Page 32 of The Way I Hate Him
“Hayes fucking Farrow.”
“Oh yes,” I answer, still mourning the illicit drop of the jar.
“What a disaster. And who has concrete floors? You don’t see that choice in houses often.”
“Yeah, and since the man is so minimalistic with his decorating, there was not an area rug in sight to save the glass from breaking. I was so distraught I almost started crying. Thank God I didn’t because he came to check to see what the ruckus was. And then do you know what he did?”
“Kick you in the ear and demand you clean it up?”
“What?” I ask with a laugh.
“Just trying to keep the conversation lively.”
“Take it down a notch.” I chuckle. “He didn’t kick me in the ear, but he did leave the house for almost an hour, and when he came back, he had a bag full of pickles. All for me.”
There’s a pause on the other end and I’m about to ask her if she heard me, but then she says, “Wait, he got you pickles?”
“Yup, every flavor the general store had.”
“Oh my God,” she whispers.
“Yeah, I know, weird. He dropped the bag off and left. I didn’t know what to do when he left, so I just sat there, staring at them for probably ten minutes. I’m still confused. The conversation we had before that was tense and irritable. We were both going at each other and then . . . pickles.”
“Pickles,” she says softly.
“Yeah . . . pickles,” I mutter, still utterly confused about the action.
This is Hayes Farrow we’re talking about. He has been nothing but rude and obnoxious to the town and to us as a family. He doesn’t care who he hurts, he just takes what he wants. The only people he’s nice to are his grandma, Abel, and Rodney. That’s it.
He couldn’t care less about the town he grew up in.
Doesn’t participate in any fundraisers.
And will walk all over you to get what he wants, hence my current situation.
So the pickles . . . yeah, that was very confusing.
“What if . . .” Maggie pauses for a moment. “What if he likes you?”
Oh Maggie, how did I know she would jump to that conclusion?
“Please, Maggie, please don’t start with that. I know your little romantic heart always thinks the best of everyone and every situation—except icky Matt—but Hayes Farrow liking me is completely off the table. So off the table that he actually made it a point to tell me, straight to my face, that he had no desire to take my clothes off.”
“Oh God, he said that to you?”
“Yup, made it quite clear he’s not attracted to me in the slightest. So the pickles have nothing to do with any attraction.”
“Maybe he was masking—”
“He said it several times. Even looked me up and down a few times. It was . . . it was rude. Trust me, I think he’d rather make love to the broken jar of pickles than even consider peeling my bra off me.”
“Huh, well that’s disappointing, but also confusing, because he’s never been nice to you, so why would he give you pickles?”
“The question of the day. I told you, it was weird.” I see the farm up ahead and inwardly sigh as I spot the split-rail fence I helped Cassidy build. We started it with the best of intentions, dreaming up how beautiful it will make the farm, but very quickly got sick of putting it together and never finished because mentally, we couldn’t do it anymore. However, the portion we did build still stands.
And it stands beautifully.
I can still hear her frustrated laughter as we’d slip one end in, only for the other end to pop out.
