Page 36 of The Way I Hate Him
“I’m going to make cats out of them.”
“Can’t wait,” Ryland says and turns back to me.
“Can she make animals out of the napkins?”
He subtly shakes his head. “No, it’s just a balled-up mess on the plate, but I act impressed every time.”
“Now that’s a good uncle.”
Just then, Aubree pushes through the door. “I could smell your beans all the way from outside.” Mac runs up to her and hugs her. “Hey Mackie, where’s Chewy?”
“Chewy Charles.” Mac stomps her foot. “You have to use his whole name.”
Aubree winces. “Sorry, where’s Chewy Charles?”
“Outer space,” Mac says casually. “Don’t worry, he won’t be late for dinner. You know he loves the dogs.”
That makes me chuckle.
“Hey, sis,” Aubree says, walking into the kitchen and taking a seat at the island. “Telling Ryland all about how his nemesis is back in town?”
Did I mention Aubree has also been known as the pot stirrer? Yeah, she holds the title, and I think she holds it with pride.
And the mention of Hayes, or rather the suggestion of him, makes me internally sweat. They might not know about my new arrangement, but it still doesn’t negate the fact that I know the implications if they find out.
Ryland flips off the stove burner and turns toward us. “Abel told me.”
Here’s the thing.
Back in high school, Ryland, Hayes, and Abel were the three musketeers and the best of friends. They all played baseball together, partied together, and even helped each other cheat on tests. And then something happened, a truth I still don’t know to this day, and it drove them apart. Hayes went one way, Ryland went the other, and Abel stayed in the middle, not wanting to choose sides. He’s remained a good friend to both, being able to keep them separate. Honestly, it takes a strong man to be friends with two rivals, but Abel has always been the sweet one of the group, the caring one. No wonder he’s a doctor now, and he’s handled the challenge gracefully.
“You knew Hayes was here, and you didn’t burst into flames? I’m shocked,” Aubree says.
“It’s not like our paths will cross,” Ryland says. “Whenever he’s around, he usually sticks to his place and doesn’t venture into town.”
“He came into town today,” Aubree says. “Dee Dee told Ethel, who told me that he went into the general store, bought every pickle jar in the place, and then left. That was it, just pickles.”
Sweat creeps down my neck as I remember how talkative this town is. Did Dee Dee think it was weird that I was in the store only moments before buying a jar of pickles as well? Did she make the connection? Did she notice that he bought the same pickles that Cassidy and I used to buy? Am I overthinking this?
Can they see my sweat?
God, why did he have to buy the pickles?
He’s making this more complicated than it should be.
“He doesn’t even like pickles,” Ryland says.
Great!
He doesn’t like pickles. Information I didn’t know, but do you know who does? Me. That’s who likes pickles. They’re probably connecting the dots as I sit here, palms sweaty, back sweaty . . . ass sweaty.
“You know, people can change within the eighteen years since you last spoke to them. He might have an acquired taste for pickles . . .” Aubree suggests.
“Yeah,” I chime in, my voice cracking. “Or maybe they were for his grandma.” There, maybe that will help them steer clear of me.
“True, they could be for his grandma,” Aubree says, and I inwardly heave a sigh of relief. “Or maybe he brought a girl home. Dee Dee said she saw a car driving up toward his house.”
Oh, sweet Jesus Christ.
