The Hate Vow by Nicole French

Sixteen

Iwaited in the lounge area by the front of the gym for about twenty minutes while Eric showered. When he reappeared, he wasn’t dressed in the uptight pants or suit he wore to the office or his grandmother’s, but in simple jeans, a plain white T-shirt, and Adidas shoes. New muscles aside, he looked much more like the younger man I had met in Boston eight years ago.

He pushed a hand through his still-wet hair as he approached. His mask was firmly in place.

“I’m hungry,” he said. “Do you mind stopping for a falafel on the way back to the city?”

I shook my head, unsure of where he was at. “No, I don’t mind.”

I followed him down the street and stood patiently with him while he ordered.

“You want anything?” he asked.

I shook my head. “No, I’m not hungry.”

He shrugged, picked up his food, and ate it right there next to the shop window.

“That’s better,” he said once he was finished.

We started walking down the block while he took an occasional drink from his water bottle.

“So, Eric de Vries gets hangry,” I remarked. “I’ll remember that next time you throw a tantrum.”

I received another blistering look, but this one was tinged with humor. “It might have helped. But I think it was the part where you suggested I procreate with my family that tipped me over the edge.” He took a long sip of water. “So, you want to tell me why you’re here?”

I frowned. “Your doorman gave me the address. I—I wanted to say—well, your grandmother agreed to the terms.”

“You could have told me later.”

“Well, I mean…I also came to apologize, I guess.”

He stopped again. “You came to apologize.”

My mouth screwed up. “What? I can apologize. Like this: I apologize.”

His face didn’t move. “For what?”

“For…well, for implying that your family was a bunch of inbreeds, for one. I had no idea that was even a rumor, you know. I mean, I guess it makes sense, what with this country’s obsession with eugenics, but still—”

“That’s enough.”

He started walking again. I didn’t immediately continue, absorbed for a moment by the way he filled out his jeans.

“Stop staring at my ass, Jane!” he shouted without even turning around.

I snapped back into the present. How did he always know?

I caught up to him, practically having to jog to keep up with his pace. “You know, you could apologize to me too.”

“Me? Apologize for what?”

“Well, for abandoning me to your grandmother, for one. I realize you warned me about wolves, but I didn’t realize you’d be feeding me to them.”

He stopped again and whirled around, almost smacking a passerby with his gym bag. “Are you serious?”

I folded my arms across my chest. “Well, yeah. Yeah, I am. It’s not like you were exactly defending me in there. Your grandmother sat there and basically called me your comfort woman. Can you blame me for losing my temper after that?”

His brows screwed up in confusion. I sighed impatiently.

“Korean women were forced to be prostitutes called comfort women to the Japanese army during World War II,” I said, filling him in. “I mean, she said geisha, but if we’re going to use racist Asian sex-work jibes, she could at least be accurate.”

Eric expelled a long breath.

“Look,” I continued. “You can’t do that. You can’t just leave me to be attacked by your family and then get angry when I defend myself. I’m sorry I compared your family to the brother-uncle ancients, but she basically called me a whore, Eric. What was I supposed to do?”

“She’s old,” he said lamely. “You’re supposed to take it, like everyone else.”

“No, I’m supposed to get married. I promised to be your wife, not a shadow of myself. If staying quiet and perfect on the Upper East Side is what you’re expecting, then maybe this arrangement really is a bad idea.”

He took a handful of his hair and yanked thoughtfully. “That’s not what I want.”

“Oh, no? Then why does Skylar think I’m going to have to stop being a lawyer?”

At that he looked genuinely shocked. “What? When did she say that?”

“After you screamed out of the building. I mentioned I didn’t have time for this psycho schedule.” I pulled the now-folded piece of paper out of my purse and handed it to him. “Look at that. It’s like a Jane Austen novel this summer. Like we’re characters from Downton Abbey about to embark on ‘the season.’”

Eric scanned the engagements. “Jesus Christ.”

“She’s RSVP’d us for all of them,” I pointed out. “All of them. Your grand re-entry to society or whatever. Now, me, I was planning to study for the bar this summer and apply for some jobs around town. But I can’t do that if we have to play Matthew and Mary Crawley.” I snorted as a thought occurred to me. “You know, they were cousins too.”

But Eric wasn’t paying attention anymore. He was still looking through the list of events. “She knew I’d never budge,” he murmured, more to himself than to me. He looked up with some curious satisfaction. “She had this typed before we even came over. It’s on company letterhead.”

I nodded. “That’s what I thought. We had to endure all of that bullshit this morning for nothing.”

“It was a power play. Meant to show us both who’s in charge. But more importantly, this is a confirmation, maybe even more than a prenup.”

He tucked the sheet into his gym bag, then turned to me. All traces of anger were gone—the mask was now tinged with hope. I thought.

“I don’t want you to not work, Jane. And I am sorry about leaving you there. But you might…you might consider taking this time off, like Skylar said. It’ll make it easier if you build some allies in my family.”

I frowned. “Eric, I have to work. I have bills to pay. My student loan payments each month would pay the mortgage on a four-bedroom house in Iowa.”

He paused again, right next to the subway entrance. The roar of the train below us sounded, and he shuttled me to the side as passengers started to emerge from the stop.

“Your loans aren’t a factor anymore.”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I paid them off last week. As soon as you agreed to all of this.”

My mouth dropped. “What?”

Now he was the one who couldn’t meet my gaze. “It seemed like the right thing to do.”

“Eric—holy shit—um, okay. Well, I guess we can take that out of the prenuptial agreement or whatever.”

My hands were flapping around like wings—I had no idea what to do with them. After attending Northwestern and then Harvard, I owed the equivalent of a country house mortgage. My goal had been to work for another five years in public service so the loans would hopefully be forgiven, but who knew if I’d be able to get another job like that quickly. Now…now it wasn’t even an option.

“Consider the next six months a break,” Eric said. “A chance for both of us to reevaluate what we want. And next spring, if you still want to retake the bar in New York or Massachusetts, you can. We’ll pay for you to take a class and do it right. In the meantime, you can decide if you still want to work at the DA’s office again, or if you still even want to be a lawyer, or if you want to do…something else.”

And there it was—that crazy ability of his to read my mind. He looked over my clothes, which he knew I’d made myself, and his hand fluttered out, almost as if he wanted to touch the green fabric. But instead of grabbing that, he took my hand instead and pulled me toward the train entrance.

“Come on,” he said. “I want to show you something else.”

* * *

We tookthe F train back into Manhattan and got off at Sixty-Third and Lexington, about twenty blocks south of his grandmother’s building. But instead of walking there like I expected, Eric steered me toward the entrance to Central Park.

“Are you okay to walk?” Eric asked, gesturing at my shoes.

I looked down at my black ballet flats. “Oh, sure. I could walk miles in these.” I loved fashion, but I hated uncomfortable footwear. It was a pet peeve of mine to wear “bloody shoes.”

He nodded. “They’re nice.”

It’s a weird feeling when a cute boy takes a moment to compliment your footwear. It’s even weirder when it’s someone who was ten seconds to taking you less than an hour ago.

Weird, but good.

I followed Eric into the park, and we meandered a bit, walking past some of the more recognizable elements. In all my visits to New York, I was usually too busy being entertained by Skylar’s family or shopping to do the touristy stuff like walking by the lake or checking out the famous fountain. Eric narrated the landmarks, and like a good tourist, I took pictures. More than once, when he pointed things out for me to see, I caught him watching me instead.

“You’re so funny,” I remarked after he bought a pretzel and tipped the vendor about four times its worth. “You have all this money, but you never use it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, for instance, coming here in a subway car that smelled like pee and sweat when you could easily call Smithers, your driver.”

Eric snorted. “Should I ride around in a limousine like a Frank Capra bad guy? Live in a tower made of gold and sniff at the hoi polloi?”

I shoved him in the shoulder. “You know what I mean. Two-dollar pretzels instead of a ten-dollar baguette.”

The closet full of custom-tailored suits that were definitely not from the Men’s Wearhouse came to mind. His ridiculously picky tastes for fine coffee and liquor. Unless we were out with friends at Cleo’s, the local dive bar where Harvard Law students hung out, I didn’t think I ever saw Eric drink the cheap crap.

But those were a few idiosyncrasies. They weren’t how he lived his entire life.

I didn’t think.

Eric shrugged. “If it’s good enough for everyone else, it’s good enough for me.”

It wasn’t a bad argument. And I couldn’t say I didn’t like it.

“Besides,” he said. “I have my weaknesses.”

“Oh my God, don’t remind me,” I said. “Do you remember when I got you Dunkin’ Donuts coffee that one morning?”

He chuckled. “Oh, yes.”

* * *

“Hey.” I entered the apartment and closed the door with my hip. “Stop the presses! Literally!”

Eric turned around holding his fancy steel kettle in his hand. Behind him, his intricate coffee apparatus was set up on the counter, complete with beans ground and laid in a coffee filter over a glass container that looked more like it belonged in a laboratory than a kitchen counter.

“This isn’t a French press,” he corrected me. “It’s a Chemex.”

I rolled my eyes. It sounded like lab equipment too.

“What’s that?” he asked as he walked around the counter, holding his kettle.

For a second, I didn’t speak. Skylar was gone for the weekend, so Eric and I had the apartment to ourselves for once. Our study materials were strewn all over his normally impeccably clean living room, clothes were rumpled on the floor and, well, everywhere. Remnants of last night’s reunion. And now he was standing in the middle of the kitchen in nothing but his boxers, his lean body filling things out way too well for a Saturday morning.

“Earth to Jane,” he said, snapping his fingers. “Hello?”

I blinked. “Oh, ah. Sorry. Jesus, do you really have to walk around like that? It’s distracting.”

He smiled. That stupid, lazy smile that transformed his face from something close to ordinary to utterly heart-stopping. Lord, the man could work a grin.

“Is that so?” he asked. Then his eyes lit on the white bag and coffee tray in my hands. “What do you have there?”

I set the coffee and donuts on the counter. “Thought I’d save you the trouble this morning. That damn coffee contraption takes you about thirty minutes, and I’m sorry, but no joe is worth turning gray while I wait.” I picked up my black coffee and pushed his toward him. “I even put half and half in there, just the way you like it.”

Eric replaced his kettle on its electric heater, then picked up the disposable coffee cup dubiously. I watched as he held it up to his long nose, sniffed, then cautiously took a sip. He stood there for a moment, swishing it around his mouth.

“For fuck’s sake, Petri, it’s cheap coffee, not a fine Bourdeaux,” I said.

He set the coffee back down and pushed it toward me. “That it’s not. Thanks, but I’m good.” He turned back to his setup on the opposite counter.

I stared at the cup. “Are you serious?”

He nodded over his shoulder. “It was really nice of you, Jane, but that’s crap. Toss it out. I’ll make you one too.”

I gawked at him. “Um, excuse me? I bought you a gift. Don’t waste your time with your science experiment, Eric. Just be a gentleman and drink the fucking coffee.”

“I’m sorry, but no. I’ll have a donut, though. Those look good.”

“No coffee, no fucking donuts!”

I knew I was being irrational. But for some reason, it really pissed me off that he would choose his fancy fucking coffee over my gift. It wasn’t much, of course. The entire meal had cost me maybe five bucks. But that wasn’t the point. I had climbed out of bed—with legs that were barely working after last night’s workout, by the way—made the walk of shame down to the Haymarket T-stop, and stood in line with every other hungover college student in Boston to pick up breakfast for this man. And this was the thanks I got?

Eric ignored me with a kiss on my cheek, then reached into the bag, pulled out an old-fashioned, and took a bite.

“You know,” Eric said with a mouth full of donut, “next time you should just go to Mike’s. It’s just down the block, and their pastries are about twice as good. Coffee still sucks, but at least we’d have fresh sfogliatelle.”

That. Was. It.

All at once, I dropped my arm across the counter and swooped both cups of coffee, the donut, the napkins, and the tray into the trash at the end.

“How about you, Mike, and your fucking pastries and fucking coffee go fuck yourselves,” I said emphatically.

“Jane, come on. You’re being ridiculous.”

I looked up. Eric still stood there, shirtless and delicious, holding his half-eaten, equally delicious old-fashioned. Defiantly, I walked up, plucked the donut out of his fingers, then marched over to the trash and proceeded to rip the stupid thing to shreds and dump it in the bin with the rest of the stuff I’d brought.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said as I dusted my hands off. “Did you want that? I guess it’s for the best, since Mike’s is so much better, right?”

Eric just narrowed his eyes and braced his hands on the counter. “Jane.”

Shit. I knew that tone.

I stared at the floor. “We are not doing this.”

“Jane.”

I still didn’t look up.

“Pretty girl…”

Fuck. Like it was on a string, my head tipped up, and just like that, Eric’s eyes, bright and steely, flashed.

“You’re going to pay for that,” he said. There was no sign of that lazy smile from earlier. Now his expression was made of steel. And I knew exactly what that meant.

“Into the bedroom,” he ordered. “Pants off. On your knees. Forehead to the bed. Don’t. Fucking. Move.”

I remained where I was for a moment more, my chin tipped up defiantly. I wanted to rip his head off for shunning my gift and tell him where he could stick his fucking orders. But just as badly, I wanted to run into the bedroom and do exactly as he said.

Well…maybe not exactly.

The bedroom won.

* * *

“I didn’t knowhow to react,” Eric said as he broke off a piece of his pretzel and handed it to me. When I took it, that lazy smile reappeared. So did the butterflies in my stomach. “No one had ever brought me coffee and donuts before.”

“I can’t believe that,” I said. “You screwed half of Boston while we were in grad school, Casanova. You’re telling me that none of them every brought you a little snack?”

“I think my reputation precedes me a little there,” Eric said. “Contrary to what people think, my sex life was not that active.”

I gave him a look. “You’re so full of shit. I don’t ever remember seeing you at a bar without leaving with someone. And from what Skylar said, you spent about half the nights of the week out of the apartment.”

Eric shrugged. “Okay, sometimes it was too easy. But it wasn’t always someone different. You make it sound like I had a new partner every night.”

“Please, Petri dish. You didn’t?”

He sent me a sharp gray look but chose not to respond to my goading. “Relationships aren’t worth the stress, you know? The exciting part ends so quickly. Passion doesn’t last forever.”

I nodded. “Yeah, I hear that.”

Except with some, Jane Brain. Ah, Dad. The voice of reason. I was wondering when he’d show up. You do know one couple, at least, he reminded me.

I considered Skylar and Brandon. The way he pulled her into his suite, so unapologetically in lust and in love with his wife. But they were the exception, not the rule. Most people didn’t have that. Most people never would.

We paused at the edge of a gigantic lawn, watching contentedly as a young family chased their kids around the field. The four of them were so sweet: a man, a woman, and two kids, probably about five and nine. The couple was married—they both wore wedding rings that gleamed in the sun. When they sat down to rest, the man wrapped his burly arm around his wife’s shoulder. She nuzzled into him, looking as though she belonged there.

I sighed. “How long do you think they’ve been married?”

Eric shrugged. “One year, tops.”

“Come on,” I said. “They have kids.”

Eric shook his head. “I bet they’re extended family. That couple hasn’t been together for more than a few years. Newlyweds, for sure. No one with kids acts like that.”

I started to agree, but suddenly I couldn’t stand the thought of not knowing for sure. What if…what if Skylar and Brandon weren’t the miracle I supposed? What if they were much, much more?

“Wait here,” I said.

I handed Eric my pretzel and strode through the grass toward the woman. Her husband got back up and chased the kids again.

“Excuse me,” I called as I approached.

The woman looked up. She had bright blue eyes and a warm smile against her almost-black hair. And it was then I noticed she was also in the middle stages of pregnancy. Her bump was freaking adorable.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“I’m so sorry to intrude,” I said. “But I was just wondering…how long have you and your husband been together?”

“Oh…a while…” She turned to the man running around with the two kids in the field and smiled at him. He waved at her and grinned right back. She giggled, then turned to me. “Nico and I first met…gosh…I want to say almost thirteen years ago now.”

I choked. “Thirteen years?” She looked like she was maybe twenty-five. I looked out at the field. It was hard to say how old he was, but if it had been thirteen years… “So, those are your kids?”

She nodded. “Yep. That’s my oldest, Mateo. He’s almost ten. And that’s my daughter, Coco. She’s six.”

“Wow,” I said. “You do not look old enough to have a ten-year-old son.”

The woman blushed. “Thank you.”

“When are you due?” I wondered as she cupped her protruding belly pensively.

“Oh. In about four months.” She sighed. “I’m a little nervous. We’ve…well, I’ve had a couple of miscarriages. And Coco’s birth wasn’t easy.”

“Sweetie, you okay?”

The woman’s husband bounded in, leaving their kids to continue playing. His touch floated over his wife, checking her everywhere, as if making sure she was whole. She shooed him off a few times, but the continued flush in her cheeks made it clear she liked his attention. I couldn’t blame her. There was a preciousness about it that was endearing.

Most of all, I noticed the way his eyes didn’t leave hers for a second. They were like magnets, drawn together, and when he gave her a kiss—quick and light, nothing untoward for a day in the park with family—it was evident from the way they both clutched at each other that there was much more where that came from.

After thirteen freaking years.

“So it is possible,” Eric murmured behind me, having approached as well. I didn’t have to wonder what he meant.

“I know,” I replied.

The couple looked at us, as if they had just remembered we were there.

“Thanks,” I said. “You have a lovely family.”

“Have a nice day,” said Eric, and the couple nodded before settling back on their blanket, absorbed in their children and each other.

I followed Eric off the lawn, both of us absorbed in thought for the moment. It wasn’t until we had crossed the park completely and were standing on Central Park West that I thought to wonder where we were actually headed.

So I asked.

Eric turned with yet another lazy, stomach-fluttering smile. “It’s just a couple more blocks. I wanted to show you our new apartment.”