Love the One You Hate

I couldn’t though. I had other things to think about, a future to plan.

When we leave dinner, I ask Tori to borrow her phone so I can call Frank and have him pick me up. I know Nicholas will protest, and he does, but I’m trying to prove a point. He doesn’t have to take me home just because of what happened last weekend. It’s not expected.

He takes my hand as he leads me to his car.

“You’re fighting this.”

“For good reason. For one, you’re too good to be true.”

“I’m just flesh and blood, the same as you.”

“It doesn’t feel that way sometimes.”

“You’re nervous I’ll hurt you?”

Hurt? No. Obliterate.

I’m nervous that after he’s done with me, there’ll be nothing left.

“Maybe.”

“Well, it’s too late. You can’t be nervous,” he teases, taking my hips in his hands so he can back me up against the door of his car, pinning me there. “I can’t let you go now.”

“Even if it’s for the best?”

His lips drop to my neck. “Not even then.”* * *I spend my night with Nicholas in his bed, forgetting everything I thought was important all week. Nothing else matters when we’re flesh to flesh, mouth to mouth. I dream about him and wake to find him there, over me, pressing inside me. I arch up and beg him for more, and he obliges.

It’s so overwhelming that I don’t realize until Monday morning, when he’s gone again, that all of those niggling thoughts are still there in the back of my mind. They didn’t go away just because I forgot about them over the weekend.

I know some of my issues lie in Ariana’s parting words. She issued me a wakeup call, and I feel like I owe it to myself to heed it. I have my whole life in front of me and it’s one big blur, a mess of tangled roads I can’t seem to decipher. I’m sick of living paycheck to paycheck, jumping from one job to the next. I’m sick of pretending everything is okay. It’s not, and it hasn’t been for a long time.

Rosethorn has been a Band-Aid, not a permanent solution to my problems.

The knowledge of that fogs my mind while I’m with Cornelia for tea on Tuesday.

I’m more quiet than usual and she notices, asking me if there’s something troubling me.

For a moment, I think I might brush away her concern, but then I drop my untouched tea cake back on my plate and look up at her with a question.

“When you first hired me, did you have any idea how long you’d need me to stay here?”

She smiles. “Not a clue, my dear. That’s the beauty of this position. It’s open-ended. You can stay through the winter and into next year, or you can use Rosethorn as a stepping stone.”

“Would you prefer it one way or the other?”

“Oh yes—I’d like you to stay here forever.”

I smile, knowing she’s only teasing. Her words from Paris flit back into my mind. I know she wants me to find my own path in life.

She sets her tea down and studies me for a moment.

“Do you know why I first hired you, child?”

I shrug. “I’ve come to terms with the fact that you likely felt bad for me and wanted to give me a helping hand. You knew I was going nowhere at Holly Home.”

She chuckles. “I wish I were as selfless as that. I’m afraid it was much more for my own sake than it ever was for yours.” She turns to glance out the window, and I watch her narrow-eyed profile as she continues, “In the last year or so, on occasion, I’ve found myself taking account of my life and wondering how exactly I went so wrong. I’ve compared myself to the glorious woman I dreamed of being and discovered I was greatly disappointed.”

I frown, wanting to jump in and contradict her. She’s the most amazing person I know, truly, but she tips her head down and drags her finger around the rim of her teacup, holding my words captive.

“So many years spent in the same routine and habits. Be careful there, Maren—too much time spent doing what one ought to do leaves little room for anything worthwhile. Anyway, I took my discontent as a challenge. I didn’t construct anything so cliché as a bucket list, and I’ll resent it if you think so. It’s just that I’ve decided to become a bit unorthodox in my old age, more readily accepting of adventure. I was scared by the dwindling emptiness waiting before me. No.” Her back stiffens as she sits up straighter. “There’ll be no quiet slip into my elder years. ‘Do not go gentle into that good night.’—a verse by Thomas I’m sure you’ve heard. I took it to heart. I hired a girl I knew nothing about simply because she delighted me.” Her face turns back to me and her blue eyes pierce mine. “You’ve been a gift. Always, a gift. You see that, don’t you?”