Page 27 of The Way I Hate Him
“Then enough with the smart-ass comments. Jesus.”
“Can’t take a little sarcasm. Noted.” She hands me back my phone. “I’m in your phone underWench.”
“Charming,” I reply and pocket my phone. “Last, were you able to find a place to stay?”
Her head tilts to the side. “Man, with a comment like that, it almost seems like you care about me.”
“I care about you getting to work on time, and if you’re sleeping in your car, that might be a setback.”
Her expression falls flat. “Yes, I’m staying in a small studio above The Almond Store. You know, in case you need to fetch me . . . errrr, actually, don’t fetch me.”
That makes me inwardly smile. “Why? Don’t want your family finding out who you’re working with?”
“Exactly. They think I have an internship up the coast, and why the hell did I just tell you that?” She looks up at the ceiling in frustration. “Ugh, now you’re just going to use that against me. More fodder for you.”
“So you told your family that you’re here for an internship, not because you failed out this semester? Wow, digging yourself a hole, don’t you think?”
“How about this,” she says, looking me dead in the eyes. “I’ll mind my business, and you mind yours.”
“Fine by me,” I answer as I turn away from her. “I have no problem staying out of your way.”
“Good,” she replies. A second later, she asks, “So would it be cool if I went to grab those snacks now?”
Jesus Christ.
“Yes,” I groan as I move toward my studio.
* * *
I’min the middle of strumming my guitar when there is a loud crash in the kitchen followed by a “Noooooo.”
Hattie just got back—an hour later—from getting snacks, and I caught sight of her bringing more paper bags into the house than I expected. I thought she was just grabbing snacks. I didn’t think she was grabbing a week’s worth of groceries.
I set my guitar down because, frankly, I’ve done nothing productive for the past hour other than play the same three chords over and over again, and I head out into the open living space that connects with the kitchen, where I find Hattie kneeling on the floor, looking completely distressed.
“What happened?” I ask.
She glances to the side and says, “I dropped my pickles.”
“What?” I peer over the counter and see a broken jar of pickles on the floor. “You got pickles for a snack?”
“Yes, if you must know. I love them, and when I tried to open the lid, the jar slipped out of my hand and broke. Now my life is over.”
Okay . . .
“Do you need my help cleaning them up?”
“No,” she says as she stands. “Just tell me where your cleaning stuff is.”
“Under the sink.” Clearly upset, she walks over to the sink and pulls out paper towels as well as cleaner. “You can put the broken glass in a bag as well as the pickles. I’ll toss them in the trash later,” I say.
“Fine,” she says as she sniffs.
Wait . . . is she . . . is she crying?
I bend at the waist, trying to get a good look at her, but I can’t quite catch her eyes.
“What are you doing?” she asks, head down. “I can feel you staring at me.”
