Love the One You Hate

“It wasn’t as dangerous as you might think. There were never any injuries. People were smart enough to stay back. The fence is only there now because of the Cliff Walk. My grandfather didn’t want tourists to mistake Rosethorn for public property.”

“Why was the Cliff Walk first built? Why would you all have agreed to let them take a portion of your property?”

“It wasn’t ours to give. It’s the law. No one has ownership of the ocean.”

It’s a beautiful sentiment. I tell him so and he nods, staring out at the sea as the breeze ruffles the dark strands of his hair. He looks so beautifully severe this morning, so much like his portrait. His sharp profile begs to be touched and I almost open my mouth to apologize about last night, but then he speaks and the words die on my tongue.

“I won’t repeat my actions from last night,” he says obstinately.

My heart lurches in my chest.

“It was inappropriate, and I hope I didn’t offend you,” he continues.

Yes, my initial reaction was offense. It’s why my hand shot up to protect myself, but then once realization set in, once my body recognized Nicholas’ strong hold, warmth spread through me like a slow-moving trickle of lava. I would have let him kiss me if he’d tried. I would have begged him to continue, and maybe it’s for the best that we didn’t start at all. How different would this morning’s chat be if he were here telling me he regretted his actions, saying he didn’t mean to get my hopes up or string me along. How mortifying would it have been if he wanted to take back the kiss altogether instead of just the possibility of a kiss?

This is better.

This way, my dignity is spared.

“You’re welcome at Rosethorn as long as you’d like to remain here,” he says before turning back toward the house.

Wetness gathers in the corners of my eyes, and I dab it away with a sharp, forceful inhalation.* * *A house as big as Rosethorn seems to magnify every emotion. There’s no escaping them in the cavernous halls and quiet rooms. Loneliness seeps in Saturday afternoon, so dark and all-consuming I can’t shake it. Cornelia and Lydia have plans to eat out for dinner tonight, and Nicholas isn’t home either. I go downstairs and find most of the staff playing poker, laughing around their dining table, and I know better than to interrupt. I go back up to my room and try to call Ariana, but she doesn’t answer. I’m not surprised. She hasn’t taken any of my calls since I arrived here. I worry about her, wondering how she’s faring since we last spoke. I’m tempted to leave her another message, but I don’t bother.

I put on jeans and a light t-shirt then head into town just to have something to do. I’ve never seen the shops on Bellevue so busy. Tourists bustle around on the sidewalk, licking ice cream cones and taking pictures in front of the overgrown hydrangea blossoms. I pass the wine bar Barrett took me to last week and am surprised to find Nicholas and Rhett sitting outside among friends. It’s a group of eight or so, a few of whom I recognize from Tori’s garden party. A petite blonde sits to the left of Nicholas, chatting animatedly. I force myself to look away and keep walking.

My goal is to reach Tori’s gallery, and I make it there just as the sun is starting to set. I peer through the windows to see if she’s busy and find her near the front, standing beside a dark bronze sculpture of a thin, distorted figure. Her patrons study it as Tori talks, and then her eyes glance past them, seeing me out on the sidewalk. She smiles and waves and I do the same before continuing on so I don’t distract her from making a sale.

Though it’s dinner time and every restaurant I pass sends out tempting smells, I continue to walk, enjoying the feeling of being in motion. I don’t stop until I’ve reached Miantonomi Memorial Park. I have no clue how far I am from Rosethorn, but I don’t worry about it. My feet carried me here; they’ll carry me back.

I turn back around to head home, staying on well-lit streets now that night has fallen completely. Somewhere along the way, I become aware of a small shaggy dog following along behind me. It looks like some kind of terrier mix with dirty brown hair sticking up in every direction.

“I don’t have any food,” I tell it, turning my pockets out as if to prove my point.

It wags its tail and I groan, turning back around to continue my walk.

It follows, growing cockier as the minutes pass. Eventually, he’s right beside me, trotting along.