Loathe to Love You by Ali Hazelwood

Seven


            Present

            On paper, I should be pleased.

            After weeks of sometimes-murderous, often-mopey, intense rage, I finally told Erik that I’d rather take my chances and fall down an elevator shaft—Return of the Jedi Emperor Palpatine style—than spend one more minute with him. I told him, and from the way his lips pressed together, he really hated hearing it. Now his eyes are closed and he’s leaning his head back against the wall. Which, given his reserved Nordic genes, is likely the equivalent of a regular person going on his knees and bellowing in pain.

            Good. I stare at the line of his jaw and the column of his throat, forbid myself from remembering how fun it was to bite into his scratchy, unshaven skin, and think, a little savagely, Good. It’s good that he feels bad about what he did, because what he did was bad.

            Really, I should be pleased. And I am, except for this heavy, twisted feeling at the bottom of my stomach, which I don’t immediately recognize but has me thinking back to something Mara said to me the evening after my night at Erik’s. Hannah’s end of the call had gone dark, presumably when a falling icicle severed whatever Internet cable connects Norway to the rest of the world, and it was just the two of us on the line.

            “He tried to call me,” I said. “And he texted me asking if we could get dinner tonight. Like nothing happened. Like I’m too stupid to realize what he did.”

            “The fucking audacity.” Mara was incensed, her cheeks red with anger, almost as bright as her hair. “Do you want to talk to him?”

            “I . . .” I wiped the tears off with the back of my hand. “No. I don’t know.”

            “You could yell at him. Rip him a new asshole. Threaten him with a lawsuit, maybe? Is what he did illegal? If so, Liam’s a lawyer. He’ll represent you for free.”

            “Doesn’t he do weird tax corporation stuff?”

            “Eh. I’m sure the law’s the law.”

            I laughed wetly. “Shouldn’t you ask him first?”

            “Don’t worry, he seems to be physically incapable of saying no to me. Last week he let me hang up wind chimes on the porch. The question is, do you want to talk with Erik? Or would you rather forget about him and pretend he never existed?”

            “I . . .” I thought about being with him the previous night. And then, later, about discovering what he’d done. Could I forget? Could I pretend? “I want to talk with the Erik I had dinner with. And breakfast. Before I knew what he was capable of.”

            Mara nodded, sad. “You could pick up next time he calls. And confront him. Demand an explanation.”

            “What if he laughs it off as something that I should have expected?”

            “It’s possible that he’s trying to call you to own what he did and apologize,” she said, pensive. “But maybe that would be even worse. Because then you’d know that he knew exactly the harm he was doing but went ahead with it anyway.”

            I think that’s exactly it. I think that’s why I hated Erik’s I’m sorry, and why I hate that he hasn’t looked at me in several minutes. It makes me wonder if he’s aware that he ruined something that could have been great out of greed. And if that’s the case, then I didn’t imagine it: the night we spent together was as special as I remember, and he still threw it into the garbage chute—A New Hope Princess Leia style.

            “I saw Denmark won against Germany,” I say, because it’s preferable to the alternative. The silence, and my very loud thoughts.

            He turns to me and exhales out a laugh. “Really, Sadie?”

            “Yeah. Two—no, three nights ago.” I look down at my hand, chipping at what little is left of last week’s nail polish. “Two-one. So maybe you did have a point about Neuer—”

            “Really?” he repeats, harsher this time. I ignore him.

            “Though, if you remember, when we had gelato I did concede that his left foot is kind of weak.”

            “I do remember,” he says, a little impatient.

            God. These nails of mine are just embarrassing. “Even then, it probably had more to do with Denmark playing exceptionally well—”