At First Hate (Coastal Chronicles)

“Oh.”

“Marley,” he said, brushing his hand against mine. I stiffened as he turned my hand over and drew figure eights into my palm. “Do you want me to be there?”

“What? And miss Paris?”

“You could come with us then.”

I laughed softly, very aware that he was touching me and I should be stopping him. “I can’t come to Paris, Derek. That’s absurd.”

“Why are you denying this?”

I tried to pull away, but he slid our fingers together. We fit perfectly, as if it was always meant to be. I’d forgotten how easy we were together.

“Because I remember how you threw me away last time,” I said softly.

“I’m not that guy.”

“I want to believe you,” I told him truthfully.

“But you don’t.”

I shook my head and withdrew my hand. “I don’t.”

So, I watched him walk away, out of my apartment. I didn’t expect to see or hear from him again. He’d been putting in the effort, and I still didn’t trust him. He’d go off to Paris and have a great time. I wanted him to. But I wouldn’t deny that it hurt to consider…

19

Harvard

Spring Semester 2013

Winter break hadn’t been as revitalizing as I’d thought it would be. It had been fun to get away with Lila on Ash’s yacht, and to hear from Josie that she’d fucking eloped with her costar at Christmas. She hadn’t even invited us! But my Gramps’ health was failing. Gran had finally moved him into a nursing home for dementia. It seemed like all my years of research would be for naught since I couldn’t seem to do anything for the one person I wanted to help.

When I got back to Harvard, I tried not to think about it. Misty wasn’t showing up until tomorrow. I hadn’t heard from Derek. He’d sent a text on New Year’s Eve, but that was it. I figured that was all I’d hear from him anyway. I’d turned him down at his birthday. He’d probably been off, having a wonderful holiday with loads of Parisian women.

I hated to admit, even to myself, that it made me sick to think about. I didn’t want Derek off with other women. But it made no sense because I didn’t want him here with me either. Well, I wanted him, but I didn’t trust him.

There was nothing to do but obsess about it or get it out of my head. So, I took a scalding hot shower, spending an inordinately long amount of time with conditioner in my hair, scrunching it to perfection. I had a lot of hair and curls that were sometimes a mix of waves. To make it look as good as I wanted took time that I usually didn’t have. So, I added gel and a curl cream before spending the next hour diffusing the locks so they gleamed. Perfect curls that hit me mid-back. My curls had never been this long. Of course it would be on a night when I had nowhere to be and nothing to do.

Then, the doorbell rang.

I was still in my underwear since blow-drying was hot business, even in a Cambridge winter. I pulled on sweats and a Duke sweatshirt and then yanked the door open. Derek stood at my door, half-covered in snow.

“Derek,” I said with surprise in my voice.

“Hey, Mars.”

His smile made my insides melt. I’d missed him. I’d really missed him. Fuck.

“Come in.”

He dusted most of the snow off of his jacket and then came inside. He hung his jacket on a hook at the door. I laughed softly when I saw that he had a UNC basketball shirt underneath it all. He so rarely went casual, and of course, it would be when we were wearing opposing teams.

“Nice shirt,” I joked.

He laughed. “Yeah, you too.”

“When did you get back?”

“Just now,” he said, running a hand back through his hair. “I came right over.”

“Oh,” I whispered and then turned toward the kitchen to hide my blush. “Do you want a drink? I have everything for sidecars.”

“You sure love that drink.”

“Gran had me drinking them at a tender age.”

“Show me how you make them,” he said and followed me into the kitchen.

“All right. It’s not hard or anything. It’s just brandy… well, cognac, but use whatever you have. I only have Hennessy. Gran has this bottle of Pierre Ferrand that she sometimes uses, and dear God, it’s divine. But if you don’t have two hundred dollars to throw around on a bottle, Hennessy it is. Then Cointreau, which is an orange liqueur. Triple sec is fine if you don’t have the good stuff.” I winked at him. He always had the good stuff. “Squeeze of lemon. I like to sugar the rim.” I shook everything together and poured us each a sidecar.

He took a sip and startled. “This is delicious.”

“I know, right? It’s basically the only drink I can make,” I said with a laugh.