Make Me Hate You: A Best Friend's Brother Romance

by Kandi Steiner

  “Good morning, lovelies,” I cooed as I pulled the black cover from the gold cage.

  Two beautiful Budgies sat inside, each on their own little swings, and Jane sang her good morning to me while Edward shook the sleep out from his feathers. I opened the cage long enough to pet each of them with my index finger, smiling at the way they leaned into my touch. They were my pride and joy, along with my books and my garden. I loved to watch them play on lazy Sunday mornings or teach them new words before bed.

  Cameron had surprised me with them the morning of our first wedding anniversary. That morning, though nearly seven years ago now, still felt like it was just yesterday. I remembered the younger version of us, the absolute bliss, the feeling that nothing could ever come between us or break the once-in-a-lifetime love we had. He’d been cooking that morning, too, and the little birds sat at the dining room table when I came downstairs.

  I’d flown to them, eyes the size of saucers as I traced the gold cage with my fingertips. The Budgies had hopped around inside excitedly, chirping away, singing their greetings to me as I fought back tears. Cameron had just watched me over his shoulder, spatula still working the French toast, and I saw my favorite emotion reflected in his caramel eyes — happiness.

  Seeing me happy made him happy.

  At least, that’s the way it used to be.

  “What will you name them?” he’d asked. And I hadn’t hesitated before answering Jane and Edward. After all, Jane Eyre was practically glued to my hands all through high school. That same, worn copy sat in my library across the hall even now, along with all the other books I’d cherished and collected over the years.

  Jane fluffing out her feathers with a loud chirp snapped me back to the present moment, and once she and Edward were fed, I followed the smell of the cinnamon.

  I loved the way the stairs descended in an opening right in the middle of our home, the way I had a full view of the kitchen and living area below me as I walked over the bridge hall and down each hardwood step. Cameron was there below me, already dressed in his favorite black suit, the jacket to it hanging over one of the chairs at the kitchen bar. He held the handle of the griddle in one hand, a spatula in the other, the soft sound of Bon Iver spilling out from our kitchen speakers.

  “Good morning,” I sang, coming up behind him to press a kiss between his shoulder blades. “Cinnamon french toast.”

  “Your favorite,” he reminded me, as he always did on the first day of school. It was January, so technically, it was the first day of school this semester. We were already halfway through the year. But that was Cameron — whether it was fall or spring semester, he always woke up before me to make my favorite breakfast. It was one of only four days out of the year that he cooked instead of me; fall semester, spring semester, my birthday, and our anniversary.

  It’d been a tradition ever since we were married, one he’d started out of the desire to surprise me. I still remembered the first time, my first day teaching at Westchester Prep. He’d propped up a tiny chalkboard sign on the table that read Mrs. Pierce, along with a shiny red apple, and he’d served me in nothing but a little white apron tied around his waist.

  I’d almost been late for my first day.

  I frowned when Cameron shrugged me off him, bringing the first two slices to a plate beside the stove before turning the dial that extinguished the flames. He sprinkled powdered sugar on top of the bread and stepped away, leaving me cold. The chill didn’t warm as I watched him cross the kitchen and set the plate on the island next to the syrup, a glass of orange juice, and a simple red rose plucked from our garden, displayed in a slim vase.

  “None for you?” I asked, and already I felt the small bit of joy I’d had upon waking slipping from me like the last bit of daylight, making way for the dark night that existed in me now no matter what time of day it was. I tried desperately to hold onto it, to grip that tiny glimpse of my old self and make her stay, but it was useless.

  “I have to run,” he answered, not glancing back as he pulled his jacket from where it hung on the back of the chair. He shrugged it on, adjusting his tie before turning to face me, and just like that, my expression turned cold again. “Early meeting.”

  Cameron had shaved that morning, the sharp edges of his jaw prominent as he ran a hand over the smooth skin. Sometimes he’d grow out a clean beard over that jaw, and I loved when he did. He used to do it more for that reason alone — because he knew I liked it that way. But lately, he shaved at least three times a week.

  I’d always fit so well with Cameron — not just in our relationship, but physically, too. He was taller than me, but not by too much, just enough so that I sat comfortably under his arm when we walked side by side. When we would lay together at night, his knees would curve into the back of my legs perfectly, his arms winding around me like a safe haven.

  In photographs, we looked as if we’d been plucked from a magazine — our dark hair complementary, eyes the same shade of golden brown. He was harder than me, his features more pronounced against his olive skin. Those differences only complemented my soft eyes and light complexion, in contrast. We were as aesthetically pleasing as a freshly painted mural, one everyone loved to stop and marvel at.

  But sometimes when I looked at him, I didn’t recognize the man I saw at all — not anymore.

  This was one of those times.

  I crossed my arms over my middle, the thin fabric of my nightgown suddenly not enough to block out the cold.

  “Oh. That’s too bad.”

  He reached into the basket on the island for a banana and paused, watching me for a moment like he wanted to ask me something. His brows pinched together just slightly above the straight bridge of his nose, but the line disappeared so quickly I convinced myself it’d never existed at all.

  Cameron stepped into me and pressed a kiss to my forehead. He didn’t linger, didn’t lean down to transfer that kiss to my lips. And then his hands were reaching for his keys instead of me.

  “Have a great first day, sweetheart,” he said, and I forced a smile in return, holding it there until I heard the front door close a few moments later.

  I stared at the french toast, the smell of it taunting me. I could almost hear his laughter from that first morning he’d cooked for me all those years ago, could almost feel his arms around me as we danced in the kitchen, one of his favorite places to pull me into him and sway in time with our favorite songs.

  But there was no apron that morning, no dancing, no laughing. Just the sad, melodic voice of Bon Iver and a table set for one.

  I clicked the power button on the kitchen stereo system, tossed the french toast in the trash, and abandoned the white porcelain plate in the sink along with my memories.

  Westchester Preparatory School sat right in the middle of Mount Lebanon, only a ten-minute drive from our house. It was the highest ranked private school in the state and one of the top in the country.

  I had nearly burst into tears the day I’d been offered my dream job teaching kindergarten at Westchester, though I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, I’d attended Westchester my entire schooling, as had my brother, and our father, too. Dad had also been a top donor since before my brother or I even attended.

  It was the middle of my eighth year teaching there, and I still felt the same pride as that very first day when I opened the large, wooden double doors that led into the main hallway of the Annie Grace Wing. Named after the founder’s daughter, it was the wing that housed pre-kindergarten through fifth grade, and the wing where my classroom had been located since the day I joined the Westchester faculty.

  I unwound my scarf when the warmth from the hall hit me, the school an almost reverent sense of quiet in the early morning. The wood floors were freshly polished, the late Victorian architecture filling me with a sense of history as my eyes traced the high arches and ceiling murals.

  My students wouldn’t learn to appreciate the gold and navy baroque floral wallpaper and antique chandeli
ers until they were much older, maybe even until they were alumni. That was when I first took pride in the school I’d attended, in the foundation of it, the hundreds of years of history within its walls.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Pierce,” a familiar voice called from across the hall as I rounded the corner into my classroom.

  Randall Henderson, our headmaster, strutted toward me like a peacock in heat. It wasn’t that he wanted to show off for anyone, least of all me, but rather that his personality was as loud and colorful as the purple and green feathers that beckoned you in for a closer look. His belly was round, his cheeks the same, and his smile took up his entire face even on the rainiest of days.

  “Mr. Henderson,” I greeted with a nod, hanging my coat, scarf, and purse on the hook behind my desk. “A pleasure to see you this early on the first day back.”

  “Pleasure’s all mine,” he assured me, tucking his hands into the pockets of his navy blue dress slacks. “I hope you enjoyed your holidays?”

  My stomach tightened at the reality of my holiday season, spent mostly alone, save for Christmas Day when Cameron and I had joined my parents for dinner. Had it not been for waking up to what I thought was a traditional first day breakfast with Cameron, I would have hustled out the door with a sigh of relief that school had started up again.

  Cameron had worked long days and sometimes even nights throughout the entire break, and even when we’d had dinner at my parents’ for Christmas, he’d barely said a word. We were both asleep well before midnight on New Year’s Eve, and I’d dreamed of earlier years that night, of midnights spent kissing under confetti rain.

  “It was a wonderful break,” I lied to Mr. Henderson, hoping the smile I’d managed with those words was at least somewhat convincing. Had Mr. Henderson noticed how that smile had changed over the last five years, how it had lost the vigor and brilliance? Did anyone even see me at all, or was I as dead to them as I felt inside?

  “How are your parents? Well, I hope?”

  It was no surprise that Mr. Henderson would ask after my parents, Gloria and Maxwell Reid. They were a shining beacon in Mount Lebanon, well known and well spoken of. They’d married at just seventeen, and run the town as a powerhouse couple ever since.

  “Very well,” I said. “Dad is just as stubborn as always, and Mom is making it harder and harder for the buckle around his waist to fasten.”

  Mr. Henderson chuckled. “That woman’s cooking is a blessing and a curse.”

  “You’re telling me.” I ran my hands over my modest navy blue skirt before folding them together at my waist. “Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Henderson?”

  “In fact, there is. We have a new music teacher starting today, taking over Mrs. Flannigan’s old position as the piano instructor.”

  We both shared a sympathetic look then. Mrs. Flannigan had been with Westchester for three decades, but had been diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s just before the break. She’d gracefully stepped down to spend time with her family before the symptoms worsened, and we all wondered how Mr. Henderson would handle filling her position so last minute.

  “I was fortunate enough to find an excellent candidate who was willing to up and move over the break, but he wasn’t able to get here as early as I’d have liked to tour the grounds or even set up his classroom. Miss Maggert took care of that for me, thank goodness,” he added. “Anyway, he grew up in the area, but never attended Westchester. I wondered if you might be willing to show him around, perhaps let him join you for lunch for a while until he gets acclimated?”

  Internally, I cringed, but on the outside, I only offered a placid smile and nod. The word no wasn’t in my vocabulary, and it hadn’t been ever since I could remember. Mom had raised me to always be the hostess, the one always willing to accommodate others, and since it brought me more joy seeing others happy than it did to say no for my own discomfort, I always obliged.

  Always.

  Even if it meant giving up my time after school to take someone’s detention duty, or enduring paper cuts helping Mom seal envelopes for fundraiser invitations, or, like now, agreeing to be someone’s lunch buddy when even the thought of mindless small talk affected me in the way nails on a chalkboard would anyone else.

  “Of course. I’d be happy to,” I finally agreed aloud.

  “Wonderful!” Mr. Henderson clapped his hands together. “He’s getting set up in his classroom now, but I’ll introduce the two of you at lunch today. You’re a life saver, Charlie.” He waved as he turned to exit. “Happy first day back!”

  I waved in return, but when he rounded the corner and disappeared, my hand fell, my smile fading.

  It truly did bring me joy to be able to help him, to see that bit of relief in his eyes when I’d told him I could handle the task at hand. Still, my hands were already clammy at the thought of spending my lunch entertaining a stranger instead of reuniting with my favorite fictional characters between the pages of a very worn book.

  But I didn’t have a choice in the matter, and I knew I’d offer to help as many times as he asked me to. That was just who I was. It was who I’d always been. So, I let it all go with one long exhale as I ran through my lesson plan for the day.

  Charlie Pierce, the girl who always said yes.

  Reese

  “She should be here any moment, Mr. Walker,” Mr. Henderson assured me, his cheeks high and pink. He rambled on about Westchester as I listened attentively, trying to take it all in. My head already hurt from the overflow of information.

  Most new teachers would have already been here for two weeks, minimum, setting up their classroom and learning the ins and outs of the school. But this was my first day — first day at Westchester, first day back in my old hometown, first day teaching.

  It was the last thing I ever thought I would do — teach. And yet, when the opportunity had presented itself, I knew it was exactly what I needed to do. The music instructor who came before me had thirty years of experience on me, but I had a stint as a pianist on Broadway and a piece of paper that said I survived Juilliard. It was enough to get me the job, and enough to get me back to the place I had left fourteen years ago.

  The place I used to call home.

  Home was the only thing I wanted to find, and now that I was back, I realized how futile that hope was.

  “You’re going to adore Mrs. Pierce,” Mr. Henderson said, pulling me back to the small teachers’ café where we waited for the teacher who would be my assigned lunch date for the week. “She’s one of the best teachers we have, been here almost a decade now. And, she’s an alum. I had the pleasure of watching her grow over the years.” He chuckled. “She was a bright student. Always quiet, very studious and shy, but she shines even more as a teacher.”

  I nodded with a polite smile, tucking my hands in the pockets of my slacks. I’d assured Mr. Henderson I didn’t need anyone to tour me around the campus or sit with me each day at lunch. If anything, assimilating with the other teachers was the least of my worries. I was more concerned with being trusted teaching children who would grow into adults one day. If you told anyone who knew me as a teenager in this town that I’d one day be teaching at Westchester, or even at all, they’d laugh at the outrageousness of it.

  Though I didn’t attend Westchester as a kid, I had plenty of friends who did, and I’d been reckless enough with those friends to know that private school students didn’t mess around when it came to partying. My dad had put both my sister and me in public school, mostly because he wanted us to go to his alma mater, but also because I was a trouble maker from the time I was born.

  I guess he didn’t want to pay upwards of thirty-thousand dollars a year for me to be a hooligan at a school when I could do the same amount of damage for free at the school closer to our house.

  Still, it was prestigious — Westchester. I’d always wondered what it would be like to attend, and after only one morning within the halls, I could feel the history.

  Maybe this really would be my chanc
e to start over, to find a little piece of the man who had existed before I’d lost everything that had meant the most to me.

  Mr. Henderson clapped his hands, and my eyes snapped to the woman who’d just walked through the door.

  “Ah! There she is!” he said cheerily.

  The woman looked up at us from the book clasped in her hands, and that was the first thing I recognized — a familiar, tattered copy of Jane Eyre, one I’d seen too many times to count in a life that felt like I’d never even lived it at all.

  “Escaping with Charlotte Bronte again, are we?” Mr. Henderson chuckled, but I couldn’t find it in me to laugh.

  All I could do was stare.

  Charlie Reid stood before me like a ghost, one that had haunted me for more than a decade, one I longed for just as long but never truly imagined I’d ever see again.

  I realized distantly that perhaps I did imagine I’d see her, if I was being honest with myself. Perhaps I hoped for it.

  Perhaps she was part of the reason I was back.

  Her brows bent together in confusion over her wide, honey eyes before she carefully slipped a silk ribbon bookmark between the pages and tucked the book away in her messenger bag.

  “Are you surprised?” she asked, her voice timid and small. It wasn’t the voice I remembered, the cheery, bird-like voice that used to make every sentence sound more like a song. Then again, she wasn’t the girl I remembered, either. She wasn’t sixteen anymore. Her hair wasn’t wrapped in two braids, one over each shoulder, and her eyes weren’t bright and full of life.

  No, Charlie wasn’t the same girl I’d left crying on my porch fourteen years ago on the last night before I left her and this town behind me.

  She wasn’t anyone I should have recognized at all, but I’d never forget those eyes.

  “Not in the slightest,” Mr. Henderson mused. He clapped me on the shoulder, squeezing hard as he gestured to Charlie, as if I’d taken my eyes off her for even a second since she’d walked in the room. “Mr. Walker, this is—”