Love the One You Hate

“Please,” she says, her voice close to breaking.

I open my door without a moment’s hesitation and round the car to let her out. I pop the seat forward and hold out my hand for her to take, but she ignores it as she awkwardly climbs out of the car on her own.

I slam the door closed and watch her walk toward the house, paralyzed by competing voices in my head. Go after her! Give her space.

Ultimately, I let her walk away, and I hate myself for it.21MarenLast night comes back to me with an accompanying flood of shame when I wake up in my bed in the morning. Ordering drinks at the bar with Tori and Barrett…stewing over my hatred for Nicholas…drinking…more drinking…agreeing to be Barrett’s date for a gala next weekend…acting like a brat when Nicholas arrived at the bar…fighting with him in his car.

To say I could have handled myself better is an understatement. I should find Nicholas immediately and apologize, but I don’t. I stay tucked beneath my comforter, staring up at the beautifully painted ceiling and praying my life will work itself out without me having to do anything.

Maybe it’s not as bad as I’m remembering? Maybe I didn’t make a complete fool of myself?

That luxurious thought carries me on a cloud for a few minutes, and then I remember the first thing I said to him in the bar.

“Look who’s here! The asshole himself!”

My cheeks are on fire as I roll over and stuff my head under my pillow.

I have no clue what time it is.

Time to get up, that’s for sure. Sunlight pours into my room and sounds from the house filter past my bedroom door: Louis’ bark, Cornelia’s laugh, someone’s footsteps approaching then pausing before continuing down the hall.

I want to put off the inevitable, but I also can’t just laze around in here all day; I’m already hungry.

I dress slowly in jeans and a white blouse. I throw my hair in a braid and creak my door open, glancing both ways down the hall. The coast is clear, so I pad on light feet down the stairs and toward the kitchen. That’s my first stop.

“Where have you been?” Cornelia asks from behind me once I make it to the threshold.

I leap out of my skin and whirl around to face her. “Jesus! You could have given me a heart attack.”

She laughs. “I wasn’t the one being sneaky. I was merely turning a corner. You were the one tiptoeing around like a mouse.”

“I was just trying to be quiet.”

“You were trying to be silent—there’s a difference. Who are you hiding from?” she asks me with a curious smile.

“No one.”

“Nicholas?”

I act like the idea is totally preposterous. “Why would I hide from Nicholas?”

“Oh, just a guess. Not a very good one, apparently. Anyway, if you’re curious, he went sailing with Rhett. He’ll be gone all day.”

I simultaneously want to jump for joy and sit down to sulk. Such is my life where Nicholas is concerned.

“Also, a girl came looking for you earlier. When was it?” she asks herself before waving the question away. “9 or 9:30. You really have wasted the entire morning in bed.”

“A girl? Tori?”

“No, she was a stranger to me.” Her features pinch together in thought. “Short with very bright blonde hair. I asked if she wanted to come in and sit while I fetched you, but she said she’d just come back another day.”

My heart drops. “Did you catch her name?”

“She left before I could ask.”

“Was she about my age?”

“I think so.”

Ariana? Is she in Newport? She knows I’m here—I’ve left messages on her phone with Rosethorn’s number and address in case she needed to reach me—but she hasn’t called me back. Why would she just show up here unannounced?

My curiosity is piqued enough that I offer to go into town to pick up a few groceries for Chef, and on the way, I stop in at a few hotels—not the fancier ones. I can’t imagine Ariana could afford any of them, but then again, I don’t have any idea what her finances are like these days.

At the front desks, I describe what Ariana looks like and ask the hotel staff if they know of a guest who’s currently staying there that fits that description. Some of them are willing to tell me they haven’t seen her, but most explain that they promise their patrons a certain level of privacy and they can’t disclose personal information.

“Okay. Thanks anyway,” I tell the last one before drumming my fingers on the front desk and turning back for the door. It’s getting late and I’m not sure if Chef is waiting on any of the items I promised I’d pick up, so I give up for the day and head to the grocery store.