Page 42 of The Way I Hate Him
“Not really.”
“Snob,” she says as she takes another bite.
“Have you always loved pickles that much?” I lean against the opposite counter, my drink fizzing in its cup. I shouldn’t engage in conversation with her, but procrastination makes you do stupid things, like flirting with the line of getting to know someone and ignoring them for your sanity.
She glances up at me, skepticism in her eyes. “Are you asking me a personal question?”
See . . . exactly what I’m talking about. I’m just as surprised as she is.
“Is there a problem with that?”
“I didn’t think we did that. Then again, I didn’t think we bought pickles for each other, and you did that yesterday, so . . .” She pauses, thinking. “You’re not trying to pull me over to the dark side, are you?”
“The dark side being the enemy?” I ask.
“Yes, of course.”
“I have better things to do with my life than convince you that your brother is in the wrong with our feud, not me. I was just trying to be polite.” I push off the counter and start to move away when she shifts in front of me, pickle jar held close to her chest.
“What do you mean Ryland is in the wrong?”
I look down at her, her green eyes piercing. “Maybe something you should talk to him about.”
Her curious eyes study me. I can practically see hundreds of questions forming, but I move away before she pins me with a lengthy interlude of inquiries about the past.
I’m halfway to my hallway when she calls out, “Cassidy and I used to eat pickles together.” I pause and listen. “This brand, actually. It was our favorite. I haven’t had them in a while, and when I saw them yesterday at Coleman’s, I knew I had to get them. When I dropped them on the floor, I was devastated. So you bringing these to me, it was . . . it was nice. Unexpected.”
I rub my lips together. I knew she was so upset for a reason. I didn’t know it had anything to do with Cassidy, though. And now that I know why, I regret what I did because now . . . now, there’s an unspoken bond between us, and the last thing I want to do is bond with Ryland Rowley’s sister.
“Don’t look into it,” I say as I push my hand through my hair and glance at her. “If I knew it meant something to you, I never would have purchased them.”
Her expression drops. “Of course, because you obviously don’t want me thinking you have a heart in that black soul of yours, right?”
“Exactly,” I reply. “When I say there’s nothing in this chest but skeletons that still haunt me to this day, I mean it. It will be best for everyone if you stay the fuck away from me.”
* * *
Abel:Want to meet at By the Slice for dinner?
Hayes:Sure, what time?
Abel:I’m starving. Twenty?
Hayes:See you there.
I check the time and notice it’s almost six, so I flip my empty notebook shut—another wasted day with nothing to show. I exit my studio, where I find Hattie lying on the floor. Her mess extends to the dining room table. What the hell is she doing?
She hasn’t organized one damn thing. She just made it worse.
It was simple instructions.
Open the letters, sift through them, keep the important ones, and shred the rest. Now there are at least two dozen piles and no shredding. Is she keeping everything?
“What are you doing?” I ask as she lies with a letter on her stomach.
She pops her head up. “Resting my eyes. They’re burning from all of the reading.”
“You’re reading all of the letters?”
