Page 28 of The Way I Hate Him
“Are you really that upset over pickles?”
“Just leave me alone.” She starts picking up the broken jar’s large shards and putting them in a plastic bag.
I think she’s upset, and for some fucking reason, I feel bad for her.
Annoyingly bad.
They’re pickles. Why is she so upset over fucking pickles?
Maybe she likes snacks that much. Who fucking knows. I shouldn’t care.
But . . .
A small piece of my black soul flickers alive for a brief moment.
“Were they special pickles?”
“I said just leave me alone, Hayes.” She swipes at her nose and continues to clean up.
Okay . . .
“Are you sure you don’t need help?” I ask, because frankly, I don’t know how to leave this situation.
“Positive,” she answers but doesn’t look my way, just continues to pick the pickles up one at a time and deposit them into the bag.
I guess that’s that.
Confused and feeling a slight tightness in my chest, I return to my studio and sit on my couch. Instead of picking up my guitar, I stare out the window, Hattie’s sad expression imprinted on my brain.
Her sniffles echo through my head.
Her reluctance to look up at me is annoying.
I shouldn’t care. She broke her pickle jar. Who fucking cares?
I really should just let it go, but . . . hell, I feel fucking bad.
And why?
Why do I feel bad?
Maybe because no matter how hard I try to deny it, I really do have a heart.
Even though I like to paint myself as the asshole and ride that persona to the grave, a part of me is trying to break through that tough exterior and make himself known.
Fuck.
And for some annoying reason, he’s trying to break through when it involves Hattie.
Once again, it’s the desperation in her eyes.
The sadness.
I lift from the couch and head out toward the kitchen again. I snag my wallet from the counter and move toward the garage. “I’ll be back,” I say, climbing into my car.
* * *
I hate myself.
