugged someone in . . . God, months. Not since Helena.

            “Tell you what.” I put my hands on my hips, suddenly determined. “I’m going to apply for the leader position.”

            “That’s exactly what you should—”

            “If you leave your job.”

            He pauses, then exhales a laugh. “If I leave my job, who’ll keep you in the expensive multi-ply toilet paper lifestyle you’re accustomed to?”

            “You will, since you’re probably sitting on generational piles of old New England money. Plus, you could totally still be a lawyer for other, slightly less disgusting corporations. If there are any, that is. And if we strike this blood pact and I get the job, there’s something even better in it for you.”

            “You let me hold Sean’s head in the toilet bowl?”

            “No. Well, yes. But also, if I get a team leader position, I’d be making more money. And I’ll finally be able to move out.” Without needing to sell my half of the house.

            Liam’s expression shifts abruptly. “Mara—”

            “Think about it! You, walking around naked in a pleasantly freezing house, scratching your butt in front of a fridge full of tartar sauce, cooking tacos at three a.m. while listening to postmodern industrial pop on your gramophone. All around are giant screens, broadcasting video game playthroughs twenty-four/seven. Sounds nice, huh?”

            “No,” he says flatly.

            “That’s because I forgot to mention the best part: your pesky ex-roommate is gone, nowhere to be seen.” I beam. “Now, tell me you’re not going to love every second of—”

            “I won’t, Mara. I—” He turns away, and I can see his jaw clench like it used to before, when my presence in this house annoyed him and he considered me the bane of anything good. But his hand tightens around the edge of the counter once, and he seems to collect himself. He studies me for a long moment.

            “Please,” I press. “I won’t apply if you won’t. Do you really want to condemn me to a lifetime of Sean?”

            He closes his eyes. Then he opens them and nods. Once. “I won’t leave my job—”

            “Oh, come on!”

            “—till I have another lined up. But I will start looking around.”

            I smile slowly. “Wait—for real?” I did not think this would work.

            “Only if you apply for the leader position.”

            “Yes!” I clap my hands. “Liam, I’ll help you. Are you on Linked-In? I bet recruiters would be all over you.”

            “What’s LinkedIn?”

            “Ugh. Do you at least have a recent headshot?”

            He stares at me blankly.

            “Fine, I’ll take a picture of you. In the garden. When there’s good natural light. Wear the charcoal three-piece suit and that blue button-down—it looks amazing on you.” He cocks his eyebrow, and I instantly regret saying that, but I’m too excited at the idea of this weird professional-suicide pact to blush too hard. “This is amazing. We’ve got to shake on it.”

            I thrust out my hand, and he takes it immediately, his own firm and warm and large around mine, and—it might be the first time we touch on purpose, as opposed to arms brushing while we’re working at the stove, or fingers grazing as he sorts out my mail. It feels . . . nice. And right. And natural. I like it, and I look up to Liam’s face to see whether he likes it, too, and . . . there are a thousand different expressions passing on his face. A million different emotions.

            I can’t begin to parse even one.

            “Deal,” he says, voice deep and a little hoarse.

            He uses his free hand to turn on the microwave—which, lo and behold, is working again.





Eight


            One month, two weeks ago