To Have and to Hate

by R.S. Grey

  “Okay great! Thank you! Right, I’ll let you go now.”

  There’s another brief pause as if we’re both unsure of how to end the phone call, so I tack on a cheerful “Bye!” then immediately hang up, feeling as though I’m on cloud nine.

  I don’t waste a single second before I email Mason everything Walt requested. Mason replies back almost as quickly to confirm the information has been received.

  Then I’m up and in the shower, getting ready for the day, intent on making it better than the shitshow that transpired yesterday. I could so easily backslide into feeling embarrassed and used and all-out ragey toward my family for putting me in this position, but I’m going to take the high road, not for them, but for myself and my own mental health. As far as I’m concerned, I’ve done what I needed to do for my family, and now they can all fend for themselves. I don’t want to hear from any of them for a good long while.

  I take my time in the shower, exfoliating, scrubbing, washing, shaving. Then I give myself a nice blowout and retrieve the least wrinkled blouse from my suitcase. It’s one of my favorites, an olive green linen tunic I tuck into the front of my jeans. I layer on the pieces of jewelry I’ve collected over the years: a few delicate rings, my grandmother’s vintage Patek Philippe, and a small heart locket with a diamond nestled in the center. Inside, rather than a portrait of a loved one, there’s a miniature of my favorite painting: The Rue Montorgueil in Paris by Claude Monet. I’m digging in my suitcase for the Italian leather flats I’ve owned since we took a trip to the Amalfi Coast in high school when my phone rings.

  It’s Lisa, calling about the apartment.

  “Okay, so the bad news is, the landlord is going to require you to have a cosigner, but the good news is, it sounds like you might have one lined up already?”

  She further explains that she just got off the phone with Mason, who called to set up a viewing of the apartment for later this afternoon.

  “Really? That’s great.”

  Sort of. It’s great that Walt is already taking the initiative about cosigning for me, but I’m not sure how I feel about him actually seeing the place.

  “What time did you say the appointment is?”

  “2:30 sharp. Apparently, he doesn’t have long.”

  “No problem. I’ll be there on time. Thanks again, Lisa.”

  I meant what I said. I’m on the subway heading toward Inwood by noon, just in case there’s some kind of unforeseen delay. I arrive just before 1:00, pick up a salad and a coffee, and eat on a park bench facing the Harlem River. It’s not as cold as yesterday, but I still savor my warm coffee, cradling it in my hands so I don’t freeze while I wait for the appointment.

  By 2:15, I’m outside the apartment building with my hands tucked into my black wrap coat, tipping back and forth on my feet anxiously. A minute later, Walt’s black Escalade slows to a stop at the curb in front of me.

  There’s a driver up front who keeps his eyes straight ahead as the back door opens. Mason gets out first, and I peer around him to see Walt sitting inside on the phone.

  Mason shuts the door and cuts off my view of Walt. Then he starts to head in my direction, straightening his glasses and offering me a curt nod.

  “Good afternoon,” he says, sounding just as professional as April did on the phone yesterday. Then he turns and glances down the street as if he’s uninterested in any sort of small talk with me. I wonder if Walt sets the tone and all his employees have to follow. It’s sort of odd. Mason isn’t that much older than me. We could probably be friends if he’d drop the act.

  I decide to take the lead in breaking the ice.

  “Hi, I don’t think we’ve officially been introduced. I’m Elizabeth,” I say, extending my hand.

  He turns to look at me then glances down at my hand, seemingly surprised to find it hanging in midair, aimed in his direction. Either he’s unfamiliar with this common American greeting, or he wasn’t expecting it from me specifically. After an awkward moment, he accepts my handshake before nodding back toward the SUV.

  “Mr. Jennings is on a phone call that should wrap up in a few minutes.”

  “Oh okay. No worries,” I reply. “He’s quite a busy guy.”

  “Very,” Mason confirms.

  “Have you worked for him long?” I ask, going down the same line of questioning I did with April. Hopefully I get better results from Mason.

  He tips his head in thought for a moment. “Four years next month. I interned for Diomedica when I was finishing grad school at Columbia then decided to stay on after I got my degree.”

  “Impressive. So do you enjoy it? Assisting a workaholic like him?”

  His brows scrunch together as if he’s unsure of how to respond.

  I smile, trying to disarm him. “I get it. It’s not like you can tell me the truth. We barely know each other. Well…” I backstep. “That’s not true. I mean you were at my wedding.”

  My joke falls totally flat, and I now decide this guy has the personality of a rock.

  “To answer your question, yes,” Mason says curtly. “And even if I didn’t enjoy my work, I would still stay on at Diomedica. I’ve never seen anyone who works harder than Mr. Jennings. He’s incredibly inspiring.”

  I hum as if I don’t quite believe him, and he narrows his eyes as if I’ve just slandered his personal hero. Shoot, maybe I have.

  “Right now, he’s on a conference call for one of the two non-profits he works with,” Mason tells me with a sharp tongue. “He’s been on the board of directors for Healing Hearts for seven years.”

  “Healing Hearts?”

  “It’s a charity that helps facilitate care for pediatric cardiology patients who otherwise would fall through the cracks of our healthcare system.”

  I must look ashamed, because he eases up as he continues, “Sorry. I just…I think people like Mr. Jennings can get a bad rap from people who don’t really know him.”

  “Well, consider me thoroughly educated. Clearly, I was in the wrong.”

  Mason clears his throat as the back door of the SUV opens and Walt steps out. My cheeks flush, both because of the conversation he nearly overheard and because of the way he looks. I’m slightly embarrassed to find him so attractive, as if his looks shouldn’t factor into our businesslike arrangement. It’s not like I can help it. He reminds me of an old Hollywood actor with the slight wave to his short hair and his sharp cheekbones. His jaw is so defined, and I think he’d have an expressive smile if he ever cared to show it to me.

  He’s wearing the same camel coat from yesterday layered over a fitted dark gray suit. Today, there’s no tie, just a crisp white shirt.

  I watch him as he pushes up his coat sleeve so he can check the time on his watch.

  “I expect your realtor to be here any minute. I don’t have long.”

  It hits me how much he’s gone out of his way to be here for this appointment. I know Diomedica’s office is located in Lower Manhattan, so it was quite a trek for him to make it all the way up to Inwood.

  I look down at my grandmother’s old watch to find that Lisa is officially one minute late and counting.

  “She was on time yesterday,” I say with a tight smile.

  Neither of them replies, and then the three of us continue to wait in silence. Walt’s standing a few feet away from me, angled so I can watch his profile as he glances down at his phone. He’s firing off an email or text message, and I watch his fingers fly, wondering who he’s talking to. It’s odd being in his presence like this. I realize, for the first time, how much he intimidates me. It’s not new. The tight ball of anxiety in the pit of my stomach was there yesterday too, but I assumed it was because of the wedding, not him.

  He’s definitely intense. I can tell he’s someone who throws the entire weight of his attention at something when he cares about it. I’ll bet most of the time that attention is pinned on work, but maybe it wanders every now and then. Surely, he’s had a girlfriend before…someone he’s cared about.

&n
bsp; His fingers stop moving, and it takes me a moment to realize he’s glanced over to catch me watching him. I jerk my gaze to the left, narrowing my eyes down the block as if I’m looking for Lisa. My cheeks are ablaze, and there’s no doubt he notices.

  I feel horrible that Lisa’s running late. I try calling her to see where she is, but she doesn’t answer. I cringe and turn back to Walt and Mason.

  “I’m sorry. I know this is a waste of time. Maybe we could just have another resident buzz us into the building and you could get a feel for it that way?” I ask, trying to be a team player.

  He pockets his phone and shakes his head. “I won’t cosign on a lease for an apartment I haven’t seen.”

  Well then…

  I rock back on my heels and look down the street again, willing Lisa to appear out of thin air. Ten minutes go by like this. Ten minutes spent with Mason and Walt, while they continue working and I continue to be largely ignored. Then a cab pulls up and Lisa throws the back door open before it even comes to a complete stop.

  “Sorry, sorry. You know how it is. Traffic was backed up on Broadway for miles,” she says, already procuring the keys to the unit from her purse. She barely stops to nod at the guys, but when she does, she does a double take to look back at Walt, her eyes going wide with interest. I smile to myself—because, well, you have to find humor somewhere—and then fall in step behind her.

  I’m grateful that Walt doesn’t chastise her about her tardiness. In fact, he doesn’t mention it at all. To do that, he’d have to speak, and I’m now realizing he is apparently repelled by speech. He’d rather lurk in silence like some great monster.

  It’s annoying because it means I end up talking more to overcompensate. I talk his ear off on the way up to the apartment.

  “Lisa says this neighborhood is up and coming. Crime rates were bad in the 90s, but they’ve slowly declined since then. And it’s a short commute to the subway, which is nice, because I’ll definitely need to use it. Oh, and rent includes utilities. Isn’t that great? I won’t have to worry about covering that bill as well.”

  He’s walking behind me up the stairs so that I have to turn back to see him. His gaze is down on the steps, not on me, so short of outright demanding to know whether he’s been listening to me, I’m left totally hanging.

  “Lisa, are there not any units available on the lower floors?” he asks as we round the stairwell up to the fifth floor.

  Maybe he’s taken notice of my labored breathing. Goody.

  “I’m afraid not. I think the tenants on the first three floors have been there for decades, and I doubt they have any plans of moving. A unit opened up on the fifth floor last month, but it rented quickly.”

  He hums as if slightly disappointed by that answer, and I wince, realizing he could easily put a stop to this whole thing if he wanted to. I really need him to cosign on this apartment, which means I really need him to like it.

  “Wait until you see the huge window in the living room!” I say, exuding enthusiasm on levels not seen outside a Super Bowl halftime show. I might as well throw confetti in the air when we step into the apartment with the way my hands wave everywhere, pointing out various amenities. “Just look at the size of this place!”

  Ignoring me, Walt turns to Lisa. “Does it have central heating and air?”

  “No, but look at this great window unit,” I reply, beating Lisa to the punch.

  He hums under his breath then wanders into the kitchen, his features inscrutable. There, he points out that there’s no dishwasher, which seems minor once he points out a previously undetected mold problem near the refrigerator.

  “I can scrub that mold right out!” I promise, the pitch of my voice rising more by the minute.

  Mason, meanwhile, hovers near the door like he’s scared the apartment will somehow contaminate him. Walt wanders back into the living room and starts to head for the bedroom. My eyes widen in alarm as I imagine all the things he’ll find fault with in there. I scurry across the apartment and slide in front of the door just as his hand reaches out to turn the knob. His fingers brush my hip as I flash him a wide smile.

  “Close your eyes.”

  His brows furrow in confusion. “What?”

  “C’mon, close your eyes. Humor me.”

  He steps back and looks away, clearing his throat. Boy do I annoy him. I really think he has to hold himself back around me to a degree he’s not used to. I wonder how much longer he’ll manage to tamp down his real opinion of me underneath that gentlemanly façade.

  “Walt. Humor me,” I say again, trying to coax him into cooperating.

  His jaw flexes as he locks it tight, and then miraculously, he does what I say, closing his eyes so his thick eyelashes flutter across his cheekbones. For a moment, I forget what I was supposed to be doing and just stare at him like that, knowing he can’t see me, taking my full fill. His cheekbones are so pronounced. His nose is perfectly straight. From this angle, he reminds me of a great Romanesque statue, and my fingers ache to draw him.

  Then he inhales a sharp breath of impatience and I jump to attention, realizing I’ve kept him waiting for too long.

  “Right. Yes. So now, with your eyes closed, imagine a wonderfully serene bedroom, complete with queen bed and fluffy pillows, some nice overgrown ivy sitting on the windowsill, lots of art hanging on the walls, and a soft rug underfoot. Now, open your eyes.”

  I fling the bedroom door open and move aside. He takes two steps forward, only halfway across the threshold, then with a sharp shake of his head, he turns back.

  “No.”

  Five

  “No? What do you mean, ‘no’?” I ask Walt as he starts back for the front door of the apartment.

  He tips his head to my realtor as he passes her by. “Lisa, thank you for taking the time to show us the unit.”

  “Oh, uh…” She pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Okay? Are you leaving already?”

  “Yes. I have a meeting and need to get back to the office.”

  I rush out after him, angry at how quickly he’s able to descend the stairs. Mason can also barely keep up with him.

  “Why can’t you cosign for me?” I shout down to him.

  He replies without stopping. “That unit isn’t fit for anyone, least of all you. There’s mold everywhere, and I’m fairly sure that’s lead-based paint on the wall.”

  “So!? It would be my problem, not yours.”

  He stops then and turns around so that I have to abruptly halt too before I smack right into him and send us both barreling down the stairs. “You are my problem, Elizabeth.”

  We’re eye to eye now that I’m standing a stair above him. With a frown, I shake my head. “I don’t have to be. Let me live here and I’ll leave you alone. I won’t talk to you ever again—how’s that?”

  Mason shifts awkwardly behind me, and Walt’s gaze jumps to him, as if just now remembering we have an audience.

  “Mason, when we get back to the office, I need you to work with my realtor to find available units closer to downtown.”

  “What about Lisa?” I interject, worried she’ll lose out on her commission.

  “I’ll be sure she’s compensated for her time.”

  Right. Okay. This doesn’t sound half bad. He didn’t like this apartment, but maybe he’ll like another. It’s not like I’m married to this building. I can be a team player. If he thinks there are going to be apartments in my price range in a better part of Manhattan, I’m happy to take a look at them.

  I wave for him to continue down the stairs, and for a moment his eyes crinkle at the sides, like he doesn’t exactly love me telling him what to do. I smile, relishing this tiny victory. We can’t stand here forever. He has to keep walking, and he knows it.

  There’s another little huff before he turns back around and down we go, the three of us with Lisa trailing way behind since she had to lock up the apartment.

  I’ve learned from yesterday’s brief encounter with Walt to not expect a
big farewell, or even a tiny one for that matter, and true to form, the moment we’re back on the sidewalk, he barely looks in my direction before disappearing back into the Escalade.

  “Bye, Walt!” I shout with a big wave, just to needle him.

  There are so few pleasures left in life, and I just can’t help myself.

  “I’ll be in touch soon,” Mason promises me before following after his boss.

  Mason is nothing if not prompt. The following morning, I wake up to an extensive email outlining five different available apartments in Lower Manhattan. He’s gone to great lengths to provide information on each and every one of them for me. There are high-definition photos, long lists of amenities, and of course, the cost of rent.

  Obviously, each one is much nicer than the apartment I showed Walt yesterday. The kitchens are updated and modern. The bedrooms are spacious. One unit in particular is bathed in natural light, and I can’t help but daydream about setting up a mini art studio in the would-be dining area that has windows surrounding it on all sides.

  Unfortunately, not a single one of them rents for less than $5,000 a month. One is almost $7,000 a month! I’d have to sell a lot of art to make that rent payment. Even if I get a few commissions for larger pieces or somehow convince a gallery to show one of my collections (one can dream), it’d still be tight.

  It’s clear they assume I’ll be using my monthly disbursement to pay for rent. It’s the only way I could possibly afford any of these places. Unfortunately, that won’t be the case.

  I’m sure most people in my position would gladly accept ten grand every month, but not me. That money has strings attached, strings that could tighten around my neck at any moment. Sure, right now the parameters laid out in the trust aren’t necessarily oppressive. Don’t do drugs and don’t commit crimes—simple. The thing is, I already sold a piece of myself in that courtroom the other day, and I’m not willing to sell any more. I’ve been down that road before. I’ve spent my entire life under the thumb of my parents. My mom’s favorite pastime is threatening to cut me off if I don’t fall back in line. I spent my teenage years choosing to be what they wanted me to be, and now that I’m so close to freedom, I’m not willing to backslide.