Love the One You Hate

by Grey, R. S.

  “You were so fuckin’ smart and talented and better than the rest of us. I don’t think I had one boyfriend in high school who wasn’t more interested in you than me. They thought they were being so clever, too, always trying to hide it. Is Maren coming out with us? Hey, just wondering, is Maren seeing anyone?”

  My first instinct is to refute her, but shutting down someone else’s feelings doesn’t make them go away.

  “I don’t remember it that way,” I say instead.

  She hums wistfully. “You were always too lost in your own world to pay much attention, trying to hatch a plan to get yourself out of the hellhole we’d found ourselves in. Had you opened your eyes and looked around, you would have seen that the world wanted you. They put up with me so they could get close to you, but you never let anyone get too close. I should have warned them they were wasting their time.”

  “You never said anything…”

  “Because what would have changed? You would have only felt bad for me, and the absolute last thing I need in life is another person’s pity.”

  “Well, still…you must have resented me for it.”

  “Obviously I still do. It’s why it felt so good when Barrett flirted with me. I wanted it to be real. I wanted him to want me more than he wanted you, but then I saw you with Nicholas and realized, yet again, I’m second best. The consolation prize.”

  My heart breaks for her. “Ariana—”

  “I just said I don’t want your pity, Maren, so if you’re about to launch into some apology about how you didn’t realize you were the pretty one or the sweet one or the one who never broke the rules, I don’t really want to hear it.”

  “Then what do you want from me?”

  She shakes her head and looks out toward the ocean. “I don’t even know anymore. I thought maybe now things would be different. I had good intentions coming here and I meant what I said about us being roommates again, but it’s probably for the best that we just stay away from each other.”

  “What are you talking about? You’re my family.”

  “Yeah, and look at how I’ve treated you. I let you take the fall for me over and over, with our foster family and with the cops.”

  I hold my breath, unsure how deep into this subject she’s willing to go.

  “I know I ruined your life.” Her features pinch in pained regret. “If not for those charges, you could have gone to college. You wouldn’t have had to struggle to find a job. That’s on me.”

  She shakes her head and starts to turn, but I stop her before she can walk away.

  “It doesn’t have to be like this. We can help each other. Cornelia can help you. She’s generous and—”

  “Don’t you see what I’m trying to tell you, Maren?! I don’t want to be your friend. I don’t want to share a shitty apartment and split the rent and force you into some dead-end job, knowing I’m holding you back. You have what I want—what we all fuckin’ want…a way out.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  She glares at me out of the corner of her eye. “No offense, but for someone so smart, you can be a real idiot sometimes. It’s an insult that you can’t see what’s right in front of you, the differences between us. I’m going to wake up in fifty years and be in the same place I’ve been my whole life: job I hate, shitty boyfriend, couple kids. And that’s fine, but you’re sitting on a gold mine—and I’m not talking about your job with these rich snobs. I’m talking about that talent you’ve had your whole life.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I don’t? Nancy and Bob begged you to apply to college. They knew you would’ve gotten in anywhere you applied. Tuition and shit would have been taken care of, but you didn’t do it.”

  “Yeah well, it worked out, didn’t it? I got charged with a felony that spring thanks to you. My scholarships would have been revoked immediately.”

  “Yeah, you’re right, and you didn’t give a damn. You didn’t even get mad at me. It’s like you just laid down and accepted it like it was exactly what you deserved.”

  I don’t speak, scared I’ll say the wrong thing.

  “Do me a favor, will you?” she says, finally looking me straight in the eyes. “Move on.”

  “I don’t know how.”

  She smiles and shakes her head, pushing back from the railing.

  “You’ve always known.”

  * * *

  By the time I get back to Rosethorn that night, the house is dark and quiet. It’s late, sometime past midnight. Ariana caught the last bus back to Providence, and I went with her to the station. We stood at the ticket booth and I cried, but she didn’t seem sad at all. My hands wrapped around her, squeezing her against me, and she didn’t pull back, but she didn’t hug me tight either. When I let her go, she stepped back and held up her bus ticket, studied me for a long beat, and then turned and pulled open the door to go inside the terminal. Maybe I could’ve gone in to wait with her, but I didn’t.

  I hopped back in the car and let Frank drive me home.

  We didn’t say a word.

  I head up the stairs now, wondering if Cornelia and Nicholas are back from the gala yet. I didn’t talk to either one of them as Ariana and I were leaving the event, but I caught Nicholas’ eye and waved, so maybe he realized I was on my way out. Maybe not. I don’t have the energy to care at the moment.

  I walk into my bedroom and turn on my bedside lamp. Our gala dresses lie on top of my comforter, a twisted mess of red and blue. We stripped them off to change back into normal clothes before we went to catch her bus. I don’t have the will to move the dresses yet, and even though this day has been one of the longest of my life, I’m not quite ready for bed. I swap my clothes for silky sleep shorts and a matching tank top, then I take the folded throw blanket from the corner of my bed, wrap it around my shoulders, and head back downstairs quietly, toward the blue drawing room.

  It’s secluded enough from the bedrooms upstairs and downstairs that I shouldn’t wake anyone with my playing. I close the doors behind me as quietly as possible and turn on the floor lamp closest to the piano. Its light barely stretches to the keys, but it’s enough.

  I tug on the bench, pulling it out from underneath the piano, and sit down, feeling comforted by its familiarity. There’s sheet music propped up on the stand, but I don’t need it for the song I’ve had in my head since I dropped Ariana at the bus station.

  The melody is soft and slow, heartbreaking in its simple sad sound.

  My fingers play gently, and I mess up on one of the notes, so I start again, playing the song through again, then again.

  It’s like I’m hoping if I play it enough, I’ll leave my sorrow there on the keys. Tears blur my vision every now and then, but I never cry.

  The door of the drawing room opens, but I don’t bother looking over my shoulder as I continue to play. I recognize his footsteps after he closes the door and his height as he steps into my periphery. He hovers at a distance, listening to me playing. I finish the song again and start anew, scared to stop.

  “You must be in quite a dark mood,” he murmurs.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “That song you’re playing. What’s it called?”

  “‘The Departure’.”

  He steps closer, coming up behind the piano bench and tugging my blanket down far enough that he can cup his hand on the back of my bare neck.

  “I hope you’re not intending I read into that. You aren’t leaving us, are you?”

  My heart sinks at the thought.

  “Eventually. I’ve probably outstayed my welcome. You of all people would agree.”

  His hand flinches. “You have it wrong.”

  A flicker of a smile spreads across my lips before I shake my head and continue playing. “Be careful or I might mistake your sleepy mood for something else.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like actual kindness.”

  “I’ve been kind to you, haven’t I?” he asks, starting to skim his han
d up and down my neck, beneath my hair. I tilt my head to the side to give him easier access. “In recent weeks.”

  “Hmm, I’m not sure what word best describes your behavior lately. Kindness might not be it.”

  “It’s not in my nature to open up to many people,” he admits, his fingers sliding up higher into my hair.

  “I’ve seen that firsthand. You’ve been a puzzle I can’t solve…an egg I can’t crack.”

  “Have you tried?”

  I laugh under my breath. “Desperately, and yet I can’t seem to give up—can’t give you up. You’ve changed me.”

  “And how do you think you’ve changed me?”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, can’t you see?” he asks, bending to pull the blanket off my shoulders completely so it pools around my hips on the bench. “Haven’t you managed to discover the truth? I live by your breath.”

  His mouth touches my neck and my fingers still on the piano. The song cuts off abruptly, leaving us in silence. His lips move confidently down to my shoulder then his fingers trace along the strap of my tank top, shifting it millimeter by millimeter until it falls down my arm. The material pools, barely covering my chest, and my eyes squeeze shut as I let him continue. His hand brushes my arm, moving to cup my breast through the silky fabric, then he tugs it down farther and teasingly exposes another few inches of my skin. My head tips back and I lean into him, giving him every advantage as he continues working the material lower, baring my skin to the quiet room.

  I’m uncovered from the waist up while I still sit on the piano bench with him standing behind me. His hands grasp and tease my breasts and I tremble, keeping my eyes closed. He bends low and tips my chin up so he can kiss me, but it’s brief and my eyes flick open in annoyance when he pulls away. He looks down at me with dark eyes, drinking me in with a drugged gaze. His emotions are so carefully tucked away, if not for his eyes, I wouldn’t think he was affected by me at all.

  His hand skims lower as our eyes stay locked, and I reach to grab his forearm in consent. He plays with my breasts again, teasing them until I don’t think I can bear another second of his touch. Only then does he move lower. He slides his hand under the bunched material of my shirt and then, slowly, beneath the waistband of my shorts. I keep my grip on his forearm, pushing him down farther as I part my legs. When he slides his fingers underneath my panties, my stomach squeezes tight.

  His touch stays suspended there for a moment. He doesn’t move at first, but then my legs part even more and his fingers brush gently at the center of my thighs. I shudder. He stands over me, perfectly composed as he repeats the gesture, prolonging the agony as he touches me there, drawing a moan from my lips as he swirls his middle finger again and again just in the spot where I need him most.

  His eyes are on mine and I want to look away, but his other hand hooks under my chin and he keeps me there, staring up at him.

  His thumb brushes my mouth and my lips part at the precise moment he slides the middle finger of his other hand inside me. My back arches as he presses in deeper, then he draws back out and in again, parting me and seducing me so that I spread my thighs farther, inviting him to feel every inch of me.

  His adds a second finger and I draw his other thumb into my mouth. This won’t do, I think, digging my nails into his arm. I feel close to peeling apart, like every cell inside me might riot in a million different directions. Then his fingers start to swirl again, and I shatter there on the piano bench, rising to meet his fingers as I cry out.

  I’m barely done, barely able to catch my breath when he spins me around on the bench and tugs my shorts and panties down my legs. The silk rips and he doesn’t go easy. He yanks the material off and tosses it behind him before positioning himself on his knees between my thighs.

  His tongue is on me immediately, lapping me up, so that I lose balance and lean back, catching myself on the piano and eliciting a loud, shrill sound from the instrument.

  I curse under my breath, but Nicholas doesn’t stop for even a moment. He presses my thighs apart until the outsides of my knees skim the piano bench, and then he devours me hungrily. I have no choice but to be on the receiving end of pleasure so purely wonderful it’s a hair’s breadth away from being painful. My hips rock up and my toes curl on impulse.

  His fingers join his tongue and I grip his hair, not caring one bit if I’m hurting him, maybe wanting to hurt him just a little.

  He finds a sweet spot, swirling his tongue around and around as my thighs try to squeeze tight. He doesn’t let me close my legs. He keeps me parted and exposed, utterly useless.

  I come again so quickly I can’t catch hold of the feeling before it completely consumes me. It’s earth-shattering and somehow better than the first, and I’m telling him that, telling him everything—how wonderful he is, how much I want him—and then I’m on top of him, pushing him back onto my blanket that covers the carpet below us so I can straddle his hips and yank ineffectively on his clothes. He’s still wearing his tuxedo and there are so many layers between us. I’m nearly naked, but he’s still buttoned-up.

  “Maren,” he protests as I try to go for his bow tie. “Don’t bother. Fuck.”

  He reaches down for his pants, for the zipper there, and then I feel his length slick and smooth underneath me, so damn hard as I reach down to touch it. I pump him in my hand, though there’s no need; he’s rock hard. Truthfully, I just like the way he feels, like imagining how he’ll feel once he’s inside me. There’s a condom in his wallet, he swears, and when he finds it, I send up a silent thank you to anyone listening.

  I give him a moment to tear it open and roll it on and then I’m there again, straddling him so I can grind against his length, wetting him so that when I lift my hips and hold him at the right angle, he starts to slide into me beautifully. I pause for a moment, letting him stretch me, before I continue to take more of him inside me. It’s been a while since I had sex, and my body isn’t used to accommodating someone his size. I bite my lip against the twinge of pain, but then Nicholas’ hand is between my thighs, rubbing soft circles where I need him, and just like that, my muscles relax and he presses all the way in.

  For a moment, I sit on top of him, unmoving, like a queen appreciating everything I’ve fought hard to conquer: a tuxedo-clad Nicholas splayed out underneath me, bending to my will. I smile deviously and he grips my hips punishingly, lifting his hips so that I rock on top of him and lose my balance. I have to drop my hands to his chest to keep from falling over, my one fleeting moment of control gone in the blink of an eye. I might be the one on top, but Nicholas calls the shots, holding my hips steady as he starts pumping in and out of me, slowly at first, drawing out and then moving back in at a rhythm that will drive us both mad. As soon as the complaint hits my lips, he picks up the pace, thrusting harder and faster until I relax completely and let him have his way.

  I fall against his chest eventually, pressing kisses along his jaw, letting him feel the weight of me on top of him as his hands move from my waist to the backs of my thighs. He pumps deeper into me and I hear his breath picking up, and it feeds my own pleasure, the idea of him losing himself so completely inside of me, the idea of him rushing toward the same wonderful end I’ve already felt twice tonight. I don’t deserve to feel it a third time, but Nicholas seems to be holding off until I give it to him, and that knowledge is all it takes to get me there again. He takes my earlobe between his teeth and I clench around him as my body shakes and he growls in my ear, coming apart underneath me as a shudder racks his chest. Half-bitten curses ring out of him and I’m spent completely by the time he finally slows and then stops.

  We don’t move a muscle as our chests rise and fall.

  “Maren,” he whispers.

  “Hmm.”

  His hand comes up to brush my hair away from my face, but I can’t work up the will to open my eyes. He laughs and sits up. He’s still inside me and I don’t mind one bit, but we can’t stay fused forever. He lifts me up and off him and se
ts me down on the blanket so he can wrap it around me. I rest my chin on my hands as I hear him bustling around the room. When I finally pry my sleepy eyes open, he stands above me, not so different from the way he looked when he first walked in. Sure, his hair is mussed from my hands and his bow tie hangs askew, but other than that, he could be on his way to another black-tie function.

  “What are you thinking about?” he asks as he loops his arms around me and stands with my weight in his arms.

  “I’m not thinking. I’m dreaming,” I say, resting my head against his chest.

  26

  Nicholas

  I carry Maren up to my bedroom so we can rinse off and climb into bed. She’s wearing one of my t-shirts and lying on one of my pillows, already half-asleep when I reach out to tug her toward me. She’s tired and compliant, so when I drape my arm around her waist, she curls into me more.

  I don’t sleep very much that night, too aware of her in my bed: every sound she makes, every time her body moves, the barest touch of her skin against mine. I consider waking her up twice with a kiss, but I force myself to close my eyes and try to nod off. Sometime near dawn, I give in to the urge to have her again. I skate my hand up underneath her shirt and feel her smooth skin until she starts to stir. She moans when my hand cups her breast, and it sounds drugged and needy. I reach for a condom in my bedside table and am inside her before she blinks her eyes open and looks up at me in the dark room.

  “Nicholas,” she whispers as I spread her legs and push in deeper.

  I kiss her, pouring myself into her as my hips roll and thrust.

  It’s over before I want it to be, a slice of heaven that dissolves before my eyes.

  We sleep again after that, and when I wake up, Maren’s not in my bed.

  She’s downstairs with my grandmother by the time I shower and join them for breakfast. I have no idea where her head is at, and I feel like I’m walking on eggshells as I fill my plate and sit down across the table from her.

  She glances up and smiles at me, an expression filled with all the memories of last night and no regrets.