To Have and to Hate

by R.S. Grey

  Matthew glances up from his food before straightening his glasses. He’s more than a little taken aback. “That’s…”

  “Weird, right?”

  “Yeah. I mean…” He nods his head from side to side, thinking it over. “Like I said at the dinner party, you’re his type and all…but I just assumed he wasn’t interested.”

  “He’s not interested,” I say in a rush, wanting to clarify the obvious.

  “But he kissed you.”

  I shake my head, adamant in my stance. “It wasn’t a kiss like how you’re thinking.” He looks thoroughly confused now, so I’m forced to explain further. “It was an I-hate-you kiss. Haven’t you ever had one of those?”

  “I have no idea what that is.”

  “It’s a kiss not born out of love, but out of hate.”

  “Yeah, thanks. That’s evident in the name. I’m just confused because I don’t go around kissing people I hate.”

  “Well you probably don’t hate a lot of people. You’re much nicer than your brother, y’know?”

  “Yeah, that’s obvious.”

  I roll my eyes and he laughs, taking a bite of his sandwich. He studies me as he chews, his eyes narrowing in thought.

  “Did you like the kiss?” he finally asks after finishing his bite.

  I mime gagging exaggeratedly. Inside, though, my heart leaps around, trying to be heard.

  Yes! She liked the kiss! She liked it! She’s a liar!

  “Okay, point taken,” he says with a nod. “Do you think he liked the kiss?”

  I look down. “How should I know? We didn’t exactly chat about it afterward. I sort of shouted at him and he shouted right back.”

  “You two seem to have really fostered a healthy relationship.”

  My gaze flits up to him. “Don’t look at me like that. I tried. I was nice to him from the get-go. He’s been all bristly and cold, a regular Mr. Darcy.”

  “Mr. Darcy?” he asks, scrunching his face.

  “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just ask that.”

  I’m sorry, Jane.

  “Do you think he’s going to kiss you again?”

  “No way. He’s definitely learned his lesson. Besides, isn’t he still with Camila? He shouldn’t be kissing anyone besides her.”

  “I thought they were done.”

  “Yeah, well she came over the other morning and apologized for how she acted at the dinner party. I saw them hugging.”

  “Were you spying on them?” he asks, like he’s just found out some titillating piece of gossip.

  “Would you think less of me if I was?”

  “No.”

  “Then yes, I was spying.”

  “Elizabeth,” he says, feigning horror.

  I laugh and shrug. “Whatever. I think they’re together again. He’s been away from the apartment a lot this week.”

  “Could just be avoiding you,” he points out.

  “Sure, or maybe he’s off having sex with his super-hot girlfriend.”

  “Why does it sound like that bothers you?”

  I hold up my hand to stop him right there. “I didn’t ask for any psychoanalysis, thank you.”

  “I’ll bite my tongue then.”

  “Good.”

  We each take a bite of our sandwich, chew, swallow, then he asks, “Do you want me to text him about Camila?”

  Without a moment’s hesitation, I shove my food aside and lean forward with wide eyes. “Yes.”

  He nods and tugs out his phone.

  “You need to be subtle about it, though,” I say quickly. “Don’t make him think we’re talking about him or anything.”

  He slides the phone across the table so I can read the text he’s already sent.

  Matthew: Hey, you and Camila still together?

  “MATTHEW.”

  “What? We don’t dance around stuff. He’d think it was weird if I peppered in tidbits about feelings.”

  I’m blushing from head to toe. It’s like I just texted Walt.

  “Has he replied?”

  “I just sent it.”

  “Okay, well what about now?”

  “Relax, psycho. Eat your sandwich and we’ll see if he gets back to us before we’re done with lunch.”

  I do my best to participate in decent conversation. Matthew tries to talk to me about one of the students in his class, and I do a wonderful impression of Friend Listening until he asks me to repeat what he just said and I come up short.

  “That’s what I thought,” he says, all high and mighty.

  “Can I just see your phone, please, to see if he’s responded?”

  “He hasn’t. I would have felt it vibrate,” he says, tugging it out of his pocket to check.

  He shows me the blank home screen. No text.

  “What’s he doing anyway?” I ask, annoyed.

  “Running a Fortune 500 company.”

  Okay sure, big whoop. So he doesn’t have time to be texting with us at one o’clock in the afternoon, but that just leaves the question burning in the back of my mind. We wrap up lunch and say our farewells. Matthew promises to let me know if Walt texts back, and then I walk home in an anxious fit, checking my phone every time I feel a phantom vibration.

  I try to get some work done in the library at the apartment, but it’s impossible to focus on my canvas.

  I put my phone near me, then, annoyed that it’s taking up so much of my attention, I place it clear across the room as if it will be out of sight, out of mind. That doesn’t work though, because then I continuously worry I’ve missed a call or text. I dart back and forth across the room, running to check if any new messages have popped up the last several seconds since I last checked.

  Around 8:45, I cave and text Matthew.

  Elizabeth: Anything?

  But before he can reply, the elevator dings.

  I hear the ominous sound of Walt’s shoes on the marble floor, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

  I drop my phone on a chair and tiptoe toward the door of the library so I can peer out. To my horror, Walt is headed down the hall, in my direction, devastatingly handsome in a navy suit.

  I flee back to my easel, pick up a pastel crayon, and scratch vigorously across my canvas.

  His footsteps near, and panic grips hold of my spine. It’s like I’m in some kind of horror movie and the monster is stalking closer.

  When he stops at the door of the library, I glance at him over my shoulder. He finishes loosening his tie and then starts to slide off his jacket.

  “If you’re curious about me or my life, I’d prefer if you asked me about it directly instead of going through my brother.”

  He’s not even looking at me!

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Good, Elizabeth. That almost sounded true!

  He chuckles under his breath—in plain disbelief—turns, and walks away.

  I don’t see or hear him the rest of the night.

  Matthew texts me back just before bed.

  Matthew: Still no word yet. Sorry.

  Elizabeth: I doubt you’ll ever get a response. He knows we’re in cahoots.

  Matthew: Damn. He always was the smart one.

  The next morning, I find Walt in the kitchen, reading on an iPad while sipping his coffee. It’s Sunday morning and he’s already dressed like that. A different day, a different suit. How does he get them all so perfectly tailored?

  “Good morning, Elizabeth,” he says as I head straight for the espresso machine.

  “Oh, today I get a greeting?”

  “Yes, because today I need you to do something for me.”

  “What’s that?”

  He nods toward an invitation on the counter, near me. I tug it closer and read the words printed in a scrolling gold leaf font. It’s for a fundraiser benefitting the Global Wildlife Conservation that’s next Friday.

  “So? Go. Have fun. Save the animals,” I say, pushing the invitation toward him.

  “R
ead the envelope.”

  I roll my eyes, but nonetheless do as he says.

  It’s addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Walter Jennings II.

  They’ve invited us both.

  “I send my regrets,” I say simply.

  His gaze implores me to please, for once, be easy.

  “What? Why should I go?”

  He doesn’t argue. Instead, he nods gently and glances back down at his iPad as if he expected nothing less.

  Oh god. It’s like when a parent doesn’t say they’re mad, just disappointed. Dammit.

  I owe Walt. For the last month, he’s given me a bed to sleep in, food to eat, he went out of his way to set up a studio for me in his library, and…though I hate to admit it, he puts up with my general nonsense.

  “Fine.”

  Without breaking eye contact with his screen, he replies, “Be ready at 7:30.”

  What a romantic, over-the-top gesture! I’d just love to accompany you, Walt! Gee, lucky me!

  Once he leaves for work, I sneak back into the kitchen to read the dress code on the invitation: black tie. Oh good, I have exactly zero ball gowns in my closet and no time to shop for one. Also, the last thing I want to spend my money on is a dress I will wear for four hours, tops.

  I decide to table thoughts of the fundraiser for now and focus on my art. That works for most of the week, especially since Walt and I don’t cross paths at all. He seems intent on working himself to death, and I do the same. Thursday afternoon, I have a fleeting thought that I should go to a thrift store to look for a dress, but then I get too carried away on a piece I’m working on.

  Friday morning, Mason unwittingly acts as my fairy godmother.

  He calls me when I’m in the library, surveying the works I’ve already completed for my collection.

  “Oh hello, Mason. To what do I owe the pleasure?” I ask, just trying to get some sort of response out of him that’s not animatronic.

  “Hi, Elizabeth. I’m calling to let you know a personal shopper from Bloomingdale’s will arrive at the apartment at 4:30 this afternoon with dresses for tonight’s event.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Have a good day.”

  Call ended.

  Boy, I bet their office is a total riot. I bet the two of them just laugh and laugh and laugh all day.

  I look down at the time on my phone, annoyed that it’s already half past nine. I have so much to do before 4:30. I could work all day and still not catch up with where I should be for the series I’m supposed to have ready for Nadiya soon.

  I work tirelessly, skipping lunch, ignoring the fact that my hand is cramping. I drop my pastel crayon and shake my hand out, stepping back from my work and studying it. The distance helps put things into perspective. My eyes flit across the canvas, finding areas I still need to perfect.

  “Mrs. Jennings?”

  I jump out of my skin and turn, surprised to find Rebecca, the apartment’s concierge, at the door of the library. Jesus. I press a hand to my racing heart, trying to calm it down.

  She smiles regretfully. “I’m sorry. I called your name when we stepped off the elevator, but you didn’t reply. I was told you were expecting us.”

  “Is it already 4:30?”

  Her smile widens. “4:32.”

  Right. Well.

  I look down at my stained hands, colorful pastel dust coating every finger. Then I look up and see that behind her, there is a team of people who’ve arrived to get me ready for the fundraiser, four of them in total. At the helm is a woman with a buzz cut à la Natalie Portman in V for Vendetta holding a huge black makeup caddy. A woman beside her is wearing a long floral-printed sleeveless blazer layered over a white turtleneck and carrying a tote overflowing with hair products. Behind her, two guys hang on to either side of a rolling clothing rack loaded up with garment bags from Bloomingdale’s.

  I wince.

  “Would it be okay if I took a very quick shower?” I ask, feeling guilty for wasting their time.

  I really need to rinse off though. I have pastel dust in my hair and caked under my nails.

  “That’s fine. We need to get set up anyway,” says the woman with the buzz cut.

  “Where would you like them to wait for you?” Rebecca asks.

  “Um…the great room? That way we have space for everyone.”

  She nods in agreement then turns and holds out her hand for them. “Right this way.”

  When I join them twenty minutes later, Rebecca’s gone, and the woman with the buzz cut, who tells me her name is Gina, informs me that we’ll start by picking out the dress, that way we don’t ruin my hair and makeup.

  Whoever hired them—probably Mason—must have given them explicit instructions about the evening because they launch right into it without really asking my opinion. I try on ten dresses in total, all different styles and colors.

  “That one,” the group unanimously decides.

  I look down at the red gown with its tailored bodice and fixed waist, appreciating the way it hugs my figure through my hips. The draped cap sleeves and notched sweetheart neckline mean my décolletage is bare. They fix that quickly by adding a diamond necklace—on loan—that nestles at the base of my neck. Thank goodness the gown has built-in cups and boning in the bodice.

  I move gently side to side, trying to determine if the offset front slit is too risky.

  “You don’t think this is too much?” I ask, looking up at the group.

  I’m met with a bunch of This poor girl stares, and then finally, someone speaks up.

  “Hun, if I had your figure, I’d be in that gown every damn day,” says Noel, one of the Bloomingdale’s guys.

  “Yes,” his friend Steven adds with a clap. “I’d wear it to Starbucks. To brunch. To the gym. I’d be rockin’ that slit on the elliptical. Watch me.”

  I chuckle and nod, taking their word for it. This is a bit more daring than what I would normally wear, but they’re the experts.

  After we’ve agreed on the dress, I slip back into a robe and get positioned in a chair for hair and makeup. I’m not allowed to leave it for what feels like three days. My hair is tugged in every direction as they blow it dry and sweep it up off my neck into a careful up-do.

  While that’s happening, my face is poked and prodded.

  “Sweetie, these brows are killing me,” the makeup artist says.

  “I thought big brows were in.”

  She laughs. “Not this big.”

  Point taken. It’s not like I’ve been paying much attention to my appearance lately. My art doesn’t care what I look like, so what’s the point?

  “Do you even realize how lucky you are to have this bone structure?” she asks, sounding annoyed with me.

  “Umm…yes?” I reply, not quite sure what answer she wants to hear.

  “Oh god,” Steven groans in agony. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those girls who doesn’t realize she’s beautiful. Am I living in a Taylor Swift song?! Please God, help me.”

  “She’s not like the other girls,” Noel jokes.

  “I know I’m decent-looking, you jerks.”

  “Decent-looking!” Steven despairs. “DEAR GOD, she thinks she’s an ogre.”

  Noel moves his hands like an orchestra conductor. “Say it with us: ‘I’m hot.’”

  “I’m hot,” I repeat back at a volume more akin to a whisper.

  By the time they’re done with me, I actually believe it. I stand in front of the full-length mirror in my room after the apartment empties out, and I stare at myself like a narcissistic asshole. I just…can’t help it. Most days, I throw on some tinted moisturizer with SPF and call it a day. My clothes are cute and fit me well, but they’re practical for day-to-day life.

  This is by far the best I’ve ever looked. I want to plot a way to bump into every single one of my ex-boyfriends and middle school bullies (yeah, I still remember you, Laura) on my way to the fundraiser and watch their tongues roll out of their mouths.

  My phone vibrates on m
y bed, and I see it’s a text from Mason.

  Mason: Mr. Jennings is on his way to pick you up, and he’d like you to be waiting downstairs since he’s running a little behind schedule.

  Sixteen

  By the time I make it down to the lobby, a black limo is already idling by the curb out front. I curse under my breath, wondering how long Walt’s been waiting. As soon as I finished reading Mason’s text, I rushed to use the bathroom one last time, touch up my lipstick, and cram all my necessities into my delicate purse, but my sky-high heels weren’t as easy to get on as I thought they’d be. The little strap around my ankle gave me trouble.

  I hate that Walt beat me here. I’m sure he’ll be annoyed by that.

  Terrell is at the door of the building, and when he sees me rushing toward him, he whistles low.

  “You’re a vision, Mrs. Jennings!”

  I beam as my cheeks turn red.

  “Thank you!” I say, rushing past him.

  He’s quick with the door, holding it open for me.

  “Sorry, can’t chat! Running late!”

  “Don’t worry. He hasn’t been here long!”

  Outside, icy air greets me, and I burrow down into the coat Noel and Steven brought to accompany my gown. It’s deep red with a wide collar that I pop up to help block the wind. The driver opens the front door of the limo to step out, but then the back door opens and Walt beats him to me.

  “No need, Alexander,” Walt says.

  “Right, sir.”

  Walt steps out onto the sidewalk, stands to his full height, and straightens the lapel of his tuxedo jacket as I watch in slack-jawed wonder.

  He’s so imposing I freeze, unwilling to step any closer to him. Call it survival instincts or maybe masochism, but I want to get a good long look—just to know what I’m up against tonight.

  His inky black tuxedo jacket slopes over his broad shoulders and then tapers in at his waist. The soft edges of his bow tie seem to only force my gaze back up to his sharp jawline, the contrast impossible to ignore. My chest tightens with longing. I want to draw him, sculpt him, trace the lines of his face and try to recreate him on canvas so I can go back and reference this moment any ol’ time I want.