Loathe to Love You by Ali Hazelwood

            “Sadie.”

            “And if you guys can sustain this level of play for a while, then . . .”

            There is some rustling from his corner of the elevator. I look up just in time to see Erik squat in front of me, knees brushing against my legs, eyes pale and serious. My heart somersaults. He does look thinner. And maybe a bit like he hasn’t been having the best sleep of his life in the past few weeks. His hair gleams golden in the emergency light, and a brief memory resurfaces, of pulling at it when he—

            “Sadie.”

            What? I want to scream. What more do you want? Instead I just look back at him, feeling like the elevator has shrunk again, this time to the pocket between my eyes and his.

            “It’s been weeks, and . . .” He shakes his head. “Can we please talk?”

            “We are talking.”

            “Sadie.”

            “I’m saying stuff. And you’re saying stuff.”

            “Sadie—”

            “Okay, fine: you were right about Neuer. Happy?”

            “Not particularly, no.” He looks at me in silence for several seconds. Then he says, calm and earnest: “I’m sorry.”

            It’s the wrong thing. I feel a surge of anger travel up my spine, bigger even than when I learned about his betrayal. There is a bitter acid flavor in my mouth when I lean forward and hiss, “I hate you.”

            He briefly closes his eyes, resigned. “I know.”

            “How could you do that, Erik?”

            He swallows. “I had no idea.”

            I laugh once. “Seriously? How—how dare you?”

            “I take full responsibility for what happened. It was my fault. I . . . I liked it, Sadie. A lot. So much so that I completely misread your signals and didn’t realize that you didn’t.”

            “Well, what you did was—” I stop abruptly. My brain screeches to a halt and finally computes Erik’s words. Liked it? Misread? What does that even mean? “What signals?”

            “That night, I . . .” He bites the inside of his cheek and seems to turn inward. “It was good. I think . . . I must have lost control.”

            I freeze. Something about this conversation isn’t quite right. “When you said you were sorry a minute ago, what were you referring to?”

            He blinks twice. “The things I did to you. In my apartment.”

            “No. No, that’s not . . .” My cheeks are hot and my head’s spinning. “Erik, why do you think I stopped picking up your calls?”

            “Because of the way I had sex with you. I was on you all night. Asked for too much. You didn’t enjoy it.” Suddenly, he looks as confused as I feel. Like we’re both in the middle of a story that doesn’t quite make narrative sense. “Sadie. Isn’t that the reason?”

            His eyes bore into mine. I press my palm against my mouth and slowly shake my head.





Eight


            Three weeks ago

            We haven’t touched all night.

            Not at the restaurant. Not in the car. Not even in the elevator up to his Brooklyn Heights apartment, which is larger than mine but doesn’t look it because Erik is standing in it. We’ve been chatting like we did over dinner, which is fun and great and kind of hilarious, but I’m starting to wonder whether when I fooled myself into believing that I was bravely hitting on Erik, he actually thought that I was inviting myself over to play the FIFA video game. He’s going to say Come, I want to show you something. I’ll follow him down the hallway jelly-kneed, and once I’m at the end he’ll open the door of the Xbox room and I’ll quietly die.

            I stand in the entrance while Erik locks the door behind me, shifting awkwardly on my feet, contemplating my own mortality and the possibility of making a run for it, when I notice the cat. Perched on Erik’s spotless living room table (which appears not to be a repository for mail piles and take-out flyers; huh). It’s orange, round, and glowering at us.