Love the One You Hate

by Grey, R. S.

  A young couple with matching leather jackets walks up the sidewalk toward me, hand in hand. The girl pulls a face at something the boy says and then tries to extricate herself from his hold in an act of defiance. He leaps behind her and wraps his arms around her waist, not letting her get away, holding her tight as she laughs and puts up a weak fight. It’s obvious she doesn’t really want to get away from him, not even a little bit. I smile, living vicariously through them as they pass me by, completely unaware of my presence. I realize I should be sad that I don’t have a boyfriend with me here, but I’m not. It’s the exact opposite. I’ve never been filled with so much hope and excitement for what the future holds. Here, no one knows who I’m supposed to be. My past is an ocean away, and I don’t need a man to make my trip special. I’ll have a love affair with Paris instead.

  * * *

  Over the next few days, Cornelia and I take turns setting the agenda. We have no plans we’re beholden to, which means there’s never any reason to be anywhere at any given time. We stroll through the Louvre slowly on our second day and barely make it through half the exhibition halls, so we decide we’ll go again the next day. Obviously, I can go at a much faster pace than Cornelia can, which is why we make the perfect pair. I speed her up and she slows me down.

  For an entire afternoon, we sit outside a cafe on the bank of the Seine and watch the restoration work at Notre Dame while we switch from coffee to wine, reading when we feel like it, chatting when the subject strikes us.

  She asks me if I’ve ever been in love and I’m embarrassed to admit I haven’t, not unless being in love with the memory of my parents counts.

  She tells me of a time she summered in Paris when she was a teenager. She had a French tutor who was only a few years older than her and extremely cute. As her understanding of the French language deepened, so did her feelings for him. By the end of summer, she was convinced she was wholeheartedly in love with him and she needed to remain in Paris instead of returning to the States.

  “What did he say?”

  “He gave me my first kiss, patted my head, and told me there would be someone much better for me down the line.”

  “Was there?”

  “Oh yes, though it would be years before I found him.”

  “Nicholas’ grandfather?”

  She smiles fondly and nods. “Edward was not at all my type when we first met. In fact, I thought he was a little rude. He didn’t like me much either. I wasn’t afraid to speak my mind in an age when most women would have happily zipped their lips and married a nice boy from a nice family.”

  “What happened?”

  “Oh, he fell hopelessly in love with me, of course. I know I might not look it now, but I was a great beauty.”

  “You still are.”

  She smiles like she’s humoring me. “It was so fun to have him wrapped around my finger in the beginning. I could have told him to jump off a bridge and he would have done it.”

  “Sounds like you had quite the evil streak,” I say with a laugh.

  “I didn’t let myself get too carried away. I eventually put him out of his misery and proposed.”

  “You proposed to him!?”

  She laughs. “That’s about the same reaction he had. You should have seen his face, this proud, arrogant man staring down at me on one knee—I’ll never forget it.”

  “Maybe I’ll do the same one day when I fall in love.” I shake the silly thought from my head. “Or better yet, maybe I’ll never marry and I’ll just stay with you forever.”

  I see her frown out of the corner of my eye, though I was expecting a smile. “Nothing would break my heart more.”

  “Why?” I challenge with a furrowed brow. “Women can be happy without a husband, without children.”

  “Yes, my dear. You’re right. Could you though?”

  I take a moment to think about her question, glancing back across the Seine.

  “I hate to admit it, because it feels like I’m giving in to some preset societal demand that I have to become a mother just because I’m a woman, but the truth is, I’ve been on my own since I was thirteen. Nearly every person and every place in my life has been temporary, and I want something permanent. I want a real family and a home, wherever and with whomever that may be.”

  She reaches across the table to touch my arm. I stare down at her elegantly aged hand and the emerald wedding ring she never takes off.

  “I understand your grief, Maren. I do. Nicholas’ mom, Judith, was my only child, and she passed away far too young. Being with you reminds me of what it’s like to be a mother, to care for and dote on someone simply because you love them and want the very best for them.”

  My chest tightens as tears collect in the corners of my eyes.

  I sniffle and try to lean back, but she tightens her grip for a split second.

  “You know I adore you. I’d keep you with me forever if I thought it was for the best,” she says, patting my arm and then releasing me so I can slyly turn back to the Seine and wipe my tears with my napkin.

  * * *

  Our first week rolls into the second, and we journey out of Paris to explore Versailles and its surrounding gardens. We stay too long, admiring Marie Antoinette’s “cottage” as our guide walks us through what life was like for her at Louis XVI’s court before the French Revolution. At first glance, it would be easy to compare her to Cornelia considering they’ve both experienced what it feels like to have the world at one’s fingertips, but I can’t imagine Cornelia ever acting in line with the late French queen. The guide explains to us that the popular phrase Qu'ils mangent de la brioche, what we know as “Let them eat cake”, isn’t an indulgent anthem, but rather an example of how little regard Marie Antoinette might have felt toward her subjects who were enduring a famine and had no bread to eat. Her flippant disregard for their suffering isn’t at all how Cornelia feels toward the struggles of others, and I’m a prime example of that.

  The next day, Cornelia needs to rest, so I stroll through the city on my own, venturing into the Musée d'Orsay early enough that I’m alone in front of Vincent Van Gogh’s haunting self-portrait. His intense gaze seems to pry into me, digging beneath layers as I stand in the quiet room studying him studying me. In other rooms, I stumble upon people with sketchpads and easels, set up in front of famous paintings by Monet and Degas, recreating them in their own way. I wish I had even one artistic bone in my body so I could do the same. It’s inspiring to be in a city like this, and it makes me miss the piano at Rosethorn. I’ve gotten so used to having it at my fingertips whenever the mood strikes.

  As I’m leaving, a flash of dark hair catches my attention, and I think for one wild moment that Nicholas is here, at the museum. He’s come to Paris. I whip around to get a better look, lips parted in shock, and then my heart sinks when I find it’s just a man, slightly shorter than Nicholas, whose pale features look nothing like his. My wave of shock gives way to a confusing crash of disappointment. I’m left with residual butterflies that work themselves into knots in my stomach as I walk across the bridge over the Seine, back toward our hotel.

  Cornelia and I spend the next day getting pampered at Institut Dior. After we relax in the serenity room, they place us in separate treatment rooms so we can each get a massage and a facial. From there, I’m whisked into the salon so I can get a much-needed haircut. I’ve never actually had someone give me a styled cut. When I was young, my mom trimmed my hair every so often, and as a teenager, I just had Ariana do the same. I’m surprised how long it takes. I guess it takes time when you actually know what you’re doing. When the stylist is finished and I glance up at myself in the mirror, I see what I was missing. My long hair has been trimmed a few inches on the bottom so it looks healthy and shiny, and there are subtle layers to help better accentuate my features.

  When we’re done, Cornelia asks me where I’d like to go for dinner, and I tell our driver to take us back to the Mandarin Oriental.

  “When’s the last time you
put on a hotel robe, ordered room service, and watched a wildly overpriced pay-per-view movie?”

  She considers the question with a laugh. “Never.”

  “Then tonight will be a first for both of us.”

  I know two weeks abroad can’t rewrite who I am. Solo walks in the early afternoons through the streets of Paris and explorations inside landmarks like the Musée d'Orsay and the Eiffel Tower don’t rearrange my biology, but I do feel like the experience has given my self-consciousness a much-needed shakeup. I was a complete stranger in a foreign place and no one cared. No one asked if I belonged there. There was a sense of freedom, and in that freedom, growth. On the drive back home from the airport back in Newport, I realize I’ve never felt more comfortable in my own skin.

  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.

  20

  Nicholas

  I’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.”

  I have a hundred questions, but I settle for the most important one.

  “Where are you guys?”

  She gives me the name of the bar and I stub out my cigar.

  “I’ll be there in a few minutes. Keep Barrett away from Maren.”

  I sound menacing even to my own ears, but Tori doesn’t call me out on it. Instead, she laughs. “Easier said than done.”

  I drive like a bat out of hell on the way to pick them up. This evening has been a disaster ever since I first arrived. I was jittery with nerves on my drive from the city. I was anxious to see Maren again after three weeks without her, but after our brief talk outside, she decided to skip dinner. When Patricia attempted to take up a tray of food to her, she returned moments later with it still in her hands, informing my grandmother and me that Maren wasn’t in her room. I had no clue where she went, but apparently it was out to a bar with Tori and Barrett.

  With it being full-blown tourist season, parking outside the bar is insane, and Tori won’t answer her phone. Eventually, I find a spot a few blocks north and then head toward the crowded entrance.

  Inside, I’m annoyed to find it’s packed from wall to wall. Rowdy college kids shout over the music, and out of respect for my hearing, I head out to search the back patio that overlooks the water, but when that proves fruitless, I snake back through the tables inside for a second time. I have my phone pressed to my ear as I call Tori yet again, and I’m about to give up when bodies shift and a clear path to the bar opens up, right to where Maren sits on a stool with Barrett’s arm wrapped around her waist. Her head rests on his shoulder.

  An uncomfortable ache settles in my gut as I pocket my phone and head straight for them. I have half a mind to pry them apart myself like some overbearing ogre, but instead, I aim my sights on Tori. She glances up as she sips from a straw then does a double take when she realizes it’s me.

  “Nicky!”

  I drag a hand through my hair, nodding my head toward the entrance. “Hey, are you ready to go?”

  Maren’s back stiffens at the sound of my voice. Then she looks over her shoulder and throws her hands up in the air.

  “Look who’s here! The asshole himself!” She waves toward the bar. “Hey, bartender, can you give everyone free shots courtesy of my pal, Nicholas Hunt?”

  The few people around her hoot and holler as if free shots are actually coming their way. I shake my head at the bartender and he grunts, moving along to another group of patrons at the other end of the bar.

  Barrett cracks up.

&nbs
p; Maren turns away from me, and Tori claps me on the shoulder.

  “Thank god you’re here. Maren, let’s go. Nicky’s taking us home.”

  Maren doesn’t turn around. “I’m fine. Thanks.”

  “I can just take her later,” Barrett volunteers, smiling down at her like he can’t believe his good fortune.

  “Nah, let’s go,” I say, reaching out to touch her arm.

  She tries to pull away from me, but the momentum has her slipping off her stool. I leap to catch her before she tumbles to the ground and then instead of propping her back on the seat, I use my grip on her to help her stand, already directing her toward the door.

  She tries to yank free, but it’s easy enough to keep ahold of her. I should feel bad, but I don’t.

  “What the hell!” Barrett shouts behind me.

  “I take it you can get home safely?” I ask him, not actually caring what his answer is. Then I turn to Tori, who’s still sitting dumbstruck on her stool. “You coming?”

  “No, she’s not coming—and I’m not either!” Maren protests.

  I push her toward the door, and when Tori catches up to us, Maren shoots daggers at her. “Is this your fault? Did you call him?”

  “Yes. We needed a ride home.”

  “I just spent two hours talking shit about him. You could have called someone else.”

  Tori grins up at me. “It’s true. She really did have a lot to say about you.”

  I push open the door of the bar and make sure to lead Maren out in front of me. “I have no doubt. I’m curious, though—what’s the root of her issue with me?”

  “Her issue with you is that you’re an arrogant asshole with no regard for the feelings of others!” Maren replies passionately.