Page 145 of The Way I Hate Him
“Oh God, really? Who was it?”
“Karla Moore.”
“Oh, she’s beautiful,” I say, thinking of her killer legs. “I tried her leg workout once that was posted on one of those lifestyle blogs. I got halfway through and gave up.”
He chuckles. “She used to do that workout every single day. It was impressive. But after her, it was just random fans that I’d fuck. Nothing serious at all. The only woman in my life was my grandma.”
“That’s sweet,” I say.
“She keeps me grounded.”
I turn toward him, my pizza now a second thought. “So why change now? Why ask me out? Why give us a chance?” I ask. “I mean, I’m assuming this isn’t a fling for you. Because it’s not a fling for me.”
“It’s not a fling.” He takes my hand in his and brings my knuckles to his lips. His mouth lightly rubs against them before he says, “I changed because I realized quickly that I’m fucking lonely.” He pauses for a moment, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. “I was struggling with finding my voice again, my writing voice, and I realized it was because I had nothing to write about. No one to write about. My life was . . . empty. It’s been empty for a while. And then, well, you popped into it and things started to change.”
“Wait . . . are you saying I’ve helped you write a song?”
He holds up two fingers. “Two, actually. I haven’t sent any to Ruben, my agent, yet because they were about you, and I didn’t want you to think I wrote songs about you.”
“Why not?”
“Because you weren’t talking to me. It would have looked desperate. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
“It wouldn’t have made me uncomfortable,” I say. “It would have been really sweet.” I pause and then add, “Actually no, not sweet. It probably would have melted me into a puddle of nothing. I don’t want to admit it, but . . . there were many nights, listening to your music through my headphones that I thought about you singing them to me.”
“Seriously?” he asks in disbelief.
“When Maggie said I had an obsession, she wasn’t kidding. I played your songs on a loop during some of my darkest times.”
He moves in closer. “Did you play my songs this past week?”
I shake my head. “I couldn’t. I wouldn’t have been able to stomach hearing your voice, not when I was trying not to think about you.”
He tugs me to the edge of the counter, where I drop my legs, and he steps up between them. “While you weren’t thinking about me, I was thinking about you every goddamn second.” He pushes a strand of hair behind my ear. “Thinking about holding your hand, looking into your arresting eyes, running my finger over the pulse in your wrist . . . counting your freckles. Fuck, Hattie, I thought about you so much.”
“Is that . . . is that what you wrote in your songs?”
“I did.” He cups my cheek.
Staring up into his shadowless eyes, I ask, “Think you’ll play them for me one day?”
“I want to,” he answers as his thumb strokes my jaw. “But they need some finessing. They’re pretty raw right now.”
“Can I be the first one to hear them when you’re ready?”
“Of course,” he answers.
“Thank you.” I lift my chin, searching for his lips. He places his hands on my hips and offers me a soft, gentle kiss.
When he pulls away, he asks, “So I didn’t scare you away with my past?”
Is his past different from anything I’ve experienced? Of course. Is that something I’ll hold against him?
Never.
I shake my head. “No. I think we all have the opportunity to change, and from the sounds of it, you’ve changed.”
“I have.” He picks up his pizza again. “The only vice I have now is alcohol, but that’s not every day, just apparently when I’m trying to forget you.”
