To Have and to Hate

by R.S. Grey

  I do end up drawing, but I start and stop a hundred different times, losing interest easily as my mind wanders back to the apartment. I wonder what Walt and Camila are up to now. I wonder if they’ve finished talking. If she’ll be there when I get back.

  The moment I realize I’m rooting for them not to work out their issues is the moment I start to tell myself the exact opposite. They’re a good match. She clearly cares deeply for him, and likely, he feels the same.

  I slam my sketchbook closed and walk around the city with my AirPods in, listening to music until the sun starts to dip below the skyline.

  The air turns chillier, and without a coat, I’m forced back to the warmth of Walt’s apartment. I ride the elevator up, training my face into a gentle smile, preparing myself to see the two of them together.

  The doors slide open and I step out, toeing off my sneakers and then picking them up to take them back to my room. The apartment is quiet and dark. Walt’s not home.

  My phone vibrates in my bag, and I find a text from my mom waiting for me.

  It’s a reminder to ask Walt about the request for a higher monthly disbursement from the trust.

  When we last spoke, I had no plans to actually go through with her request. That decision had a good deal to do with the fact that I didn’t want to tarnish the budding friendship Walt and I were building. I didn’t want to align myself with my parents in his eyes, but now I see no reason to hold off. He and I aren’t friends. We’re barely roommates.

  In his office, I find a piece of letterhead and a pen.

  I scratch down the request as quickly as possible, drop it onto his keyboard so he’ll be sure to see it, and then go to my room, eager to wash off the day.

  I strip off my sweatshirt and yoga pants on my way to the shower, turning the valve so it sits near to the hottest setting possible.

  Once steam starts to fog the glass door, I step inside and sigh deeply.

  There is nothing a hot shower can’t cure. Truly.

  Then a fist pounds on the bathroom door and I yelp in shock.

  “Elizabeth,” Walt says, sounding impatient.

  “I’m in the shower!” I call out, as if he didn’t already know that. I’m sure he can hear the water running.

  “Tell your parents their request is denied.”

  “What?”

  I can’t totally be sure I heard him right over the noise of the shower.

  “Tell them to sell what assets they can, downsize, and consolidate any debt I didn’t wipe out a few weeks ago—”

  “Can we talk about this in a minute?! I’m a little busy at the moment.”

  He doesn’t reply right away.

  “Walt?” I shout, trying to ensure he can hear me.

  Nothing.

  Dammit!

  I rinse the conditioner out of my hair as quickly as possible, kill the shower, and hurry out to catch him.

  I yank on my pajamas quickly, not bothering to dry my sopping hair. I’ll deal with it in a minute. Right now, the more pressing issue is talking to Walt while I can. By the time I catch him, he’s back in his office, crumpling the note I left for him.

  He looks up at me, tosses the wadded-up piece of paper in the trash, and then proceeds to get back to work like I’m not standing in the doorway, a dripping wet mess.

  “Did I hear you right? You’re not going to help them out?”

  “Correct.”

  “Are you serious? Their request seems reasonable enough to me.”

  “It’s not. Give your parents an inch, they’ll take a mile. Particularly your father,” he says, shuffling papers around as if he’s looking for something.

  “Walt, it’s not enough money in their eyes and you know it. Based on what little you’ve shared with me about the trust, it seems like there’s definitely enough in there to accommodate a slightly higher monthly disbursement that would be more in line with my parents’ current lifestyle.”

  “Their current lifestyle is reckless and unsustainable,” he says with a biting tone. “They’ve shown they can’t properly manage money, so to continue giving them heaps of it would be the definition of lunacy.”

  Right, well, there’s no convincing him in that area, so I decide to try a different tactic.

  “Okay then, I’d like to give them my monthly disbursement. I won’t be using it, so surely it’d be possible to send it to them instead.”

  “Too late. That money will be routed into a retirement fund for you every month.”

  “Then make it their retirement fund.”

  “No, Elizabeth. Is that all? You’re wasting my time.”

  I step further into his office. “No, that’s not all. I’d also just like to say that you can be really stubborn and annoying sometimes.”

  “Thank you,” he says, wholly unaffected by my childish outburst.

  It only makes me want to needle him more, but I get the feeling he’d enjoy it, so I turn and leave his office, doing a mighty fine job of stomping as loudly as possible on my way to my room.

  “I’m not going to change my mind!” he calls out.

  I slam my door in lieu of replying.

  Sunday morning, I’m sitting in the kitchen, drinking coffee and reading, when Walt strolls in from a run. Sweaty and breathing hard, he takes his AirPods out of his ears and drops them on the kitchen counter.

  “Morning.”

  I make a point of not replying.

  “Did you sleep well?” he asks.

  I hum in response.

  “I slept great. Solid seven hours.”

  “I didn’t ask,” I say, flipping my page.

  “Then this morning, I woke up at 5:00, got some work done, went for a run.”

  “I can see that. You don’t have to tell me—I can smell your sweat from over here. Plan on showering sometime today?”

  I swear he smiles, but he turns too soon for me to tell. I watch as he gets himself a mug, makes an espresso shot, and then adds a splash of milk. Then, slowly—intentionally slow—he stirs it all together, ting-ting-tinging his spoon on the side of the mug before setting it down on a napkin. He brings the mug up to his mouth, locks eyes with me, and takes a sip.

  Having had enough, I slam my book closed and push it aside.

  “I’d like to continue our discussion from last night.”

  “No bookmark?” he asks, brows shooting up with feigned horror. “What a wild woman. How do you remember your place?”

  “I memorized it,” I lie. “Don’t try to distract me.”

  “As I said last night, I won’t change my mind. Do you want some eggs?”

  He turns to head for the refrigerator, tugging it open and perusing the shelves.

  “No. I already ate. I think you’re being intentionally obstinate about the subject. It’s like you get some sick pleasure out of refusing to change your mind once it’s made up.”

  “I change my mind all the time. Take now, for example: I thought I wanted eggs, but turns out, I’d rather have oatmeal.”

  He lets the refrigerator door fall shut with a bang and heads into the walk-in pantry.

  I slide off my barstool and follow him inside, only recognizing how small the space is once we’re both crammed in with our hot tempers.

  “Hey, would you just listen to me?” I say, poking him in the back until he turns around to face me. His hand shoots out to catch mine before I can drop it. Then, instead of letting go, he looks down at it, eyes narrowing.

  “Can’t we give them a chance?” I ask. “Just a bit more money?”

  “Where’s your ring?”

  “Oh my god. Are you even listening to me?”

  I try to tug my hand away from him, but he doesn’t let me. His grip isn’t painful, but it’s strong and assertive. His hand feels twice the size of mine.

  “I thought we agreed you’d wear it.”

  I roll my eyes. “It’s slightly ridiculous. The size of it.”

  “I picked it out for you.”

  My heart leaps in my
chest.

  “Because of the arrangement,” he tacks on a beat later.

  I jerk my hand away, and this time, he lets me have it. “Right. I’ll wear it if you absolutely want me to, but otherwise, I’d rather not.”

  He reaches for a box of unopened oatmeal on the shelf beside my head and then heads back out into the kitchen, leaving me in the pantry.

  “Glad that’s settled.”

  No, it’s not.

  “You don’t have one,” I point out, trying to take a fair-is-fair approach.

  “You never bought me one,” he says plainly.

  I wait for him to laugh or shoot me a teasing look over his shoulder, but neither comes.

  I frown. Confused. Why do I actually feel sad for him right now?

  I shouldn’t, I remind myself. He has a girlfriend! This marriage is fake! Why am I starting to forget that?

  “My brother asked me for your number last night,” he says, changing the subject.

  “Yeah, he said he’d be willing to connect me with some people he knows in the art world after what happened on Friday.”

  “What happened on Friday?”

  I frown. Right. I never told Walt about the art gallery, only Matthew.

  And maybe that’s for the best.

  This trajectory I’ve headed down with Walt isn’t necessarily good for either of us. Shouldn’t we be keeping our distance? Drawing lines in the sand?

  “Nothing important. Anyway, that was nice of him to reach out. I wasn’t sure if he actually would. Is it okay? I mean…if I become friends with him?”

  “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “I don’t know. This situation is starting to feel complicated.”

  He props his hands on his hips. “Then let’s uncomplicate it. Wear your ring, act appropriately in public, and you can do whatever you’d like in private.”

  “And the stuff with my parents?”

  “Elizabeth—”

  “Walt.”

  He looks at the ceiling, takes a deep breath, and then relents. “I’ll increase their monthly allowance. Slightly. But if I catch even a whiff of—”

  His sentence cuts off when I tackle-hug him, tightening my hands around his waist like I’m trying to squeeze the stuffing out of him. “Thank you.”

  He stays stock-still, hands slightly raised up in the air like he’s scared of what I’ll do next.

  I laugh and step back.

  “You don’t have to look so horrified. I’m the one who should be disgusted by that hug. You’re still sweaty, after all.”

  Fourteen

  Matthew texts me Sunday evening, asking me if I want to join him for an afternoon coffee the following day. Since he has a busier schedule than I do, I offer to meet him near the NYU campus and then I arrive early to scope out a table. I sit in a corner of the coffee shop, sipping an espresso shot with a splash of milk, trying to figure out why Walt enjoys this so much. To me, coffee should be mostly milk. I try another tiny sip and fight the urge to contort my face.

  When Matthew arrives, a few people in the coffee shop recognize him, going out of their way to greet him as he winds through the tables toward me.

  “Were you waiting long?” he asks, as he pulls his leather bag over his head and drapes it on the back of his chair. “Sorry. My 3:00 class ran over.”

  “No. Not really. I’ve just been here, enjoying the view,” I say, holding up my sketchbook.

  He laughs and turns back, scanning the crowd until he sees a woman in line and waves. “That’s Nadiya, the woman I wanted you to meet. I’ll be right back.”

  He leaves his things at the table and heads toward the counter to say hello to Nadiya. He leans in to hug her, a familiar greeting shared between the two of them. I’m immediately drawn to the colors she’s wearing. On a drab, cold day in New York, most everyone is wearing black and gray. Her bright blue sweater and navy pants stand out easily alongside a vibrant magenta headscarf that allows a few inches of her dark hair to show at her hairline. Her lipstick coordinates—a shade or two darker than her scarf. Her eyes carry a spark as she laughs at something Matthew says before they step forward to order their coffee.

  I’m nervous as they head toward me with their drinks, nervous to show her my sketches and talk about the concept for my current series after what happened on Friday, but her smile is infectious, a huge grin I immediately return as they arrive at the table.

  “You must be Elizabeth. Hi! It’s good to meet you.”

  “Hi! Yes. I’m so grateful you were able to meet with me today,” I say, shooting to my feet so I can reach out and shake her hand.

  “What can I say? I’m impossible to turn down,” Matthew teases.

  Nadiya laughs and rolls her eyes at me playfully.

  “Here, sit, sit,” I say, pushing my things out of the way so they have room to set down their drinks.

  It’s tight quarters in the coffee shop, especially with the afternoon rush. We end up crowded in close, and I listen as they catch up with one another, their banter so easy and carefree I can’t help but smile.

  “Do they still have you teaching those freshman courses?” Nadiya asks.

  Matthew winks. “Someone’s gotta do it. It’s not all bad. They’re all still bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.”

  She laughs and nods.

  “Where does Stein have you now?” he asks. “Still on the Upper West Side?”

  “I was, but I’m actually heading to France in a few weeks to become second-in-command at the Paris gallery.”

  “Are you serious?” I ask this with my jaw dropped. “Did I hear that right? You work at Stein?”

  The gallery—so named for American writer Gertrude Stein—has been a fixture in the art community since the early 1900s. Most people don’t realize it, but Gertrude Stein was an enthusiastic art collector in Paris through much of her life. She helped launch the careers of Matisse and Picasso, and she was one of the earliest champions of cubism—back when most critics absolutely hated the avant-garde art.

  I’ve declared all of this out loud, of course, practically stumbling over myself with excitement.

  Nadiya, to her credit, doesn’t even look slightly put off by my bumbling awkwardness.

  “I still pinch myself too. It’s a great gallery,” she says, going out of her way to ensure I don’t feel like a fool.

  “How did you? When did you? Who?” I shake my head as my questions pile up one on top of the other.

  Matthew laughs and pats my hand. “Elizabeth, here, is an artist seeking representation.”

  “Oh really? What mediums do you work with mainly?”

  “Pastels, charcoal, and acrylic paint. I like to layer mediums too and build up the canvas. The pastels are my signature though.”

  If she’s bored, she’s not letting on, which is a relief.

  “Do you have any of your work with—”

  “Yes,” I say, leaping into action with absolutely no couth.

  I pull out a few sketches I brought with me, ones I was going to show Matthew, and she studies them intently, taking her time.

  “I see what you’re going for,” she tells me as she flips through them. “Your color choices are almost reminiscent of Matisse, which is quite jarring at first because there are still remnants of the classical composition.”

  “Yes!” I nod enthusiastically. “Exactly! Post-Impressionists like Matisse were stepping away from popular art culture of their time, and I’m sort of spinning that on its head with this series, pulling trademarks of cubism and fauvism and taking them back to the 17th century with a study of Dutch baroque paintings like A Banquet Still Life.”

  “Doesn’t your brother own that now?” she asks Matthew.

  He nods, sipping his coffee.

  She hums in delight, nodding her head. “I like these, Elizabeth. I think they’re conversation starters. Will your final pieces be much larger than this?”

  “I hope not. I want them to remain accessible, if not with their price points, then at le
ast with their size. I want collectors to be able to display them in a room easily, whether it be on a bookshelf or console, without having to clear an entire wall.”

  “Good. I think you’re on the nose with the sizing.”

  Matthew meets my eyes and then casually touches my knee with his hand beneath the table. I hadn’t realized I was jostling my legs so much, and I stop immediately. He moves his hand away and refocuses his attention on Nadiya.

  “Are you going to help the poor girl out or not?” he asks with a winning smile.

  Nadiya laughs and leans back, setting my pieces on the table.

  “I’m not surprised they haven’t been picked up yet. No, don’t look so sullen. You should know by now that art sells not because it’s good, but because the market deems it good. I do think there are a few galleries in Brooklyn that would be interested in this collection, but I won’t point you in that direction because I’m intrigued enough by them myself.”

  I blink in confusion, trying to determine what exactly she’s getting at.

  “I don’t leave for Paris until next month, but when I do, I’d like to present a completed series to the head gallerist there.” When I don’t immediately respond—due to lack of brain cells, apparently—she laughs and continues, “So basically, I’m asking if you could get me a small series within the next several weeks?”

  “Yes!”

  I agree, of course, not quite realizing what that will mean. The series, she tells me, needs to consist of at least fifteen pieces—fifteen works of art so wonderful they’ll knock those Parisians’ socks right off.

  We finish up at the coffee shop and head outside. I exchange contact information with Nadiya and we plan for when I’ll be in contact with her next, then she heads south on the sidewalk, leaving me beside Matthew.

  I turn to him and he beams. I beam right back at him, totally at a loss for words.

  “To be honest, I didn’t think it would work out that well,” he says with a laugh. “You owe me.”

  “Yes! Anything! What do you want?”

  He shakes his head. “No, I’m kidding. You don’t owe me a thing. What should we do now? Celebrate?”