Loathe to Love You by Ali Hazelwood

            I come like an avalanche, and then he does, and when I squeeze my arms around his neck, I don’t ever mean to let go.



* * *





            In the morning, I watch him shave in front of the mirror just because I can.

            He uses a razor that looks like the ones I buy for my legs (i.e., cheapest at the supermarket). If he minds the bleary-eyed girl who had less than two hours of sleep and is currently sitting wrapped in a towel on his bathroom counter, he hides it well. But I’m almost sure he doesn’t. Mostly because he’s the one who put me here.

            “You’re so tall,” I say, a little tired, a little stupid, leaning back against the mirror.

            His mouth twitches. “You aren’t.”

            “I know. That’s what I blame the end of my soccer career on.”

            “Isn’t Crystal Dunn pretty short?” he asks, rinsing his razor. He dries his hands on his pajama bottoms, which hang deliciously low on his hips. “Meghan Klingenberg, too. And—”

            “Shut up,” I say mildly, which only amuses him further. He moves closer, hands slipping inside my towel and coming to rest against the small of my back, warm and instinctive and impossibly familiar. Like it’s something he’s been doing every day for his entire life. Like it’s something he plans to do every day for what’s left of it.

            I love this. The way he pulls me into him. The way he grows hard but seems to be content with this not going anywhere. The way his face nuzzles into my throat. I love this. But.

            “I just think you might be too tall,” I say into his clavicle. “I foresee neck problems for both of us.”

            “Hmm. We’ll probably need surgery a few years down the line.” His smile travels through my skin. “How’s your insurance?”

            “Meh.”

            “Mine’s good. You should go on it when . . .” He trails off. Picks up again with, “Have lunch with me today.”

            “I don’t usually have lunch,” I tell him. “I’m more of a ‘big breakfast, then forty snacks scattered throughout the day’ kind of person.”

            “Have a big breakfast and forty snacks with me, then.”

            I laugh. Yes. Yes. Yes. “What’s the closest subway stop?”

            “I’ll drive you into work.”

            “I need to go home first. Feed Ozzy. Remind him of my unyielding love for him.”

            “I’ll drive you home, and then I’ll drive you into work. You can introduce me to the hamster.”

            “Guinea pig.”

            “Pretty sure they’re the same thing.”

            I laugh again, exhausted and drowsy and over the moon, and I cannot help but wonder how different this morning would be if Erik hadn’t been the one to buy Faye’s croissant.

            I cannot help but wonder if this is the first day of the rest of my life.





Nine


            Present

            I don’t . . . It’s not that . . . It isn’t even . . . If you . . .” I’m sputtering like an idiot, which . . . great. Fantastic. Empowering. I’m a role model for all jilted women in the world.

            Erik is still crouching in front of me, like he’s fully planning to see this conversation through. I sit up, straightening against the wall of the elevator, and take a deep breath. Collect myself.

            I’m going to speak my mind. I’m going to tell him exactly how much of a dickhead he is. I’m going to unleash three weeks’ worth of shower-crying on him. I’m going to chew him out for ruining pistachio gelato and orange cats for me. I’m going to annihilate him.

            But apparently, only after I ask him the stupidest question in the history of stupid questions. “Did you really think the sex wasn’t good?”

            Wow, Sadie. Way to let the point of this entire chat fly over your head.

            He snorts. “I obviously didn’t.”