Page 31 of Hate You More

I push out a quiet breath and turn to face him, and my chest tightens as I catch him examining the general malaise of the place. The sparse furnishing, the mugs and candy wrappers and other crap my dreamy housemates have left lying around.

Clara Forbes does, indeed, live in poverty—are you not entertained?

Maybe that’s the real reason I brought him here. Not because he might react like poverty is something you catch—not for his pity either—but maybe for vindication. To prove I have nothing to hide and that I haven’t the time nor the inclination for playing games.

Poverty games. Can’t imagine that book, game, or movie would gather much traction.

“It’s not really what you might call prime real estate,” I say, shoving my hand into the back pocket of my utilitarian pants. I thought I’d gotten used to the stains and the god-awful orange carpet, but the place seems crappier than ever.

“I’ve seen worse.”

“Not for a while, I’ll bet.” Look at us. How the tables have turned.

“What’s with the gummy bears?”

The packet is still in my hand. I shove them on the counter behind me. “I’ve babysat for his kids. They know I like gummy bears.”

A frown ripples across his face.

“A bag of gummy bears is the best kind of company. Once I bite their head off, they stop talking.” Oh, God, shut up before you find yourself telling him a voyage into candy land is at the top of your reward system pyramid. That a sugar hit is the nearest thing you get to an orgasm these days.

“Right.” He makes a motion, not quite a shrug, as he begins to lower himself to the couch.

“No!” Panic surges, though it’s quickly replaced by discomfort. “Not there. And please don’t make me explain.” Or I might spontaneously combust.

“Okay.”

Spinning away, I upend my laundry bag and begin to jerkily fold the contents. I bet he leaves—I bet he decides I’m a bona fide fruitcake. Gosh, my skin is burning. It feels like my soul is trying to claw its way out.

“So what’s this proposal?” Ack. “Proposition. Whatever.”

I’m amazed at how nonchalant I sound. I’ve gotten good at hiding my emotions and swallowing my reactions over the years, but at work tonight, I had to hold on to myself so tightly in Troy’s presence that my shoulders still feel tense. After all the things I’ve been through, seeing Troy again is the nearest I’ve felt to falling apart. And now I have a sense of what’s coming. And it’s not me, obviously. No matter how my slumbering internal world might paint things differently.

I can almost hear my grandmother. If ifs and buts were candy and nuts . . .

Troy would still have more sense than to get involved with me.

“Clara.”

I give a tiny sigh. My name always did sound good from his mouth.

“Can we just sit down for a minute?”

“Nearly finished,” I say without turning. We can sit at the table by the window, Troy in my seat and me in Cal’s. But I need a little space to decompress first.

“I am sorry about last night.”

“Me too,” I say just loud enough for him to hear.

“It’s been a manic few weeks, and I guess seeing you, just tapped into all of that stress.”

“I wasn’t exactly Miss Manners myself.” Troy used to bring out the best in me. Maybe this is just another way the tables have turned.

“I’m still trying to get my head around it.”

Oh, friend, me too. How could it make sense to him when I can hardly make sense of it myself? “I get it, but this is not performance art.” My answer sounds more like a gibe as I lift my hand to indicate my surroundings.

“You should’ve had other options. Other routes,” he says, appearing at my side. Tall, solemn, and kind of delicious. I mean, annoying.