Page 78 of The Way I Hate Him
“Yeah.”
“I thought his sister passed.”
“He has three sisters. Hattie is the youngest. Fucking twelve years younger than me, Ruben. Twelve years. Like . . . fuck, I’m a pervert for even looking at her.”
“No, you’re not.” Ruben pauses. “Wait, is this the girl who’s working for you?”
“Yup,” I say, popping the P in yup. “The same girl. At first, it was easy just to ignore her, but she got under my skin. I think about her a lot. I catch myself staring, wanting to talk to her more. I thought maybe it was because I’m lonely. This job is so fucking lonely, Ruben. Everyone wants something from you besides friendship, you know? And she . . . she just stuck around. Talked to me. Joked around, despite us pretending to hate each other, and I saw her in a fucking bikini when I got home, one of those thong ones, you know what I’m talking about?”
“Yes, I do,” Ruben says. “Hard to look away.”
“Exactly!” I nearly shout. “And I couldn’t look away. I just kept staring, and I lost it. I lost all will. I kept looking, and last night, fucking hell, last night.”
“Dare I ask what happened last night?”
“She bombarded me outside by wearing my sweatshirt and cuddling into my side, and we watched the starry night sky, and that’s when I realized how much she smelled like electric sunshine, and I just like her, Ruben, I fucking like her, but I can’t. Abel will kill me. Ryland will kill me. I’d destroy her. She’s so innocent and perfect. I’m not the guy for her, so I came into my studio and started writing. The more the words flowed, the more I drank, and now, I’m halfway done with a bottle and done with a song at the same time. And it’s all about her, how she smells, how I’m desperate for one taste of her cherry lips, how I’d ask for one night to explore her and . . . and she would know it’s about her.”
“Which is bad.”
“Yes, very bad,” I say. “So bad.”
“Okay, well . . . this is good.”
My nose curls from his response. “What do you mean this is good?” I ask. “How is any of this good?”
“You’ve told me that you write your best when you’re tortured, and it seems you’re currently tortured.”
“But I can’t turn this song in.”
“Then don’t. But at least it got you writing. This is just the start. It might not feel good, but this is a good thing, Hayes.”
I pause. “I want to punch you.”
“I know.” He chuckles. “Hang in there. This is where the good comes.”
“Well, what the hell do I do about the girl?”
“That’s up to you. I can’t tell you what to do with your life, but if you’re this tortured over it, you need to see which will be worse—not being with her or being with her and facing the consequences of that decision.”
“Not . . . helpful,” I say as I stand from the couch, bottle in one hand, phone in the other.
“I’m sorry, but this is a decision you’ll have to make on your own.”
“That’s what I thought,” I say. “I need to eat something.”
“Okay, call me when you’re sober.”
“Doubtful,” I say as I hang up and toss my phone onto the couch.
I open my studio door and bring my bottle as I make my way to the kitchen, the house sounding pretty quiet. Thank God they went to bed. I’m not sure I could take one more look at Hattie in a goddamn bikini.
I turn the corner to the kitchen and stop when I see her, leaning against the counter, a cookie in hand, wearing my goddamn sweatshirt.
Fuck.
When she sees me, she says, “I’m eating a cookie.”
I lift my bottle to my lips and say, “I’m drunk.”
