Love to Hate You

by Jennifer Sucevic

  I always feel shitty when I head home.

  When I was a kid, I clung to the notion that everything would improve once I escaped the house. But that hasn’t turned out to be the case. There are times when I have to remind myself that I’m not the scrawny eleven-year-old boy I used to be.

  The drive home takes about forty-five minutes. Every mile of pavement the tires eat up makes my nerves stretch ever tauter. By the time I roll up to the guard shack and get waved through by a man in uniform, an uncomfortable pit sits in the bottom of my gut.

  The gated community my parents reside in is affluent, with sprawling, well-manicured lawns. My parents’ massive brick-and-stone mansion is situated on two acres of land and is larger than the ones surrounding it because my father is the developer who built this subdivision of monstrosities.

  With any luck, Dad won’t be home yet. He works at least sixty hours a week, so it’s entirely plausible that he’s still at a job site. If that’s the case, I can slip in before he’s made aware of my presence. Dad might not be home, but there are security cameras everywhere on the property, so he’ll know the moment I pull into the driveway.

  I park in front of the house and jog up the stairs. I don’t bother ringing the bell and just slip inside. The door closes and silence echoes throughout the first floor. It’s as quiet as a tomb, reminding me there was never much laughter or joy while growing up in this house.

  Nothing has changed in that regard.

  I find Mom in the kitchen preparing dinner.

  Her face lights up with pleasure the moment she sees me. “Carter! You didn’t mention that you would be stopping by.”

  She comes around the massive marble island and wraps her slender arms around me, squeezing like she’ll never let go. I press her tightly against me. We’re like two survivors clinging to one another during a storm. Even though neither of us acknowledge it, we both know why I don’t give advanced warning as to when I’m going to visit.

  “It was a spur-of-the-moment decision,” I say, just like I always do. “Thought I’d see how you were doing.”

  As much as I hate coming here, I like to see for myself that she’s okay. It’s the reason I stayed close by for college.

  “I’m good.” She smiles brightly.

  Sometimes I marvel at how she does it. How she manages to act like there’s nothing wrong, as if her life is perfect. It’s mind boggling.

  As we separate from one another, my gaze rakes over her. Mom looks like she’s dropped a few more pounds since I last saw her. She stands a few inches above five feet and has always been on the petite side. But now she looks frail. Delicate. Her dark hair is pulled back into a low ponytail at the nape of her neck. Her makeup is flawless. She’s wearing a summery dress with short sleeves, and her feet are bare. Even though she looks like she could walk out the door any moment, I know she’s not going anywhere. Dad expects her to look and dress a certain way. Even when she’s at home.

  I gnash my teeth together.

  Dad’s a total control freak. He always has been.

  I’ve escaped. Sort of. Even though I’ve encouraged Mom to leave, I doubt she ever will. I don’t know how she deals with his constant bullshit. By the time I walked out the door at eighteen, I promised myself that I would never go back. And other than to check on my mother, I haven’t.

  Her bottle green eyes settle on me as she continues prepping the steaks on the counter. “Would you like to join us for dinner?” she asks with a hopeful note in her voice even though she knows it’s a bad idea.

  I shake my head. “Sorry, I can’t. I just finished up with practice and have a paper due at the end of the week.”

  It’s not a lie. It is due on Friday, but it’s practically finished. I just need to add the bibliography.

  Disappointment flashes in her eyes.

  Wanting to make it up to her, I say, “What about lunch next week? You can come to BU, and we’ll find a restaurant near campus.”

  Her face lights up and slowly falls as her mind immediately goes to what Dad will say. She’s wondering if he’ll allow her to meet me for lunch.

  I clench my hands as the urge to punch something careens through me.

  Her shoulders droop, and she drops her gaze to the steaks as she salts and peppers them. “Let me check my calendar and get back to you.”

  That’s code for I’ll ask your father for permission to leave the premises.

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to snap that she’s a grown woman and doesn’t need his consent. But I don’t. Somehow, I manage to rein it in. She’s the last person I want to explode on.

  It’s a frustrating situation. I love Mom more than anything, but this behavior and the way Dad’s trained her…it’s difficult to watch.

  And even more difficult to stomach.

  Once my emotions are locked down tight, I shrug as if it’s no big deal. “Let me know what you decide.”

  The corners of her lips lift. “I’ll do that.”

  As soon as those words are out of her mouth, the garage door opens. Her body goes on high alert as her breath catches.

  “It’s fine, Mom,” I say soothingly through gritted teeth.

  She nods, but her eyes dart around the spacious kitchen with its endless sea of white marble counters and stainless-steel appliances, checking to make sure nothing is out of place. Even though she’s in the middle of preparing dinner, everything is perfect and clean. Wiped down and polished. As soon as she uses a spice, it’s put away in the cabinet. As soon as she’s finished with a dish or pan, it’s washed and set back on its shelf.

  How the fuck does a person live like this?

  It makes me want to smash everything in my path just to tick my father off.

  The back door slams and Mom flinches as the sound reverberates through the first floor. A fine tremble racks her hands as she brushes them over the silky material of her dress, making sure it’s in place.

  Heavy footfalls land with sharp clicks that echo against the polished marble tile in the hall.

  I straighten my shoulders and pull myself up to my full height. It’s ridiculous that I have to remind myself that I’m not the same kid Dad used to push around and bully.

  Because that’s exactly what he is. What he’s always been. A fucking bully who needs to be put in his place. Except I can’t do that because he’ll take it out on Mom as soon as I leave. So, I’m stuck constantly biting my tongue and tamping down all my emotions to a place where they’re free to fester.

  Dad emerges from the hall. As soon as his gaze locks on mine, his feet grind to a halt. He may act like he’s surprised to find me here, but I know he’s not. He doesn’t say one word in greeting.

  Neither do I.

  Our relationship evolved past niceties a long time ago. We only act like the perfect family while making public appearances. But here, in the privacy of our own home, he doesn’t bother with pretenses. And I’ve played this game for much too long not to understand the rules. He uses silence like a sledgehammer. He’s all about intimidation.

  Ignoring me, Dad saunters into the kitchen, going straight to where Mom stands at the island.

  She hasn’t moved a muscle. Her unease is palpable, radiating off her in thick, heavy, suffocating waves. She’s like a trapped bird who’s grown tired of beating her clipped wings against a gilded cage.

  Dad surrounds her and invades her personal space. He makes a show of inspecting the steaks. “Did you get these cuts from the butcher?”

  “Of course,” she says softly. “They’re T-bones, your favorite.”

  He makes a non-committal noise at the back of his throat as if they aren’t quite up to par, and I want to punch him in the face for being such a dickhead. All three of us know that it’s his favorite cut of meat, but he enjoys toying with her. He relishes the fear emanating off her while she silently waits for his approval like a barely tolerated mutt at his feet.

  I ball my hands into fists as anger rushes through me.

  It’s beyond
me why Mom stays and puts up with this crap. I wish she would pack her bags and leave. But she refuses. She gives me all sorts of bullshit excuses as to why she can’t walk away.

  Once I’m drafted to the NFL and start drawing a paycheck, I’m going to get her out of here. There won’t be any excuses left to give. She can’t love this asshole. The possibility makes me shudder. If I never see him again, it would be too soon.

  Dad pins her body against the counter as his gaze locks on me. His jaw tightens as he glares. “Nice of you to drop by unannounced.”

  I shrug since there’s nothing I can say or do that won’t ignite his temper. I release a pent-up breath when he backs away from her.

  Dad shrugs out of his jacket and carefully lays it over a high-backed chair.

  “You’ll need to drop this suit off at the dry cleaners. I need it back by Monday.”

  Mom nods.

  “Alice!” he snaps. “Did you hear me?”

  Eyes wide, her head jerks up. “Sorry, I’ll take it over first thing in the morning.”

  His lips thin as he presses them together. It doesn’t take much to set him off. He’s like a powder keg waiting for an opportunity to explode. I learned early on to gauge his moods and act accordingly. I spent my entire childhood tip-toeing around him.

  “Do you want me to drop it off when I leave, Mom?” I offer. “I’m going right past the cleaners.”

  It’s a little out of the way, but she doesn’t need to know that.

  Before she has a chance to respond, Dad bites out, “She’ll take care of it in the morning.” He glances at the chunky silver Rolex wrapped around his wrist. “Maybe after dinner, if it ever gets made.”

  I clench my jaw and silently count to ten. It takes everything I have inside not to unleash my fury at his abusive treatment. If I don’t get out of here, I’m going to lose it. And I don’t want to do that. My purpose in stopping by was to check on Mom, and that’s exactly what I did.

  “All right,” I say tightly, “I’ve got to take off.” Before I can think better of it, I add, “Let me know if next week works.”

  As soon as the last sentence escapes my mouth, I want to suck it back in again. I almost cringe for being so careless. There’s no use hoping that he didn’t catch the words.

  His body stills as his muddy brown eyes sharpen, bouncing between us with interest. “What’s going on next week?”

  When no one responds, he growls, “Alice?”

  Mom flinches. “Oh, um, Carter suggested that we meet for lunch.”

  “No.”

  The word drops from his lips like a two-ton brick.

  My eyes narrow. “Why?” Even though it’s pointless to argue, I can’t help myself because the fact that he has to control her every move pisses me off. “Why can’t we meet for lunch?”

  For the first time since walking into the kitchen, a thin smile spreads across my father’s face.

  He enjoys denying me something I want. He doesn’t have as many opportunities to fuck with me now that I have a full scholarship to play ball at BU. He can’t lord money over me the way he used to. And he can’t make me jump through an endless series of hoops only to deny me at the end.

  He crosses his thickly corded arms across his chest as his smile broadens.

  God, but I fucking hate him. He’s a useless son of a bitch.

  “Because I said so,” he replies, enunciating each word. “That’s why.”

  Fury infuses every fiber of my being. “She’s a grown woman,” I remind him tightly. “If she wants to meet me for lunch, she can.”

  He arches a brow. “Is that so?”

  “Yeah.” I clench and unclench my hands at my side.

  His gaze bores into mine as he says, “Alice, under no circumstances are you to meet Carter for lunch next week. Are you going to disobey me?”

  With slumped shoulders, my mother stares at the seasoned steaks, not daring to lift her eyes. “No.”

  That one word conveys just how broken and beaten she is.

  A triumphant smile blooms across Dad’s smug face. “Will there be any further discussions on the subject, Alice?”

  “No.”

  Goddamn it!

  I need to walk away now. If I don’t, I’m going to fucking lose my shit, and I promised myself I wouldn’t allow that to happen. Not ever. I won’t let him provoke me into being someone I’m not.

  Him.

  “You’re a real asshole,” I mutter under my breath, stalking out of the kitchen.

  My back isn’t turned for more than ten seconds when he growls, “What the fuck did you say?”

  It takes a moment to realize that his voice is much closer than it was before. I spin around just in time for him to ram both hands into my chest. Because I wasn’t expecting the attack, I stumble back a few steps before catching myself. Years of conditioning takes over as I square up.

  Ugliness dances in his eyes. He loves this. Loves that he can push my buttons into reacting when I try so hard to deny him the satisfaction. For him, it only makes these moments sweeter.

  I suck in a breath and lock down my anger because he feeds off it like a monster lurking in the dark. I need to get the hell out of here before the situation escalates.

  Because it will.

  This is how Philip Prescott operates.

  He shoves me again with rough hands. “You think you’re such a big man now, don’t you? Say the goddamn words to my face, you little pussy.” He pushes me again, only managing to knock me back a step. “Say the fucking words!”

  Remain calm.

  Don’t give him what he wants.

  “I said that you’re an asshole,” I grit out.

  Fury mixed with hate flashes across his face, and then he takes a swing. I duck and block his punch. He grunts and strikes with the other fist. This time I’m not fast enough, and it catches me in the eye. Pain explodes behind my eyelid.

  Mom cries out as I shove him back.

  Even though I take after my father in size, I have more muscle and strength. I lift weights every day. Not only for football but because I refuse to ever be in a position to be physically intimidated again.

  As much as I want to defend myself, to strike back, I won’t. He’ll only take it out on my mom after I walk out the door. As satisfying as it would be to retaliate, I refuse to do that to her.

  “Get the fuck out of my house!” Dad bellows.

  “Gladly.” I glance at Mom and stalk to the front door. My breath comes out in harsh pants. My heart thumps painfully against my chest, echoing in my ears.

  Just as I turn the knob, Dad yells, “And don’t come back. You’re no longer welcome in this house.”

  Without responding, I close the door behind me.

  I’m sure he’s hoping to rile me up so I’ll return for another confrontation, but I refuse to do that. I’m no longer a puppet he can control.

  Once I slide behind the wheel of my car, I start the engine and let it idle. I’m tempted to peel out of the drive, but I don’t give in to the urge. Pent-up aggression rampages through my veins, and I slam my fist into the steering wheel.

  Once.

  Twice.

  Three times.

  Pain radiates through my palms and fingers.

  The physical ache is just enough to take the edge off my mental anguish. Only then am I able to pull myself back together again and drive away.

  But instead of heading to the apartment, I stop at the athletic center.

  I need to lift.

  I need to channel my energies into something other than the altercation that just occurred.

  Chapter Twelve

  Daisy

  My current relationship with Carter can be summed up in one word.

  Awkward.

  We’ve gone from constantly sniping and taking shots at each other to this bizarre formalness. It’s like we’re strangers. Strangers who unfortunately live together and are forced to, upon occasion, interact.

  I dread when Noah takes off and lea
ves the two of us alone at the apartment. Within minutes, I find excuses to hide out in my room. I spend way too much time there. Which has led to the realization that I need more artwork on the walls. This place is boring. I’ve created a whole new Pinterest board with ideas.

  I might crash at Olivia’s place for a few days because I need a break from the forced cordialness. Maybe then we can get back to normal. Well, not normal-normal. I don’t think we can go back to the way it was before. But we need something better than these painful interactions.

  I slide the key into the lock and push open the door. My head tips to the side as I listen for the slightest sound. One that will alert me to the fact that I’m not alone. But there’s nothing. It takes a beat or two for my muscles to loosen. The lights are off, which is another telltale sign that no one is around. I’ve never been so thankful to come home to an empty apartment in my life. And that’s saying something.

  With a relieved sigh, I drop my bag on the table and think about what I can shove in the microwave for dinner. Mondays are my long days. I had three classes, and then I headed to the library to work on a paper that’s due at the end of next week. Instead of grabbing lunch, I skipped it and wolfed down the granola bar I’d thrown into my bag earlier this morning.

  The mere thought of food makes my belly rumble with hunger.

  As I flick on the kitchen light, a movement from the far corner of the living room catches my eye and I freeze. The hair at the nape of my neck stands on end. My heart lodges itself somewhere in the middle of my throat as I turn my head more fully in that direction, only now realizing that I’m not alone.

  A shadowy figure sits on the recliner nearest to the window.

  My fight or flight response kicks into high gear, and I’m just about to race to the apartment door, when I hear, “Hey.”

  Recognition is instantaneous.

  Carter.

  I’d know his deep voice anywhere.

  I slap a hand against my chest to still my hammering heart as my body wilts in relief. For a minute, I’d thought someone had broken into the apartment. The only self-defense maneuver I’m familiar with is the one where you scream your head off while swinging your fists wildly. Not exactly a foolproof or recommended tactic.