Love the One You Hate

It doesn’t fade either.

In the days that follow, I finally feel like I belong at Rosethorn. It’s a subtle change, the courage to lift my head and speak my mind and gain a real foothold in day-to-day life there. I’m no longer relegating myself to the sides of the halls, worried to get in anyone’s way. I walk Louis in the mornings, I confirm Cornelia’s appointments for the day with Diane, I sit in on planning meetings and lunches and teas, I meet Tori at the club and I manage to play, if not great, at least mediocre tennis. I exist in a way that feels loud and confident and resolute, because for once, I’m not apologizing for being who I am.* * *Nicholas arrives on Friday evening, three weeks after I last saw him. When I hear his car stir up the gravel drive, I rush down the stairs and fly through the kitchen and out the back door. It’s impulsive and out of character. I’ve never shown this much excitement at his arrival. I’ve never come out to greet him like this and I know he’s about to come inside, but everyone will be in there and how will we talk when there’s such a crowd?

I don’t have a plan as I walk down the stone stairs and wait for him on the gravel. He’s preoccupied as he reaches in to grab a brown leather bag from his back seat, but when he closes the door and stands to his full height, he finally turns toward me and stops.

Three weeks haven’t dulled him in the least. He’s as sharp and handsome as ever.

He’s wearing his clothes from work, I think, though he’s rolled his shirtsleeves up to his elbows and undone his top button. If he’s had a long day—and I’m sure he has—I can’t tell. Everything about him still looks so perfect. But no, that’s not right. When I look closer, I see his hair is a little mussed up and his shirt is untucked. His eyes are narrowed as they take me in. He’s not perfect; he’s just Nicholas.

“You’re back,” he says by way of greeting as he finally starts to walk toward me.

I nod and wring out my hands as he draws near, aware of every inch that disappears between us. “Yes. We got in on Tuesday.”

He stops when he’s only a few feet away from me, his height blocking some of the landscape lighting so that I’m thrown into shadow.

“Did you come out here just to greet me?” he asks with a bemused tilt of his head.

“I was looking for Louis,” I say suddenly, narrowing my eyes and glancing around as if in search of the dog. “You haven’t seen him, have you?”

“No.”

I swallow forcefully, aware that he’s studying me curiously. I let my gaze make its way back to him, and I venture to ask a question I’m curious about.

“Did you miss us while we were gone?”

“Newport didn’t feel the same,” he replies, not giving me the answer I wanted.

I huff out an annoyed laugh and step to the side, giving him the opportunity to walk past me, up the stairs, and into the house.

He doesn’t move. “You’ve changed.”

“I got a haircut,” I say, as if that explains everything.

He shakes his head. “I don’t think that’s it.”

He doesn’t elaborate, and I’m forced to stand there while he takes me in. His silent judgments have always had the uncanny ability to split me in two, but this time, instead of weakening under his gaze, I turn to him and hope to shock him out of his careful study with the truth.

“Is it a crime? I hope I have changed. I wanted to set fire to my old life and return to Newport as one of you. I wanted to become just like everybody else.”

His eyes flit up to mine, holding me captive.

“You’ll never be like everybody else.”

His words are a poison dart, draining me of all my newfound confidence. I only barely manage to keep my lip from quivering as I nod and turn to precede him inside.

We don’t say another word as I slip away and hurry back up to my room.20NicholasI’m smoking a cigar on the patio outside later that night, stewing, when my phone rings in my pocket. I tug it out as Tori’s name flashes across the screen, and without hesitating, I swipe my finger to answer it.

“Nicky!”

I wince at the loud music pulsing through the phone.

“Where are you?” I ask, curious as to why I didn’t get an invite.

“Out with Maren! You know, the girl you hate!”

I frown. “Are you drunk?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely, Nicky boy. It’s why I’m calling. Are you sober?”

“Yes.”

“Great! Can you come pick us up? Maren is flirting with Barrett and it’s making me want to gag. I don’t think I can watch it for another second or I might actually throw up.”