Love the One You Hate

by Grey, R. S.

  “My parents were talking about letting the renter use our kitchen in the main house,” I say. “Although, I hear you can do a lot with a hot plate, pancakes and…well, actually I’ve only ever seen people make pancakes with a hot plate, so I hope you like breakfast!”

  He’s mostly ignoring me at this point as he walks through the apartment and opens the door to the bathroom, the only separate room in the whole place.

  “It’s fine,” he says, assessing the space with an appreciative look as if it’s not the size of a shoebox.

  “So you’re going to take it?” I sound surprised.

  “Have your parents shown it to anyone else?”

  I shake my head, and as if on cue, their voices drift over the back garden. They come to join us in the apartment and start to discuss the logistics with Beau, facts and numbers I don’t really care about. I linger in the background, wondering what exactly I’m supposed to be doing…wondering how I can get Beau to notice me again. Hey, remember me? Your loveable, witty tour guide?

  My parents lead him out of the apartment so they can all go sign the paperwork, and I’m left behind. They’re halfway back to the house when Beau glances back at me and smiles. I realize then that he hasn’t met my eyes since we were first introduced. His blue gaze is heavy when it lands on me, rooting me in place.

  “Thank you for the tour,” he says, tipping his head.

  My heart hammers in my chest and I wave as I call out, “You too!”

  YOU TOO is what I say back to him, which makes no sense at all, but he’s already turning back to my parents and I’m left wallowing in teen angst. I replay the exchange long after he’s gone. I pull out my homework and spread it across the dining room table, thinking about what a cool reply would have been, murmuring them to myself in anger.

  “Oh, sure thing. My pleasure. Fuggedaboutit.”

  A solid No problem! would have at least made sense. I sigh and push back from the table, planning to distract myself with a snack. I’m rooting through the fruit bin in our refrigerator, trying to decide between an apple or some grapes, when my brain remembers that I forgot about Preston. PRESTON! I jerk up, smack my head on the bottom of the condiment tray, and then whip around toward the kitchen clock. It’s 5:20 PM. My heart races. My head hurts—I hit it harder than I thought I did.

  With a bag of frozen peas pressed to my temple, I bolt for the stairs. It takes ages, EONS for my computer to wake up. I ice my head and tap, tap, tap my finger on my mouse, circling it around like mad. Preston’s baseball practice has already started. It’s too late to talk to him today. I have enough homework to occupy me for hours, and I need to help my mom with dinner (otherwise we’ll be eating some form of overcooked loin). I know it’s too late. I’ve missed my opportunity for today, but that doesn’t matter because when my computer finally wakes up, there’s a chat window sitting in the center of the screen with a halo of gold light shining around it.

  OH MY GOD.

  PRESTON MESSAGED ME.

  AFBaseballGuy05: Yo, what’s up?

  So smooth. So aloof.

  In response, my away message popped up.

  XO_LoULoU_XO’s AWAY MESSAGE: BrB ScHoOl.

  I sit there wondering what my away message says about me. My alternating-caps letters hopefully convey that I am trendy. Fun. Carefree. Also, now he knows I care about school, I guess. That’s good. Maybe next time I should add a song lyric, Green Day or Pink. Something recognizable but vague, possibly “Wonderwall”.

  I wonder what our conversation could have been had I seen his message in time. Maybe he would have asked me to hang out this weekend, or asked me to be his date for the cotillion. I smile and lean back against my chair, basking in the knowledge that Preston Westcott messaged me. ME. Rose isn’t going to believe it.

  Chapter Three

  Beau

  I move into the apartment on Saturday. It’s a quick process, one trip over from my old place. My old furniture—the modest collection I’ve scrounged together over the years—gets sold, and what’s left is a few boxes of my personal items: school stuff, worn LSAT books I can’t find the courage to part with even though I’m due to graduate from law school in the spring. It feels like if I get rid of them now, it might jinx it, so they get stuffed in the bottom of my TV stand.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket; it’s been ringing all morning. It’s my mom, wondering when I’ll be heading over. Usually at this time on Saturdays, I’m already home. She likes to cook me breakfast with all the trimmings: bacon, eggs, and pancakes with enough high-fructose syrup that I have to crash on her couch and sleep off the meal while old Saints games play in the background. I didn’t have the heart to cancel on her this week even though I need to get settled in at my apartment, not to mention I have enough coursework to keep me occupied for two weeks straight—advanced corporate law, mergers and acquisitions, negotiation theory. Saturdays are our tradition though, and I know how much my visits mean to her since my dad passed a few years back. Hell, they mean a lot to me too. Besides, I could use a stack of her pancakes right about now. My stomach has been grumbling for the past 30 minutes.

  I grab my keys from the coffee table and assess the current state of affairs: my crap is everywhere, and there are still more boxes to unpack. My jaw ticks. I can’t stand the mess. I might have lived in some bad places over the years, but I always found peace in maintaining the day-to-day neatness that I’m able to control.

  I swallow down the compulsion to stay and get everything in order, and instead I yank open the apartment door and step into the LeBlancs’ back yard. There’s a gate on the fence near my apartment, but I loop around the pool instead since my truck’s parked out front.

  I shoot my mom a quick text.

  BEAU: Headed over now.

  A flash of movement catches my attention and I glance up in time to see Lauren duck below her window on the second floor. I resist a smile. She was there watching me all morning as I carried boxes from my truck to the apartment. During my first trip, she came down in Nike shorts and a cotton tank top, flip-flops flapping. Her blonde curly hair was pulled back in a swinging ponytail, messy and girlish.

  “D’ya need any help?” she asked me with wide, expressive eyes, hazel with green flecks. It’s been said that eyes are little windows to the soul, but hers seem to offer a floor-to-ceiling view into every damn thought in her head.

  I turned down her offer, not because I make it a point to be an asshole, but because the boxes were heavy and there’s a reason moving companies don’t hire willowy teenagers. She would just get in the way.

  She didn’t let that stop her though.

  By the time I was on my next trip, she was back out there with a glass of lemonade. I hesitated, thinking of how it’d tasted the last time I was offered a glass, but she was quick to ease my fear.

  “I tossed that hydrochloric acid my mom made. This is my signature blend. I’ve been making it since my friends and I used to sell it out on the sidewa—” She stopped short and flushed. “Never mind, just try it. It’s good, I promise!”

  Her tentative smile was enough to sway me and I took a long sip, appreciating how cold it was. Even in the morning, the temperatures were creeping up.

  My brows rose in appreciation, something she didn’t miss. Her smile widened, forcing a little dimple on her left cheek, and she rocked back on her flip-flopped feet. “See? Pretty good, right? The secret is fresh mint and ginger ale, and I’ve been tweaking the lemon-to-sugar ratio and think I finally have it right. You might think it needs to be really sweet to be good, but too much sugar and you mask the tartness. Also, it needs to be ice cold—not just cold, but nearly frozen.”

  I think she would have stood there in front of me all day, blocking my way and talking and talking and talking, but her dad stepped out on the back porch and saw us there. I froze instinctively, even though there was nothing inappropriate going on. No matter how innocent the circumstances, a father probably isn’t too keen on his daughter spending too muc
h time hanging around an older stranger. It wasn’t mentioned during our meeting the other day, but it goes without saying: Lauren is off limits.

  “Lauren, what did I tell you earlier? Leave Beau alone.”

  Her eyes went wide and her tan cheeks turned bright red again. “Dad!”

  “Can’t you see he’s busy, kiddo?”

  She glanced down and kicked the sidewalk with the front of her flip-flop. “Just trying to offer him something other than Mom’s patented battery acid.”

  “Well that’s nice of you, but I’m sure the man knows how to hydrate.” He held up his folded newspaper. “Now meet me inside, I need your help with this crossword. Who’s the one on Friends that likes dinosaurs? Starts with R.”

  With that, he offered me a wave and stepped back into the house.

  She was still staring at the ground, nibbling on her bottom lip. “Sorry, he can be a little overprotective sometimes. He still thinks I’m just a kid.”

  I coughed to stifle a laugh. “Well, to be fair, you kinda are.”

  She glanced back up at me with a tentative frown. “You don’t have to finish the lemonade if you don’t want it.”

  “I want it. It’s really good.”

  And I wasn’t lying. It was good, so refreshing and sweet. She nodded and rubbed her lips together to keep from smiling, and maybe after that, she did go inside and help her dad with the crossword, but now she’s back up in her room, cowering in her hiding spot beneath the windowsill. I should be annoyed by the attention, but it’s endearing.

  Lauren isn’t like the other McGehee girls I’ve seen walking around the Garden District. Most of them wear their school polos in shrunken sizes fit for a toddler, paired with skirts whose hems rise and fall depending on the level of administrator supervision. The other day, when she came barreling into the house after school, Lauren’s skirt billowed below her knees and her baggy shirt seemed two sizes too big. On first impression, I guessed she was making some kind of rebellious choice, but later it became clear that it likely hadn’t ever occurred to her to dress any other way. It’s refreshing that she isn’t trying to grow up faster than she should. It’s charming, especially when my days are filled with cutthroat law students who’ve probably been reading the Harvard Law Review since they could crawl. Because of this sweet naiveté, I know I need to stay guarded around her. The less time we’re around each other—even if it’s strictly platonic—the better.

  * * *

  MY MOM’S LAND is closer to Baton Rouge than New Orleans, which is why I chose to accept a full ride to LSU for my undergrad degree. It made traveling back home on the weekends easier. For me, those years were rough, back when my dad was sick and my mom was overwhelmed.

  It’s been years, but when I turn off the road onto the long, winding dirt drive, my dad’s semi is still the first thing I see. The cab, once bright red and lustrous, has surrendered even more territory to the corrosive effects of the moist gulf air. Even when he was alive, it was old and prone to breaking down. We could have sold it to cover part of the funeral expenses, but it felt like the last tangible connection we had to him and we couldn’t bring ourselves to let it go.

  Back in college, when I was visiting, I’d sometimes take the keys from where they hung on a rack beside the door and unlock the cab, crawl up onto his seat, and breathe in the lingering scent. Hanging from the rearview mirror, in front of his rosary was a small sun-bleached photo of him and me from when I was in little league. I used to study that photo for long stretches of time and let the sadness eat me alive. Afterward, I’d hop down and slam the door of the truck, symbolically stowing my feelings inside. I was a college student, trying to maintain a GPA high enough to keep my scholarship and get into a good law school. I didn’t have the luxury of grief, nor the leisure of taking a year off and helping my mom adjust to her new life. No, I pushed on, compartmentalizing and keeping my focus on the future. Now, on days like today, I unpack small portions of that stored emotion over pancakes and sort through it all like old case files.

  “Beau!”

  My mom’s on me as soon as I walk in the door, tipping up onto her toes to wrap her arms around my middle.

  “I swear you’ve gotten even bigger.”

  I laugh. “You said that last week too.”

  “Well, I mean it. When are you going to stop growing?”

  I brush my hand through my short hair. “Never if you keep feeding me the way you do. This is enough food for 10 people.”

  Next to the oven, there are platters with bacon and eggs piled high and still steaming.

  She swats away my concerns. “Eat what you want. I’ll take the rest with me to church later. It won’t go to waste.”

  I do as I’m told, loading up my plate. I’m starving after my morning of moving in, and we take our food outside to eat on the front porch. I get why my grandfather moved away from New Orleans after he lost the house. Out here, for the same price you’d pay to rent a small apartment in town, you can have a couple acres all to yourself. My mom’s property is massive, surrounded by forest on all sides. She keeps chickens in a coop behind the house, several stray cats wander around as they please, and her two fluffy collies chase them playfully.

  Her home doesn’t even look like a trailer. I built her a front porch a few years back and she’s covered it with colorful Adirondack chairs and potted greenery. Planter boxes hang below the windows out front, overflowing with yellow mums.

  “I saw the house this week.” I don’t have to be more specific; she knows what house I’m referring to. “Actually, I guess I’ll be seeing a lot of it from here on out.”

  She keeps her attention on her plate as she scoops eggs onto her fork. “Why’s that?”

  “I’m renting an apartment across the street for my last two semesters.”

  Her fork pauses and she glances up, eyes concentrating on something off in the distance. “Across the street…you mean on the LeBlancs’ property?”

  I nod and bite off a chunk of my bacon, aware that she’s now completely stopped eating.

  I considered not telling her anything. I knew it would pique her interest, and now I’m worried she’ll read too much into it.

  “Is the apartment over the garage or something?”

  “Out back.”

  “You mean…the former servants’ quarters?” Her tone is unsure.

  “Sure, but it’s nice. Remodeled.”

  I can see the wheels turning in her mind. It pains her to know I’m so close to her dreams for me, and yet so far.

  “Well, if you’re happy, I’m happy. Talk about a great location.”

  I nod. “The family’s nice too. It’s a good setup.”

  “Mitchell and Kathleen, right?”

  I’m not at all surprised that she knows the LeBlancs by their first name. After all, they’re old New Orleans.

  I nod.

  “And what’s their daughter’s name?”

  “Lauren,” I supply, careful not to look at her.

  “That’s right. Lauren.” She sounds like she’s fond of her. “I saw her last year on TV during the Mardi Gras ball, y’know the big one with all the debutantes and the king and queen?”

  I know which one she’s referring to. Every year on Fat Tuesday, there’s a massive ball to celebrate the end of the Carnival season and the beginning of Lent. It’s a tradition as old as the city, but something very few people in Louisiana will ever have the privilege to attend. For the less privileged, the event is broadcast on PBS. My mom has forced me to sit down and watch a few minutes of it over the years, and it’s the most boring shit you can find on television, not to mention how hard it was for a young boy to keep up with the hierarchy of it all. The debutantes, the court, the king and queen, none of it is real—at least that’s what I used to tell myself. As a kid I’d roll my eyes, keenly aware that there wasn’t an actual king or queen that reigned over New Orleans, but now I know better. That room, those people—they do rule the city. The pageantry and the spectacle migh
t just be for show, but power is real.

  “Lauren was one of the junior debutantes last year,” my mom says, drawing me back to the moment. “Beautiful. A little skinny, but if she takes after her mom, she’s going to be a real looker when she grows up.”

  I glance over and see the twinkle in my mom’s eyes. She lives for this sort of thing—the prestige, the traditions, the glitz and glamour—and I’m reminded of why I’m working my ass off, why I’m investing every spare dime I have, taking on extra jobs so one day, she doesn’t have to watch that ball on TV anymore. She’ll be there.

  “You watch, she’s probably going be something in this town one day.” She beams at me. “And when that happens, you’ll be able to say you knew her way back when!”

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