Page 64 of Hate You More

“You’re the one with the Tater Tot face.” I won’t make her a princess or a sprite. Instead, I’ll label this desirable, complex woman as a pimple-faced pain. “You hungry?” I add, because my sugar levels are clearly making me hallucinate.

“I can’t cook,” she mutters petulantly, “if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Damn.” I try not to smile. “Should’ve said so before I married you.”

“You should’ve told me you’ve become perverse in your old age before I married you.”

“Nobody ever complained about my perversions before.” My words end in a playful curl, and I’m relieved to find I’m able to breathe now.

“If the whole roof caves in and I die, I will haunt you.”

“Seems fair.” Seems kind of nice. Better get some food inside me before I officially lose my mind. “Let’s go order something.” I hold out my hand, and she studies it.

“I like your apartment.” She offers me the concession as her dainty fingers meet mine. “This half, anyway.”

“Thanks.” I pull her up, let go, then turn for the door. That’s all I say. I didn’t buy the place to impress anyone, and I didn’t buy it to have to give it up.

No matter how temporary.

Chapter 17

Clara

I stare at my dress hanging on the back of the bedroom door. His bedroom door. I’m just a poor forgotten bride, spending her wedding night waiting for her workaholic husband to come home.

My sudden spurt of laughter sounds mildly hysterical. I shake it off before addressing the empty room. “You are an idiot, and this was a terrible idea. A reckless, ridiculous, rrr . . .” I give my head a tiny shake because I can’t think of another r word except for Rioja. My shoulders slump as I stare into my glass, giving myself a double chin. I might be reckless and ridiculous, but I’m not Rioja. Not yet. I’m only on my first glass.

I found the wine in a kitchen cabinet filled with some other stuff. More wine, Japanese whiskey, three bottles of champagne, and a few boxes of fancy chocolates. My guess is they’re gifts, and therefore I decided this had to be Troy’s regifting cabinet. So I regifted the bottle of wine to me to help me through my hour(s) of need.

Today was always going to feel surreal. But then he kissed me, and I’ve been reeling since. I mean, he kissed me twice, but I’m not talking about the first mandated time. That kiss I expected. I mentally prepared for it. The other kiss, though . . .

Oh, the other kiss.

It made me feel like every other kiss I’ve had in my life, at least those kisses after Troy and before now, were wrong.

My head is a mess, so I’m drinking wine!

To keep myself busy, I unpacked my bag, which took me all of three minutes, and then appropriated a little space in his huge walk-in closet. I almost walked immediately out again, worried I wandered into a bougie but unmanned clothing store. The kind of place that uses verbiage like traceability and materiality, and is full of glass vitrines and tonal hanging displays.

I might’ve messed with those displays a little, mixing blues with beige and shoving a couple of red T-shirts in with green. Too bad he’s not colorblind. I thought about messing up his underwear drawer, too, but I didn’t want to reveal I’d had my hands on those most intimate of garments. For the record, his family jewels are mostly clothed in designer labels in hues of black and blues. Tight fitting in the buns. A comfy cradle for his . . .

I stare at my glass. Wow, this stuff is strong.

I feel pleasantly numb, I decide as I shuffle into the adjoining bathroom—Rosso Levanto marble, a stone bath, a mother-of-pearl chandelier, and a shower the size of an eight-person meeting pod—to put on a little hand cream. I’d made some real estate for my toiletries earlier. Space was not a problem.

His bedroom is also huge (a bit of a theme here, though I know he isn’t overcompensating for anything), but it reminds me of his office. Impersonal. In fact, it seems like the whole place has been designed for someone else.

I straighten the duvet from where I’ve been sitting, then putter out into the living space again. I feel antsy. Discomforted, I guess. Lonely, even. I didn’t feel alone this afternoon, thanks to the whir of power tools, and the odd muffled conversations coming from the other side of the plastic-wrapped door. But since night has fallen, I feel like I’m creeping around someone else’s house.

Which I suppose is exactly what I’ve been doing.

I’m standing at the window, feeling oddly detached (thanks, another glass) and staring out at the night sky when the front door opens. My heart begins to hammer against my chest. Turns out, I am not anesthetized enough. I take a breath and feel into it.

Recognize: My chest is tight because I’m worried. This is not excitement.

Restructure: We have a history, but I’m not the girl I was back then. So this is unfamiliar, but not unsafe.

Repeat: I can handle awkwardness. Conversation. Whatever the night brings.