Loathe to Love You by Ali Hazelwood

            Why is he staring at me like that, then?

            “When will you know if you got the job?”

            He shrugs. “A few days, I assume.” He cut his hair last week. Not too short, but shorter than it ever was. Sometimes—often—I’ll see him in a certain light, or I’ll catch him making one of those faces that I’m sure he doesn’t let anyone else see, and my breath will hitch from the wonder of it.

            “Are you hungry? I made a stir-fry. There’s leftovers.”

            He studies me and says nothing.

            “No carrots. I promise.” What will I do with all this knowledge I have of his likes and dislikes? This knowledge of him? Where will it go once he’s not in my life anymore?

            “I’m not hungry, but thanks.”

            “Okay.” I walk around the couch, looking for something to do with myself, and lean against the doorjamb. Just a few feet away from him. “I think I’ve found a place. To move, I mean.”

            “You have?” Unreadable, his expression.

            “Yeah. But I won’t know till a few days from now.”

            Silence. And a long, thoughtful stare.

            “I still won’t sell my half. Sorry, I know you want to buy me out, but—”

            “I don’t.”

            I frown. “What do you mean, you don’t?”

            “I don’t.”

            I laugh. “Liam, you’ve been offering to buy me out for a million years.”

            His mouth quirks. “A million years ago the house didn’t exist and this place was a swamp, but it’s not as if you’re an environmental scientist and could possibly know—”

            “Oh, shut up. All I’m saying is, for a long time . . .” Though, now that I think about it, his lawyer hasn’t emailed me in . . . weeks. Months, maybe? “Oh my God. Liam, are you broke?” I lean forward. “Is it the stock market? Have you gambled away all your money? Have you bet the entirety of your savings on the U.S. male soccer team winning the World Cup and only belatedly realized that they didn’t even qualify? Have you become involved in a LuLaRoe pyramid scheme and can’t stop buying new leggings—”

            “Are you drunk?”

            “No. Well, I had some of your wine. A lot. Why?”

            “You get annoying when you’re drunk.” There’s a hint of a smile in his eyes. “But cute.”

            I stick my tongue out. “You’re annoying all the time.” And cute, too.

            Liam’s smile widens a little, and he looks down at his feet. Then: “Good night, Mara.” He turns around and heads for his room. The yellow light of the lamp casts a warm, golden glow over the breadth of his shoulders.

            “By the way,” I call after him, “I bought a new creamer. It’s cinnamon. You’ll hate it!”

            Liam doesn’t answer and doesn’t pause on his way out. I don’t see him until the following night, and that . . .

            That’s when it happens.





Thirteen


            Present

            The weirdest part is how quickly everything changes.

            One minute, I’m in the middle of cleaning up the kitchen, wondering whether the smoothie blender is dishwasher safe, thinking about my ongoing pining and my upcoming move, about how much I’ll miss this—coming home after work, finding twelve forks and a colander in the sink, wondering how many of them are Liam’s.

            The next, he is standing behind me. Liam Harding is standing right behind me, on purpose, and pressing me into the counter. As though he wants to be here, close, touching me, as much as I want him to be. I am too stupefied to do anything about the water running in the kitchen, but he leans forward to turn it off, and all of a sudden the room is silent.

            His hand closes around my hip, and I cannot think. I cannot comprehend what is happening. I’m breathing. He’s breathing. We’re breathing together—same rhythm, same air—and for a moment I just feel it. This. It’s nice. It’s good. It’s what I’ve been wanting.