Page 1 of Hate You More

Chapter 1

Clara

Breathe in calm, and exhale all that other stuff . . .

But it still feels like an elephant is sitting on my chest as I grab the tray of canapés, laughter and conversation swelling as I bump the door open with my butt.

Please, God. I cast my eyes briefly heavenward as I turn. I know we don’t often talk, but if I could get through this shift without seeing anyone I know, I’d be so grateful.

It’s not that I expect to see any of my old friends here. Those trust fund babies are probably sipping cocktails at Chez Margaux after an arduous afternoon in Prada. Or maybe on their way to the Hamptons to top up their tan this weekend. Where they’re not going to be is in the offices of a Tribeca-based fintech company.

Their fathers, though . . .

I quash that thought before it grows legs and paste on a smile as I see Chelsea coming toward me.

“What’s with the glasses?” my fellow waitress asks.

“Couldn’t face my contacts,” I lie as my hand lifts to the black frames. They’re just a prop, part of an old Halloween outfit. Sexy Velma. I’d also considered a wig, a fake grill, and a pebble-in-the-shoe-induced limp for this shift before deciding this tray and apron were disguise enough. Eyes glide over the waitstaff like furniture in swanky buildings like this.

“Better get on,” I say, catching the gimlet glare of Shanti, our supervisor.

“Time and tide wait for no man.” Chelsea rolls her eyes as she repeats the closer of Shanti’s earlier team talk. “Especially when that man is a member of the one percent!”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” I murmur, moving in the opposite direction. For real. Once upon a time, I used to be one of them.

I straighten my spine as I make my way through the white-walled venue full of pale wood, glossy plants, and primary-colored furniture. Past the ubiquitous chill-out zones with pull-up bars, bongos, and foosball tables in a workplace where both the tech and the vibe are high.

The place is full of suits and designer-jean-wearing tech bros. Six-figure salaries and even bigger bonuses, I guess, as I pause periodically to offer my wares. It looks to be mostly employees tonight, and those who aren’t—the money men and the investors—seem like new money, not old. It’s not that I’m a snob, but it does make me relax some.

“Tater Tot?” I pitch the question in keeping with my name badge, Sunny. Sunny is who I choose to be when I’m waitressing, even when I feel like an Agnes or an Edna, a crotchety old sourpuss with a sore back and an aching wrist, courtesy of this tray aggravating an old gymkhana tumble. But Sunny endears herself to people, and waitressing is all about the tips.

“You’d think the boss would’ve sprung for something a little classier, given the money he just made,” the heavyset man in navy Tom Ford sharkskin mutters, staring at the canapés.

“Caviar-topped Tater Tot,” I amend, still in (perky) character.

“Try saying that after a couple more of these.” One of his companions lifts his glass, and Sunny agrees with an easy smile.

When I’m tending bar three nights a week, I’m Gretchen. I’ve found there’s something suitably serving-wench-y about the name that seems to appeal to the clientele. Gretchen is harder than Sunny. Sharper. She makes people think twice before messing with her. I’m sure my former therapist would have a field day with my alter egos, but they get me through days like these.

“Caviar, huh?” Shark Man—the title works not just because of his suit but also because of his flat, beady eyes and the distance between them—isn’t staring at the canapés, I realize. He’s staring at my boobs. Great. “Well, hey there,” he says once his eyes have meandered upward to meet mine. “You look like the kind of girl who could ruin my life. And I think I’d enjoy it.”

Don’t tempt me, I think with an internal sigh.

“What time do you get off, sweetheart?”

“I’m sorry?” That’s polite speak for hell no.

“Why don’t you let me take you home later.” He makes a grab for my wrist. The audacity. “Keep you out of this cold.”

“Oh, sir, it will never be cold enough.” I’m a combination of my alter egos as I ignore the prickle of rage that runs through me, but not the reality that I need to make rent.

“What was that?”

Waitressing is tough. Worse than bar work, where you’re insulated somewhat by the bar itself. But men in an Inwood dive bar know better than to upset the chick pouring their drinks. They even expect to take some level of shit from their bartender. And Gretchen wouldn’t deny them that. But client-facing finance bros wearing Swiss watches and $2,000 suits? Their egos are a little more fragile. Which is why I hope my gritted teeth might pass for a smile as I say, “Sir, please let go of my wrist.”

“I drive a Porsche.” He gives a leering grin, and his grip tightens instead. “She’s a real comfortable ride.”

Urgh.