To Have and to Hate

by R.S. Grey

  Then, lifting the cover off the plate, I see he’s left me breakfast: scrambled eggs, sausage, sliced fruit.

  It’s a kindness I’m not quite ready for. I take his note, pull out the trash, and drop it inside. I eat quickly and find fleeting relief in destroying his neatly arranged food with my fork.

  I’m almost done when he walks into the kitchen wearing low-slung black sweatpants and a soft gray t-shirt. His hair is adorably messed up. His chin could use a shave. I swear there’s a hint of shadows under his eyes that aren’t usually there, but I don’t look at him long enough to confirm.

  I have an instant to decide which path to take in regards to how I treat him, and I’m disappointed in myself when I take the low road, opting to pretend as if he doesn’t even exist.

  I scrape the remnants of my breakfast out into the trash can then turn to rinse off my plate as he walks around me to get some water.

  “Morning,” Walt says in a raspy voice.

  “Morning.”

  The budding conversation withers from there. Silence reigns, and I feel antsy with anxiety.

  I’d flee, but I haven’t made my coffee yet, and the promise of a robust cup was the only thing that got me out of bed in the first place.

  I walk over to retrieve a mug and set it beneath the espresso machine. Then I stand facing it while it whirrs to life. It always takes a moment to grind the espresso beans and heat the water, so I stretch out the kinks in my back in preparation for a day in front of my easel. I twist this way and that, and then I freeze when I find Walt watching me from the other side of the island.

  I drop my arms immediately back to my sides. My pajama top falls back into place. I’m blushing as I turn away.

  “Would you like to continue our conversation from last night?” he asks suddenly.

  My spine straightens.

  Oh, now he wants to talk? Now, after what he did last night?

  “No. I think we’ve said all that needs to be said, don’t you think?”

  “Right.” I glance behind me to see him push away from the island and step back. “Then I’ll be in my office.”

  I watch him leave, one hand thrust in the pocket of his sweats, the other rubbing the back of his head like he’s frustrated.

  Welcome to the club, buddy!

  We all are!

  I work tirelessly in the library all day, grateful I have so much work to distract me. Music drifts in from Walt’s office, but I don’t mind. In fact, a few of the lyric-less songs I really like. I’d almost forget he’s the man behind the music if not for a newly developed cough he seems to have. At first, I almost think he’s doing it on purpose, a little bit of psychological warfare, but by Sunday morning, his cough has taken on a life of its own.

  “You’re sick,” I tell him from the doorway to his office.

  He’s standing behind his desk in a different set of sweats from the day before. These are gray, and his shirt is white. The shadows under his eyes are darker than yesterday. I bet he hasn’t slept a wink.

  “It’s allergies,” he says, focusing down on some papers.

  “Allergies. Right.”

  “I don’t get sick,” he tells me insistently.

  I nearly laugh. Instead, I just turn away.

  A few hours later, I wander by his office door again to find him tipped back in his chair rubbing his closed eyes. He looks like he has the world’s worst headache.

  “Allergies, huh?”

  His eyes spring open and he glances over to where I stand, arms crossed, shoulder leaning against the doorframe.

  He tips forward in his chair and attempts to get back to work.

  “Yes. There’s probably something blowing in as we speak. Birch. Cedar.” He waves his hands as if to say, Et cetera.

  “Yes, or perhaps it’s the common cold.”

  “Are you going to stand there all day and mock me?”

  I hum like I’m considering it, then I leave him to it.

  The cough only gets worse, and soon it’s accompanied by a delightfully annoying case of the sniffles.

  Around 3:00, I drop my pastels, wash my hands, and leave the apartment for the market. I gather up lots of fresh vegetables as well as all the other fixings for homemade chicken noodle soup. By the time I make it back, Walt has his head down on his desk.

  I can’t take it anymore.

  I walk in and poke him in the back. “Let’s go. Come on.”

  “Leave me,” he says, sitting up. “I’m fine.”

  I point to the mountain of tissues in the trash. “No. You’re not.”

  Then I wheel his chair around and press my palm to his forehead. Just as expected, it’s piping hot.

  “You’re burning up.”

  His brown eyes stare up at me, and for the first time ever, he doesn’t intimidate me. In fact, he looks more like a sad puppy at the moment than a harsh businessman.

  “I run hot,” he says in an attempt to cast off my suspicions about his fever.

  “Uh-huh. What a medical marvel you must be. Now come on.” I wave for him to get up off the chair, and when he doesn’t, I tap his shin with my toe. “Don’t make me try to lift you. I’ll throw out my back and then we’ll both be moaning and groaning.”

  “I haven’t been moaning.”

  “Oh please! You should hear yourself. It’s like you’re on your death bed.”

  Men. Seriously.

  With a sigh, he stands, and I prod him along toward the great room. I already have a nice setup going with a blanket and a pillow.

  He lies down, looks slightly confused, then turns to sniff the pillow under his head.

  He looks up at me, almost in wonder.

  “This is your pillow.”

  I frown. “Yeah. I didn’t want to go into your room, but I can go get yours if you—”

  “No,” he says, cutting me off with a tone that’s almost harsh.

  “Oh…kay. Then just lie there and watch TV while I make you soup.”

  “What kind?”

  “Chicken noodle,” I call back as I walk away.

  It doesn’t take long. I chop everything up, toss it into the pot, and leave it to simmer while I cut up a crusty baguette. While the soup continues to cook, I go in search of medicine for Walt. He’s snoozing on the couch so I don’t wake him up. I figure he won’t mind the slight invasion of privacy if it’s for his own good. At the threshold of his bedroom, I waver as if I’m about to break some kind of law. It’s silly. I step inside and peer over at his unmade bed. The sheets look decadently soft. His pillow still carries the indent from his head. I inhale, and my chest fills with the scent of Walt. I love it. It’s like the room is saturated in him.

  A cough travels from the great room, spurring me into action. I curve around his bed and step into his bathroom—only momentarily waylaid by the size of the damn thing. I’ve been in here before, during the apartment tour with Rebecca, but I’d forgotten how nice it is. That soaking tub is what dreams are made of.

  Remembering my mission, I head to the medicine cabinet near his sink.

  The first thing I see when I open it is a box of condoms. They’re right at eye level and impossible to miss.

  I blush like a schoolgirl and move them aside.

  Of course Walt would have condoms, I tell myself. What’s the big deal?

  The big deal. Big deal. Big.

  Okay, moving on.

  I fan my face as I search for some medicine to take the edge off his fever. Once I find a rattling bottle of Tylenol, I shut the cabinet and scurry out.

  He’s right where I left him on the couch, only now he’s awake.

  “Why are you blushing?” he asks as I shake out two pills and pass them to him along with his water.

  “I’m not.”

  He swallows the pills, then he looks up at me with discerning eyes.

  “Your cheeks are red. Are you not feeling well either?”

  “I’m fine. Swear. Soup should be ready in a minute,” I promise on my way back into
the kitchen.

  After fanning my face with the freezer door, I ladle soup into a bowl and set it on a tray along with some slices of baguette. Walt sits up as I bring his food into the great room. I set everything out on the coffee table, and he looks at it carefully but doesn’t make a move to pick up his spoon.

  Steam rises from the soup. Maybe he’s worried it’s too hot.

  “Give it a second and it’ll cool down.”

  Still, he doesn’t say anything.

  “Are you not hungry? You should make yourself eat a few bites at least. You’ll start to feel worse if you don’t eat.”

  “Thank you,” he says, sounding so deeply sincere that it makes me uncomfortable.

  “Oh.” I wave away his gratitude, trying to lessen what I’ve done. “It’s nothing. Literally just tossed some stuff into a pot and left it to simmer.”

  I step back to leave him to it, but he frowns. “Stay. Won’t you?”

  “Why?”

  He shrugs. “There’s something about being alone when you’re sick.”

  I nod, knowing what he means. “All right. Let me get some soup for myself and I’ll be back.”

  We eat sitting side by side on the couch, flipping through TV channels.

  “What do you like to watch?” I ask him.

  “I don’t watch a lot of TV. I like true crime documentaries though.”

  “Oh me too. There’s a new one on Netflix I’ve been meaning to watch. Let’s start that.”

  We don’t move from that couch the rest of the evening. We devour episode after episode of the series, following the mystery like shrewd detectives, claiming to have solved the case only to be shocked by some unexpected twist.

  “Just one more,” Walt says after another episode ends.

  “Let me make some popcorn. Want some?”

  He shakes his head and moves to lie down. By the time I get back, he’s taking up most of the couch.

  “Are you serious?”

  “I’m sick,” he points out, sounding silly and childish.

  “At least switch around so I get your head and not your feet. Sheesh.”

  He does as I ask, shifting the pillow so it’s resting right by my hip. He lies down, and I settle back into my spot with my legs crisscrossed and my popcorn resting in my lap.

  “Ready?” I ask him, picking up the remote.

  “Ready.”

  I press play and start eating my snack. Thirty minutes into the episode, I glance over to find Walt lying on his side with his eyes closed. I’m not sure when he dozed off. Frankly, I’m surprised he lasted as long as he did. I pause the show and set my popcorn aside. I’m about to stand when his hand reaches out to touch my thigh. His grip is gentle, his way of asking me to stay, I think. I freeze right where I am and his hand doesn’t move from where it sits, just above my knee. He hangs on to me as his breathing steadies out. He’s asleep again now, his lips slightly parted, his face as tranquil as I’ve ever seen it. I trace his full eyebrow with my gaze, drifting down along his cheekbone and lips. I drink him in with unfettered access, surprised by how indulgent it feels to study him without his knowledge.

  After a while, I consider getting up, but then I remember how miserable he looked earlier, how tired he must have been, and I stay right where I am, letting him use me like a toddler would use a lovey. I let my head rest against the back of the couch and close my eyes. It’s the last thing I remember doing until the sensation of being lifted stirs me awake.

  Walt has me in his arms as we head down the hall.

  “You’re sick,” I reprimand him.

  “Not that sick.”

  “Could have fooled me with all that moaning earlier.” I try to get free. “Now set me down.”

  “It’s late. Stop arguing.”

  I stop wriggling but continue arguing nonetheless. “You’ll find I can be difficult any time of day.”

  “Yes. I’m learning that.”

  “Is this some type of macho thing? Carrying me?”

  “I thought it was a nice gesture.”

  At the door of my room, he hesitates, looks down the hall, then looks back at my room.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” he says with a shake of his head.

  He steps inside and deposits me lightly on my bed. I stare up at him as he hovers over me, cast only in moonlight. His dark eyes seem to need to ask something, and I’m patient, silent. Waiting proves fruitless when he eventually sighs.

  “Thanks for the soup,” he says, glancing down briefly at my lips before looking away.

  “Thanks for the ride.”

  He smiles and turns away.

  I watch him leave my room and wish we were still back on that couch.

  Nineteen

  The next day, I’m in the library, delicately spreading varnish over one of my canvases, when I get a call. My mom and my sister are coming to town. It’s a last-minute thing. They’re already in the car, heading here from Connecticut.

  “Saks is having their semi-annual sale” is the official reason my mom gives me as soon as they put me on speakerphone. There’s no mention of the fact that we haven’t seen each other in nearly a year.

  “You’ll come shopping with us,” my mom tells me.

  “Wish I could, but I have a lot of work I need to get done,” I argue, proving this (even to myself) by wedging the phone between my shoulder and ear so I can keep spreading varnish over the layers of pastel, charcoal, and paint.

  “Is Lizzie still doing her art?” Charlotte asks my mom as a plainly heard aside.

  “Yes. I’m still doing my art,” I respond, before trying and failing to keep from grinding my teeth together in annoyance.

  “Well can’t you do that like…whenever?” Charlotte laughs. “It’s not like you have a boss.”

  “I still have deadlines. In fact, I’m trying to put a series together for—”

  “Mom, look! Marissa’s already there and she’s posting to her Instastory. She’s trying on the Gucci wedges I want. I literally told her about those and now she’s buying them.”

  “I can’t look while I’m driving, Charlotte.”

  “Yes, here. I’ll hold the phone out over the steering wheel.”

  “Oh, those are cute.” A car honks in the background, and I wonder if my mom just narrowly missed getting into a car accident. “Don’t be surprised if they’re already sold out by the time we get there though.”

  “I know.” Charlotte sounds hopeless. “We really should have been on the road an hour ago.”

  “Elizabeth, honey,” my mom says, “you’ll have to meet us at Saks. We won’t have time to swing by and pick you up beforehand.”

  I’ll grind my teeth to stumps by the time this phone call is over.

  “Like I said, I really can’t do it today.”

  “Stop being silly. I’d like to see you. Charlotte would like to see you.”

  Charlotte doesn’t confirm this.

  “Take a few hours off from whatever it is you’ve got going on and meet us at Saks,” my mom insists.

  I don’t know why I can’t stick to my guns where they’re involved. A part of me wants to double down and curtly declare that I wish I could join, but I can’t.

  Unfortunately, I can’t seem to make my mouth form those words. Instead, I shower and get ready, throwing on a pair of dark jeans and a white peasant blouse. I add my Doc Martens because I love the contrast between the feminine top and the chunky boot. As expected, my mom absolutely hates the combination.

  “A delicate ballet flat would have done nicely” is the first thing out of her mouth when she sees me at Saks.

  I accept her hug and ignore her greeting, realizing all of a sudden that there actually is a good reason for me to be here today.

  My sister and my mom seem to have forgotten the predicament they’re in. Shoe boxes litter the floor around them. My sister is trying on a pair of Valentino heels instead of digging through the bargain bin.

  “Are you sure it’
s a good idea to be shopping the sale this year?” I ask my mom, careful to keep my voice down. A good deal of her circle of friends have likely flocked here to shop as well, and it’s not my intention to embarrass her.

  “Honey, relax,” my mom says with a pat on my arm.

  “Aren’t you going to come over and give me a hug?” Charlotte says, not bothering to stand up.

  “I can’t really get to you,” I say, pointing to the mountain of boxes.

  It’s a good excuse considering I don’t want to give her a hug. I’m still not completely over the fact that she lied about running away with her driver. Clearly, I’m the only one who thinks she deserves to experience some kind of consequence in her life. It’s obvious she and my mom are back on good terms as if nothing has even happened. They’ve always been buddy-buddy like that though, too much alike for their own good.

  My sister stands up so she can see herself in the floor-length mirror mounted nearby.

  “Those wedges are to die for, Charlotte,” my mom says with a little gasp.

  “Aren’t they? Look at how long they make my legs.”

  “I think they’re a must,” my mom says with a sharp nod.

  I bend down to grab the box and flip it over to check the price. I nearly swallow my tongue.

  “How are you going to pay for those, Charlotte?” I ask, showing her the tag just in case she hadn’t seen it herself. Even on sale, they’re wildly expensive.

  She reaches over and yanks the box out of my hands with a roll of her eyes. “If I knew you were going to be such a downer, I wouldn’t have let Mom invite you.”

  My mom sends me a chastising glare. “Elizabeth. Rest assured, I haven’t forgotten our situation. It’s all I think about, so please forgive me if I want to have one day where I pretend everything is normal.”

  I don’t have a response for that because I do feel bad for her on some level. I’m sure her day-to-day is nothing compared to what it once was, and maybe there’s no harm in trying on clothes and shoes and pretending nothing’s wrong. Just for a day.

  I move some shoe boxes off one of the chairs and take a seat. It’s obvious now isn’t the time to get into it with Charlotte about her lie, so I try to put on, if not exactly a happy face, at least a moderately pleasant expression.