Love the One You Hate

by Grey, R. S.

  I can’t help but laugh.

  “So then why’d we stop?” I say, leaning my weight back against her so she can’t continue to push me around the hood of the car.

  “Like I said…my leg was falling asleep…”

  Her words sound weak.

  “Do you regret what we just did?” I ask, turning halfway to face her.

  She looks down at the ground. “No, I don’t, but I also didn’t want it to continue. Does that make sense?”

  Not really. I want to press her on her meaning, but when she glances up at me again, there’s a vulnerability in her gaze that I don’t want to abuse.

  “Can you just take me home? I’m getting cold in this bathing suit.”

  I nod and turn away, dragging my hands through my hair while I give myself a little mental pep talk to rein it in. Visions of laying her down on the hood of my car and continuing where we left off aren’t exactly helping cool my blood.

  I roll my neck and vow to keep my eyes off her on the way home. Unfortunately, I don’t succeed.

  Any time she moves, breathes, talks, I look her way and take her in like I’m hoping the sight of her will sustain me for days to come.

  She’s talking about the beach, telling me how pretty it was, how cool that it was tucked into a cove like that, hidden from the rest of the world. She wants to take Cornelia there, and I laugh. I can’t remember the last time my grandmother visited the ocean, but if anyone could get her there, it’s Maren.

  We pull into my parking spot at Rosethorn and I kill the engine.

  I don’t move at first—not quite ready to leave her—but Maren hops out of the car and goes around to try to pop the trunk. After a few failed attempts, I get out to help her.

  She laughs when she sees how simple it is.

  “Oh, right, you pull the lever. Why didn’t I think of that?” she says lightly as she reaches in for the picnic basket.

  The back door opens and Louis bounds toward us, barking excitedly. Cornelia stands at the door, admonishing him.

  “Louis, no jumping on Maren!”

  “It’s okay. He must have missed me today,” Maren says, leaning down to pick him up. He licks at her face over and over again. “Enough, Louis. Jeez.” She laughs. “Can’t a girl catch her breath?”

  “Did you two have a good time at the beach?” Cornelia asks. “Chef is just about done with dinner. Nicholas, I’m assuming you can’t stay?”

  “I’ll go up to shower, but then I need to head back to the city and get some work in before tomorrow.”

  “Of course. Come along, Maren.”

  She sets Louis back on the ground and turns back toward me. “I probably won’t see you before you leave, so have a safe drive back to New York. I’m sure it’ll be less eventful than the one you just experienced.”

  Cornelia hums. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Maren laughs as she starts toward her. “Nicholas was brave enough to let me drive his car.”

  “You’re kidding,” she says, wrapping her arm around Maren’s shoulders as she reaches the door. They turn away from me as she continues, “He worships that thing.”

  “I’ll have you know I was very good at it,” she replies.

  “Why don’t I believe that?” Cornelia asks as they disappear into the house together.

  I stand in the shadow of Rosethorn, racked with indecision. Feelings churn inside me: longing, shame, anger at myself for not pressing her for the truth. What just happened rocked me to my bones, but Maren seems wholly unaffected by it.

  Is she truly?

  Are we not in this together?

  Falling?

  23

  Maren

  I’m sad I have to shower before dinner. Standing under the stream, I resent having to wash away Nicholas’ scent. I lather up my skin and linger, putting my hands in the same spots where his were, trying to feel what he felt. I grip my thigh like he did when we were careening down Ocean Drive. I slide my hand into my hair and twist it like he did, taking a fistful of it in a painful grip. Tugging. Wincing. It’s not the same though, and when I turn off the hot water and step out to wrap a towel around my shoulders, I catch my reflection in the mirror and smile.

  Shame might be a common emotion in a situation like this, but I don’t feel it.

  I feel heated and happy and devious.

  It must be what Ariana felt all those years ago, doing something bad and getting away with it.

  I know there’s no going back from what we just did in his car. There are so many possibilities open now. You can’t kiss the way we kissed then expect nothing to change, but I can’t seem to care. I’m too delirious, even now.

  I choose a silky dress for dinner, something that glides over my skin like his hands did. I’m still worked up and on edge. He started something and I stopped him before he could finish, so I only have myself to blame. I know that, and still…

  I take my bottom lip between my teeth and skate my hand between my thighs, rubbing the silk against my overly sensitive skin.

  I want to continue like this—getting carried away in our bad choices—but I’m late for dinner and I can’t keep everyone waiting, so with a sigh, I drop my hand and tug open my door, wandering down the hall.

  I know Nicholas already left; I heard his car pull away as I was dressing after my shower. There’s no hope of him slipping through my bedroom door and joining me tonight, no potential for him to greet me with a knowing smile in the morning. He had to get back to New York City, and I have to get back to my life too.

  I play the piano for Cornelia after dinner, and I don’t stop until my fingers ache.

  I use up all my energy there, expecting to walk upstairs later and find that I’m spent, but Nicholas creeps back into my mind as soon as I close my door. My dark room beckons dark thoughts. I wonder if he’s thinking of me too as I take my dress off and hang it neatly back in my closet. I’m left in a lacy bra and panties and normally I would change into a comfy nightgown, but tonight I slide between my sheets just like this and feel the cool fabric rub against my skin, the lace against my breasts.

  If I knew Nicholas’ number, I’d call him just to hear his voice.

  Maybe I’d ask him what he was doing. Wearing. Thinking.

  Where do you wish I touched you today?

  Were you upset that I stopped us or are you glad we have something to look forward to for next time?

  Next time.

  What a tantalizing thought.

  I know I’m strategically leaving out half the truth. Uneasy thoughts are tucked under a rug, worry about what comes next, waiting to trip me up when I least expect them to. Does Nicholas just want to fool around? And what do I want? What happens when Cornelia finds out?

  The thing is, those thoughts are easy to sweep away because today doesn’t feel quite real.

  It was a dream, right?

  It had to be.

  * * *

  My week follows a remarkably normal pattern after that Sunday on the beach. I teach piano lessons to the children from St. Michael’s. I play tennis with Tori. I work in the garden with Cornelia. I think of Nicholas. Fantasize about him, really. His touch haunts me in a way that makes me anxious for the weekend, anxious for the moment his wheels hit the gravel drive.

  So anxious and preoccupied, in fact, that I completely forget about the gala and my date with Barrett. He sends flowers Friday morning, an overflowing vase of red roses and a little matching corsage I’m apparently supposed to wear to the event.

  I should find it silly and juvenile, but I didn’t go to prom or any other school dances that would have required a corsage, and even if I had, it wouldn’t have been as delicately arranged as this one.

  “He called earlier in the week, asking about your dress color,” Cornelia reveals with an admiring tone. “He did a good job matching it.”

  I smile. “You didn’t mention anything.”

  “I know how to keep a secret, thank you.”

  “Yes, well, I wi
sh you had said something. I sort of forgot about the gala.”

  “How?”

  Oh…just…been busy dreaming about your grandson.

  “Must have just slipped my mind,” I say instead.

  I wonder if I had remembered, if I would have called to cancel my plans with Barrett. I’m not sure. I don’t want to hurt his feelings, and there’s no harm in attending the gala with him, really. He’s just giving me a ride. And flowers, my conscience reminds me.

  “Let’s have Chef keep this cold so the petals don’t wilt,” Cornelia says, picking up the small box that holds the corsage nestled in tissue paper.

  I turn to follow after her just as the doorbell rings behind us. Normally, someone else would reach it first—usually Collins—but we’re already in the foyer. Cornelia nods toward the door and I walk over to open it, blinking slowly as my old friend comes into view for the first time in years.

  “Ariana.”

  My voice isn’t excited so much as shocked.

  “Maren?”

  Her confusion—accompanied with a slow once-over of my outfit—instantly churns my stomach. There’s no doubt I look very different than the last time she saw me, but it’s a good different. At least it is to me.

  “You’re all grown up,” she says, and I can tell she’s settling on those words instead of something else. I wish she’d just say what she really means.

  “So are you,” I say, stretching a tight smile across my face.

  It’s true. The Ariana I remember in my head isn’t standing on Rosethorn’s doorstep. Her bottle-blonde hair is brighter than she used to keep it, trimmed short so it barely reaches the base of her chin. Her brown eyes look heavy and tired, but maybe it’s just the dark makeup she’s wearing. Her low-cut jeans and lacy tank top leave a few inches of her midriff exposed, and I’m disappointed to see that she’s thinner than she used to be.

  I have an overwhelming urge to reach out and hug her, to ask her how she’s been and where she’s been, but I don’t get the sense that she’d welcome my touch. Her brows are furrowed as she glances behind me, into Rosethorn’s foyer. I’m sure she’s shocked by the splendor of the house, the same way I was the first time I saw it.

  “Maren?” Cornelia says gently. “Invite your guest inside. It’s rude to keep her on the doorstep like that.”

  I blanche and step back, opening the door wider so Ariana can walk past me.

  She hesitates for a moment, then comes in. She stops a few feet in and looks up at the ceiling that extends up to the second story. It’s meant to be an impressive room, but I find I’m slightly embarrassed by it when Ariana laughs quietly under her breath.

  “Should I take my shoes off?”

  I look to Cornelia, who smiles and shakes her head. “No need. Now, tell me, what’s your name, dear?”

  “Ariana Barnes.”

  “I’m Cornelia Cromwell.” She comes forward and extends her hand, which Ariana takes awkwardly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Are you a friend of Maren’s? I recognize you from the other day, when you came by asking for her.”

  “Yeah, well…in another life, I guess, we were friends.” She gives me another shy once-over.

  I frown. “We still are. We just haven’t seen each other in a while.”

  “Why don’t we all go into the drawing room?” Cornelia suggests, smoothing over the awkwardness with her genteel hospitality. “I’d love to get to know you better, Ariana, unless…” She pauses and looks between us. “Do you have something private to discuss with Maren?”

  Ariana glances over at me like I’m a perfect stranger and then shakes her head. “No, it’s fine. We can all talk.”

  I feel wary falling in step beside Ariana behind Cornelia.

  “I’ll meet you two in there. I need to drop this off with Chef,” Cornelia says, holding up the corsage. “And I’ll ask for refreshments. Ariana, we just had a late breakfast not too long ago, but are you hungry, dear? I can have Chef make you something.”

  “I’m fine. Thanks,” she says, somewhat gruffly.

  Cornelia doesn’t notice Ariana’s tone, and when she turns toward the kitchen, I’m left to lead Ariana toward the blue drawing room.

  The moment we’re alone, she turns toward me. “What the hell is this place? A castle? A museum?”

  “It’s a private residence.”

  She snorts. “Listen to yourself. Private residence—who talks like that?”

  I bristle at her tone. “You don’t need to be rude. Cornelia is extremely kind. You’ll like her if you give her a chance.”

  She nods, strolling around the room, touching things that don’t belong to her.

  “Sounds like you have a nice setup for yourself here. I always forgot what a suck-up you were, always had your nose so far up Nancy and Bob’s ass I’m surprised you didn’t walk around smelling like shit.”

  “Stop.”

  She slices her eyes over to me and shrugs. “Whatever.”

  I uncurl my fists at my sides and force myself to forgive her rudeness. “How are you? Really? Are you still living with Drew?”

  “We broke up,” she says, flicking the pedal of an orchid before she sits down on one of the couches near the fireplace, making herself at home.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Are you?” Her eyes slice up to mine. “You hated him.”

  For good reason. He was horrible to her, manipulative and emotionally abusive. I warned her to leave him years ago, and she never did. It’s the reason we grew apart, though now, seeing her here, I wonder if that’s really the only reason.

  “I’m still sorry. I know you loved him.”

  She sniffles in distaste and looks up at me. “Doesn’t matter now.”

  I want to ask her why she’s here. The question is poised at the tip of my tongue, but I can’t work up the courage. It seems so rude, as if she couldn’t be here just to see me and catch up. I want to give her the benefit of the doubt, so I do. I force myself to walk across the room and close the gap between us, sitting beside her on the couch and taking her hand in mine.

  She’s stiff, but she doesn’t fight me.

  I squeeze her hand and smile.

  “I’m happy you’re here.”

  She narrows her eyes. “Are you?”

  “I’ve missed you. And you know I worry about you.”

  Her gaze softens. “I worry about you too.”

  Cornelia strolls into the room with Louis on her heels and finds us there, with our hands together. She smiles.

  “I’m so happy to meet one of Maren’s friends,” she says to Ariana. “She’s so quiet about her past, I feel like she was born the day she arrived here at Rosethorn. Tell me, how long have you two known each other?”

  “Since we were teenagers,” I answer. “Living in the same foster home.”

  “I see. Was that the family you were with in high school? Before you turned eighteen?”

  I nod and turn to Ariana, eager to change the subject.

  “Where are you staying?”

  She shrugs. “I took a bus down from Providence this morning.”

  “Do you have plans to return today?” Cornelia asks. “You’re welcome to stay here. There’s plenty of room.”

  “We have the gala later,” I remind her.

  “Yes, of course. Ariana can come with us if she’d like. I’ll arrange it with the host. I’m sure she won’t mind one bit.”

  Ariana isn’t given the chance to decline Cornelia’s offer. Almost as soon as it’s issued, Cornelia’s on the phone confirming Ariana’s attendance and then hauling us both up to my bedroom so we can pick a dress for Ariana to wear. It’s not easy. She’s slender where I’m curvy, so most of mine don’t fit her, and of those that do, only two are fancy enough for the event.

  We land on a blue sleeveless dress with a slit up the left leg. The tie back makes it so we can tighten it around her chest and make it fit more snuggly. The lace overlay is beautiful against Ariana’s pale skin.


  “Perfect,” Cornelia says, stepping back to admire my old friend. “Let me go make some more calls, and I’ll send Rita up in a few hours to help you both with hair and makeup. If I were you two, I’d rest until then. It’s going to be a long night.”

  Once she’s gone, Ariana stays standing in front of the mirror, turning in a circle and looking at herself in the dress from different angles.

  “Do you like it? You can pick something else if you want.”

  She shakes her head. “It’s fine. Not really my taste, but I guess this thing we’re going to is pretty fancy?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ve never been.”

  “Right.” She angles her back to me. “Will you untie this?”

  I help her out of the dress and turn to give her privacy while she puts her clothes back on.

  “I know this probably feels sudden, but I think you’ll enjoy coming with us tonight,” I offer, aware of the fact that she’s probably close to bailing on the whole thing.

  “If you say so.”

  She finishes changing then walks past me toward one of the windows that looks out onto the rose garden. She pushes the drapes back with her finger and studies the view before shaking her head and looking at me.

  “So what are you doing here, exactly? Is this the room you stay in all the time?”

  I nod, suddenly a little embarrassed by how fancy it all is. “Yes. I live here.”

  “And you work here? Isn’t that what your messages said? That you were hired here?”

  I wring my hands together. “Yes.”

  “Why aren’t you wearing that rose uniform like everyone else? And how come that old lady is so nice to you?”

  “Cornelia,” I say, emphasizing her name. “And that’s just her nature. She’s nice to everyone.”

  “Yeah right.” She scoffs. “You know she’s only being nice because she feels sorry for me. I can tell when she looks at me.”

  I don’t agree. “I think she cares for me and wants me to be happy, and she knows you’re my friend. I wouldn’t read too much into it.”

  “She cares for you?” She huffs out a laugh. “She’s your boss, isn’t she? Don’t kid yourself.”