Page 130 of The Way I Hate Him
“You fucking idiot,” I mutter as I lean forward and grab my bottle of tequila. I take a large swig just as a car pulls up in the driveway. I try to get a read on who it is, but I can’t tell. A car door slams, and I pray it’s Hattie.
I want to see her.
I need to see her.
I need to make sure she’s okay.
That she doesn’t hate me even though I hate myself.
When there’s a knock on my door, my heart skips a beat and I set the tequila down. I straighten my shirt and adjust my hat to make sure it’s not askew or hanging off my head. Thinking I look somewhat presentable, I open the door to a resigned Ryland.
Fuck.
His eyes lift to mine, and he says, “Can we talk?”
“Do I need a bodyguard?”
He shakes his head so I let him in.
Hands in his pockets, he steps inside and looks around, taking in the piles of fan mail that Hattie has made.
“Fan mail,” I say as I move toward the couch and take a seat. I nod toward the chair that is clear of paper, and Ryland sits down as well. His eyes fall to the bottle, and I can feel his judgment, so I say, “Rough two days.”
He touches his jaw. “Same.”
Awkwardly, I sit there, wanting to reach for the bottle but unsure if I should. After another few seconds of silence, I ask, “Want some?”
“Was waiting for you to ask.”
I head to the kitchen, where I grab two tumblers and bring them to the living room. As I pour us a generous portion, I think about how much Ryland has changed since the last time we hung out. He’s taller, oddly, with at least thirty more pounds of muscle packed on, and he has a full beard, making him seem more mature and older. It’s as if we’ve time-hopped, and there’s no evidence of what happened in between.
I hand him his drink, and we both take a swig before settling into our seats.
Unable to take the silence, I say, “How’s Hattie?”
Yup, I’m desperate for any information, even if it’s from her brother who hates me.
“Okay,” he says. “She moved into the house.”
“Oh . . . cool,” I say even though I know the main reason she did was because the apartment is covered in our blood and abuse. “So you two talked? She’s not—”
“Dead to me? No, of course not, Farrow. I love my sister. What I said was wrong, and I’ve apologized.”
“Good.” At least there’s that. Hattie’s not completely alone.
Ryland rests his arms on his legs and looks up at me. “I came here because . . . well because of this.” He hands me the letter from Cassidy, the one I gave to Hattie. The flap to the back has been unsealed, and there’s a splatter of blood across the corner. “Read it,” he says.
My pulse races as I unfold the piece of paper.
My stomach drops from the first paragraph.
I know I’m probably the last person you expected to hear from, but as you might know—or might not know—I’m really sick, and I’m getting my affairs in order. Morbid, I know, but as I lie here in my bed, knowing my time is coming to an end, I realize I don’t want to leave this earth without at least trying to make my mark.
Fuck.
I couldn’t imagine being in that position, knowing I’m leaving so much behind and preparing for it. And what does she ask for?To make things right. To fix things.To look past myself, and find a way to help Ryland—help him withherbaby girl—and be thereforhim. Guilt swarms me because she’s right. I should have offered to help the moment I found out about Cassidy. I should have tried to bury the hatchet then with Abel’s assistance, but my pride got in the way.
And then . . . the little nugget at the end of Cassidy throwing Hattie under the bus. I inwardly smile. Hattie, the secret fan, I fucking love it.
