Page 4 of The Way I Hate Him
Sure, he’s had his quirks, and it would be nice if he acknowledged me more when he’s on tour. And maybe he forgot about my birthday once, but people get busy. I once forgot to tell him how much I liked his new Nikes when he sent me a picture, and according to him, I committed a sin. So we all apparently make mistakes.
“He’s my boyfriend, so . . . yeah, I’ll stay with him.”
“Or, hear me out. You go to his place, break up with him, and seek refuge somewhere else, like . . . oh, I don’t know . . . Hayes Farrow’s house?”
“Maggie,” I groan, fiercely annoyed with the mention of Hayes. The moment she found out I lived in the same town as the one . . . the only . . . Hayes Farrow—breaker of hearts and delicious musician—she’s been clawing at me to go see him. “How many times do I have to tell you? We hate the man, according to my brother, and if anything, I’m a well-trusted sibling who will hate the people my sibling hates. Plus, Hayes Farrow is a giant dick.”
“Oooo, I bet he has a giant dick.” She never gives up. “And tell me this, if you’re supposed to hate him, how come I hear you listening to his music all the time?”
All the time is a bit of a stretch, but . . . *raises hand* guilty.
I might not like the guy. He might be one of the biggest assholes I know, and even though he was born and raised in Almond Bay as well, I refuse to acknowledge he’s more famous than Ethel O’Donnell-Kerr—even though he is—because where she has class and pizzazz, he has a backward hat and a grumpy scowl.
But with all that said, I can’t help but like his music. He has this sultry, seventies rock vibe which is my favorite genre of all time. He did a cover of Heart’s “Barracuda” that made my nipples hard. And thanks to the fact that he likes to wear these low V-cut shirts during his concerts showcasing the apparent muscles he’s grown over the past few years, he’s become a total heartthrob, filling up every social media platform with videos, pictures, interviews . . . and thirst traps. Even Maggie was drooling over a few collages she found on Instagram. To my dismay, she even reposted them on her stories.
You can’t escape him. He’s everywhere.
Clearing my throat, I say, “I barely listen to his stuff.” Lies, I have a secret Spotify playlist of his songs. “He’s overhyped. Not to mention, my boyfriend works for him as his assistant. Did you happen to forget that? If anything, I listen to his music to support my boyfriend.”
“I like that you’ve rationalized all of this in your head.”
“I haven’t rationalized anything,” I say, taking a right on Nutshell Drive toward Matt’s apartment. “I’m just stating the facts.”
“Whatever makes you feel better, Hattie.”
“Well, I’m getting close, so I should go.”
“Okay. I miss you already, and if you need anything, you know where to find me. I plan on coming up in a few weeks. I’ll reserve a room at the inn because there’s no way in hell I’m staying with you and Matt.”
There wouldn’t be enough room anyway.
“Sounds good.”
“Love you.”
“Love you too, girl,” I say before hanging up and pulling into the back parking lot of Matt’s apartment building—if that’s what you want to call it. It’s two houses broken up into apartments. Matt makes really good money, but he’s been wisely saving it rather than paying expensive rent or a mortgage.
He’s always been smart like that. We met back in high school. He’s a year older than me, and when he graduated and shipped off to San Francisco for school, I followed him. I’ve been waiting for him to pop the question, and I’m pretty sure he’s been waiting for me to finish school, which . . . well, I think we know how that’s going. He’s been traveling with Hayes anyway, so it’s not like a proposal was coming anytime soon.
I can still remember when he got the job with Hayes. He told me to my face he didn’t care that there was bad blood between my family and Hayes, but he was taking the job. My brother, Ryland, went on and on about the lack of loyalty, my sister Aubree told me I needed to dump his ass immediately, and Cassidy . . . well, I can’t stomach thinking about her right now.
And with all that, I stayed with Matt because . . . because he’s my high school sweetheart. And you can’t fault the guy for getting a great job with a musician who, I hate to admit . . . is going somewhere. Well, I guess at this point, he’s alreadygone somewhere, made a splash, and is living in the glory of his fame.
I turn off my car and head toward the back door of his apartment. I called him ahead of time to let him know I was coming. No one likes a surprise visitor. Also, I wanted to make sure he had time to clean up and shower. He’s rabid when he sees me.
I knock on the back door, and as I wait for him to answer, I glance around the back of the building. Even for an apartment/townhome, it’s pristine thanks to the Peach Society. I’ve seen Dee Dee walk around the town early on the weekends before the general store opens, taking notes in her notebook of who’s not holding up their end of the town’s beautification.
It might be frustrating for proprietors, but then again, the town is immaculate.
The door opens, pulling me out of my thoughts. Matt stands on the other side in a plain blue T-shirt and cargo shorts. His hair is longer than normal, and his face is freshly shaved, something I’ve never cared for.
“Hey,” I say, smiling up at him.
He nods at me. “Good to see you, Hattie.”
Good to see me? Uh, kind of formal, don’t you think?
I move in for a hug, but to my horror, he palms my forehead, keeping me at a distance.
