Hating Tate - A friends to lovers romance.

by Raquel Belle

  Amy’s eyes go wide, and I wince. I shouldn’t have said that in front of her.

  “I don’t … hate you,” Rob says carefully. “I was hurt. I care about you very much.”

  His eyes flit to Amy, then back to me. I feel like I might cry right here so I make a show of grabbing my purse and taking Amy’s hand. “If you want to follow us, that’s fine.”

  I move to brush past him, but he stops me, putting his hand on my shoulder. We stare at each other for a second, then his hand moves to my messy braid. He holds it. “I’ve missed you. Can we talk? Really talk?”

  I nod once and walk out the door.

  Chapter Eighteen

  It takes me forever to get Amy to sleep. She’s riled up about Eric, crying about how I said Rob hated me, and just generally feeling anxious about life. I have her take a bath and then we read a few chapters of her book together. Finally, I tell her that I shouldn’t have said that, and that Rob doesn’t hate me. He loves me, but we have had some adult issues lately. She asks if that means Mr. Tate, and I admit that Tate has something to do with it.

  Finally, I get her to calm down enough to close her eyes, and when her breathing deepens with sleep, I tiptoe out to the living room.

  “Do you want a beer?” I ask Rob, just to break the ice.

  He shakes his head. “No, honestly … trying to detox a bit. I went a little overboard after we … after things …”

  I nod. “No need to explain. Things have been crazy. I, uh, quit my job today.”

  “What happened?”

  “Well, Roger didn’t want to let me leave for the hospital, and we got in an argument about the big data project I’ve been working on. I hit my limit, and when he threatened that he could find my replacement in no time, I told him to go for it.” I sit back and sigh, rubbing my eyes. My head hurts. Rob reaches out, totally instinctual, and rubs the back of my neck.

  I sigh. “I’ve made a big, fucking mess of things.”

  “It’s just a job,” he says. “No job is worth feeling abused or belittled.”

  “No, I don’t just mean the job. I mean … us. This baby. Everything. Everything feels like it’s been tipped to the side and I’m, like, hanging on with my fingernails, trying not to fall over the edge.”

  “I get that feeling,” he says. “I’ve been stupid, too. I know that.”

  “Not as stupid as me,” I argue, shaking my head. I blow out a big exhale. “I mean, I had an interview recently, so maybe that will work out. But I can take more bar shifts in the meantime, and I’m sure I can find something else to fill in until I find something more permanent.”

  I’m babbling. Thinking things through with my best friend, as if nothing has changed. A silence settles between us, though, and I know it has. Maybe he doesn’t care about my drama anymore. Maybe he’s annoyed to have to listen to my problems now that things are done between us. But for me, it’s everything I’ve been missing. So when he doesn’t really say anything, I just keep talking to fill the void.

  “I think maybe I’m ready to sell the house,” I say.

  This seems to get his attention. Rob’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, practically. “Really? I thought you were adamant about staying? I mean, you said you were going to keep it after the divorce, anyway.”

  “I know,” I say. “I thought the house would provide the kids some stability after Alex left. But you know? It’s not the house, it’s the life you give them. That’s cheesy maybe, but it’s true, right? I love them and care for them, and we can feel whole and okay in another place if we need to. I can’t afford this anymore, especially not with another mouth to feed and no job at the moment. They’ll just have to adjust to being in an apartment for a while. They can share a room, and I can have the baby in with me. ”

  “I mean … you all could come live with me …,” Rob says. He seems nervous about making the offer. “I have extra bedrooms. Plenty of space for everyone.”

  “No,” I say sharply. “I’m not having them in a house where you bring students for sex.”

  Rob’s face goes dark. “That’s not fair, Hope.”

  “Not fair because it’s not true?” I ask.

  “No,” he says, pulling his hand away from my neck and sitting back. Getting away from me. “It’s just a low blow. I’m offering you help, and you’re using my offer to attack me. I know I didn’t do the right thing. I almost lost my job because of it.”

  “It didn’t stop you, though, did it?” I ask. “The university was slapping you on the wrist, and you still had some slut at your place just the other night when I came over.”

  “I was drunk and that girl graduated last year,” he says.

  “Oh, well that’s better,” I say, rolling my eyes.

  “She came over, and we fooled around. I was hurt. She was there. But she wants more and I’m …” he takes a deep breath and runs a hand through his hair. “I’m in love with you. Always and only with you. Because I’m a glutton for punishment, apparently.”

  “You make it sound so romantic.”

  “It’s not,” he says simply. “Love is never simple or romantic. It’s messy and complicated. And usually worth it. I did a dumbass thing all these years. But I have always loved you, and I probably always will. I had to sit by for ten years watching you with Alex. Had to watch you have his kids and take his abuse. And when he was gone, I thought I was in for good and then you picked Tate. Tate, for Christ sake, who you hate.”

  “It’s a vicious cycle, isn’t it?” I muse. “I was hurt by Alex, you were hurt by me. We all just keep hurting each other.”

  “And where does Tate fall into the equation?” Rob asks. “Do you still want him?”

  “I don’t think so?”

  “What does that mean?” he asks. “I need you to know for sure, Hope. I need you to choose. I mean, I’m not going to jump back in and then get burned again. You need to tell me what you feel for him. And if it’s something real, then I need to protect myself. I can’t keep doing this.”

  “Keep doing what?”

  “Keep loving you while you love other people,” he says. “Do you love him, Hope?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?” he asks. There’s so much hurt in his eyes. It breaks my heart.

  “Yes, I’m sure. I mean, he’s become kind of a friend, I guess,” I say. “I don’t care for him beyond that. Not in any real way. Not the way I feel for you. I am not in love with him.”

  “I guess …,” Rob says and takes a minute to consider his words. “I guess I always thought you loved me. Deep down, you loved me, but you were just scared. I never considered that someone else could come into the picture. It didn’t seem possible that someone else could swoop in and take you away from me again.”

  “I hadn’t considered it either. And I was scared. I’m still scared. Dating, romance, love, sex … none of it fits in my life. I can barely remember to brush my hair in the morning. Having someone else in my life that way … it just throws the very tenuous hold I have on our lives into disarray. And if it doesn’t work? Chaos.”

  “So why start something with him at all? Why start something with me?”

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “Come on,” he says with a dark laugh. “That’s not an answer, and you know it.”

  We stare at each other as I consider his question. It takes me a long time to answer. “Look, I had all this pent-up energy, and he was there, and he kissed me, and I didn’t hate it. Which was confusing because I hated him, right? But it made me remember.”

  “Remember what?”

  “What it felt like to be wanted that way.”

  “But I’ve always wanted you that way. I never hid it. You knew it. I was here the whole time. That’s why this hurts so badly, Hope. Because you knew I was here, waiting, and you still went to him.”

  “That’s not true,” I say. “He kissed me that first night, and I came home to you. I made love to you.”

  “While thinking about him,”
Rob says.

  “No. I wasn’t thinking of him. I was thinking of you. Of how good you made me feel.”

  “Forgive me if that’s hard to believe. But whatever. Are you still seeing him? You hated him so much, and now you’re friends, and I guess I just want to know what you think of him now, and how he fits into your life.”

  “I have grown to like him. He’s a good man, and he’s been through a lot in his life, too,” I say.

  Rob frowns, and I hold up a finger to stop him from answering. “He has,” I insist. “He lost a child. He’s been in a war zone. He’s not a bad person, and he’s given me some pretty good advice and support. But I never, ever envisioned a life with him. Never saw it getting serious. And I still don’t.”

  “Do you still want to sleep with him?”

  “I never slept with him. I told you that.”

  “But you kissed him. Did other things. And don’t avoid the question.”

  “No,” I say. “I don’t want him that way. At first it was exciting, kind of dangerous. I let myself get caught up in the feeling of lust. And I thought that I could dip my toes along the edge but not really jump all the way in with him. I could stay in the safe zone, with a person I loved and trusted.”

  “Me …,” he says blankly.

  “Yes, you. I loved and cared for you, and the sex was amazing. I was ignited.”

  “But I told you how I felt. Over and over. If we took that step, then I wanted you to be mine. Really mine. And you shit all over that by staying in whatever fucked-up little relationship you had going with him.”

  “I know. I know. It was wrong, and I hurt you. I know that. I was confused and scared of being hurt.”

  “So you did the hurting instead?”

  “I guess so.”

  Rob stares at me as if surprised at my answer. Then he bites on his bottom lip. “So you’ll end it with him?”

  “End my friendship with him?” I ask. “I mean, Alex always told me to end my friendship with you. I’m not sure I want to repeat the past like that, allowing someone to dictate who I can and can’t be friends with.”

  “Well, it’s not like you ever listened to him anyway,” Rob says.

  “And good for you!” I exclaim. “If I’d listened, we might not have all these years of friendship to fight for.”

  “Still …”

  “Still,” I repeat and sigh. “He’s waiting on me to work out my baggage with you, but I know I don’t want anything more than friendship with him. I feel badly about leading him on, I guess. I need to be honest with him. Make it clear where we stand.”

  Rob’s posture changes. His face relaxes a bit, and I can see he’s at least somewhat satisfied with my answer. He reaches out and takes my hands. “I’ve loved you for a long time,” he says, “but I can’t do this again and again and again. It’s too hard.”

  “I know.”

  He leans in and places a soft kiss on my lips. I let him linger, but when he pushes for more, I draw away, leaning back and covering my face with my hands. When I look at him, there’s a question in his eyes, and I want nothing more than to let him kiss me again. To let him consume me. I want to kiss him. I want more. I try to telegraph this to him, but when I don’t immediately make a move for more, I see a muscle tick in his jaw and a tense resignation in his shoulders that tells me he doesn’t understand the conflict I’m feeling at all. He doesn’t understand that I want him, so much, but that I need to take time to get my head on straight.

  I press my lips together and give him a look that I hope is apologetic.

  “I just need time,” I say. “To work on myself. To make sure.”

  “You’re doing it again,” he says. “Keeping me just close enough. Holding out the carrot to keep me here. Never quite letting me all the way in.”

  “I know,” I say again. “I know, and I’m so torn because I know how good we are together. But because of that, I want to do the right thing right now. I have to get my head on straight, or I will never be able to love you the way you need and deserve to be loved. And I want that for you. For us. We’ve been through so much, I don’t want to give up, but I want to be whole for you. Does that make sense? Will you give me time?”

  He looks stricken but eventually nods. “Okay. You promise you’re not running?”

  “I’m not running away. I’m running towards. It’s a promise.”

  Later that night, I’m alone and running over our conversation over and over again. I don’t really know how he feels about being a father, I realize, and it irks me enough to send him a text.

  Hope: You found out you’ll be a dad, and you didn’t say how you feel about it

  Rob: Its hard to be excited with all this crap between us

  Hope: So you’re unhappy?

  Rob: No, I wouldn’t say unhappy

  Rob: Just nervous

  Hope: Nervous?

  Rob: That we won’t work it out

  Hope: Will you still want to be its dad?

  Rob: Of course

  Rob: I’m not Alex

  Rob: I don’t walk away

  Hope: Good I don’t want you to

  Hope: Unless you think I shouldn’t have it

  Rob: I don’t think I could live with myself if you didn’t have it

  Rob: Are you upset about it? Unhappy?

  Hope: I’m worried, too

  Hope: About us, about money

  Rob: It will be okay

  Hope: I hope so

  Rob: I will be there for you both, regardless

  Hope: Thank you

  Hope: I needed that

  Rob: I need you

  Hope: I need you, too

  I don’t know what it is, but this triggers something inside of me. I pull a vibrator from my drawer and press it against my clit. I rub at my nipples and roll my hips, Rob’s face and body and voice in my head like a song. It takes a long time, but I eventually come, thinking of him, wishing he were here with me now.

  As I fall asleep, tears make a trail down my cheeks, and I know I absolutely have to work things out with him. He is, after all, the love of my life.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I can’t stop my knee from shaking as I read and re-read the same sentence about Prince Harry and Meghan Markle over and over again in the entertainment magazine I found sitting on the table.

  With my job search underway and more free time on my hands than I’m comfortable with, Meredith made a suggestion that I should see a therapist. At first I balked, but after yet another tense and emotional conversation with Rob, I decided to take the leap and try it.

  After what seems like an endless wait, a blonde woman in a pantsuit comes through the door. I honestly don’t know her name, because I called and took the first available appointment.

  “Are you Hope Elmore?” she asks.

  I nod and stand.

  “I’m Theresa Sincoff,” she says.

  We shake hands, and she leads me back to her office. It’s a smallish space, but cheerfully decorated with bright yellow walls, a big window, and plenty of books. There is a loveseat against one wall, a leather chair adjacent. In one corner there is a desk, littered with papers, a laptop, and an office chair. There are a few live plants on the bookshelves.

  She peruses my paperwork for a minute before taking a seat in the leather chair, gesturing for me to sit on the couch. I make a lame joke about laying down like in the television shows, and she says I can if I want to. I don’t.

  “Tell me why you made an appointment today, Hope,” she says.

  “I, well … I mean, I’m not crazy, if that’s what you mean,” I say. My heart feels like it might beat out of my chest. Why am I so nervous right now?”

  Theresa tilts her head and assesses me. “We don’t really use terms like that,” she says, “and not everyone comes to counseling to manage mental health issues. It can be very beneficial to work through life’s challenges with an unbiased person. People choose therapy for a variety of reasons, I just want to know yours.”
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  “Well … I’m a single mom of two kids. They’re both elementary school-aged. I’ve, uh, struggled with money since my ex-husband left and I, uh, haven’t really been able to figure out how romance or sex can fit neatly into a world that feels like chaos most of the time. And, oh, I’m also pregnant with my best friend’s baby. And I’m in love with him, and he loves me, but I had a weird little relationship with a guy I hate so now we’re kind of on the outs. But I love him. I think he’s the love of my life, and I need to get it together so we can be together.”

  Theresa’s eyes go slightly wider for just a brief second at that last part, but she otherwise shows no reaction to my complete and total word-vomit. She considers what I’ve told her for a second. “There’s a lot to unpack there. Let’s start with the single mom part. Tell me about a typical day for you.”

  I let out a little laugh, but then tell her about my average day. About getting the kids ready for school or camp and getting them on the school bus before rushing to work, usually late and almost always without really fine-tuning my look for the workplace. I talk about the after-school race, to beat the clock, and the stress of years of late fees that always felt like a gut-punch. I admit that the last part seems to have gotten better, and then also admit that I recently quit my job.

  “It was so irresponsible,” I say. “I feel sick about it.”

  “Why did you quit?”

  I explain what happened, the specific series of things that happened, on the day I decided to walk out of my job. Theresa listens, asks a few clarifying questions, and then says, “It sounds like you did just what you needed to do in that moment.”

  “I had a panic attack right after, at the hospital,” I say. “I’m still panicking.”

  “Panic is natural when we feel threatened,” Theresa says. “It’s not for me to say whether your decision was right or wrong, but I can say that the panic you feel is your natural instinct. You want to provide as best you can for your children and quitting your job threatens your ability to do that. I can see, though, that you are resourceful and intelligent, and I have no doubt you’re already on the hunt for something new. Tell me about your ex-husband.”