On the Corner of Love and Hate

by Nina Bocci

  When he heard that, Kirby rushed back to his place, taking the opportunity to speak before Cooper.

  “We all know what we need to move forward. Progress for the sake of progress doesn’t help anyone!” he exclaimed, waving his finger toward the crowd condescendingly.

  Before he finished, someone in the audience shouted, “You’re ripping off Harry Potter!”

  The crowd laughed, and again, if I hadn’t hated him so much, I’d have felt terrible for him. “Umbridge was right,” Rogers mumbled into the mic before storming off the stage.

  Not missing a beat, Cooper took to the mic again. “Thank you, everyone! I look forward to serving this great town for years to come. I hope I can count on your support. But even if you don’t choose to vote for me, know that I will still support you if elected. And with that I have one thing left to say—I know there’s a game this weekend—Crusaders Forever!”

  The crowd roared as he bounded offstage, heading right for me. As he slipped behind the curtains, he was beaming. His blue eyes were lit up with an energy I hadn’t seen in ages. He looked magnetic, bursting with pent-up joy. His hands shot up as he bounced in his loafers.

  “Hey, get back out there,” I mock chastised him, pushing him toward the drapery opening, but he was an immovable object. “They want an encore. You’re not supposed to be drawing attention to the fact that I’m here!”

  His big body didn’t budge. I wasn’t even sure he’d heard me because he just prattled on like I hadn’t said a word.

  “That was great, right? I mean, this is a great turnout and he was just . . . I mean, what was that? What the hell was he thinking?” he rambled quickly. “Hopefully they’ll all vote. Holy shit, this is such a rush.” He peered out from behind the curtains at the crowd, who were still cheering. The smile on his face was infectious, and as much as I didn’t want to, I smiled up at him.

  “You were so right, Emma. This was perfect. Thank you.”

  “You’ll have to go to the game this weekend. I’m sure you still have a sweatshirt from high school.”

  With a quick wink, he grabbed our jackets off the hooks. “I may even have my old jersey.”

  He helped me into my coat, and after he pulled on his own jacket, he leaned down. I took it as though he intended to kiss my cheek again, but anticipating it this time, I panicked, freezing like a deer caught in headlights. Thinking I didn’t want him to do it again, I went to move so he would miss, and instead I turned the wrong way just as he moved the final inch.

  Cooper’s lips touched mine, and we both froze.

  EMMA THOUGHT: Girl, you turned the wrong damn way.

  I was shocked, and my hands flew to his arms.

  Push him back! my brain shouted. PUSH!

  But my hands didn’t push. They slid up the biceps that flexed beneath my touch.

  For a second, then two and then three until I lost count, we were glued to the spot, too stunned to move, our eyes wide, trying desperately to figure out what the hell had just happened.

  Was happening.

  EMMA THOUGHT: Yeah, I got nuthin’.

  When he finally moved, it wasn’t away from me but closer, pushing his lips just a bit more firmly against mine. My fingers curled around his arms as his eyes fluttered closed.

  We could hear Principal Mercer take the stage and address the still clapping audience. As the audience roared again, I finally pulled away, breathing heavily and feeling a bit light-headed.

  “How about that, folks? Cooper Endicott!” Harrison shouted to another round of applause.

  Why didn’t I just back up? Why did I turn my head? Why are my face warm and my lips tingly and my heart thundering so loudly? There were a hundred more whys, and none of them had an answer.

  Cooper’s eyes were slow to open, his breath shuddering.

  I could see that he was in shock, too. Nothing to worry about here, folks. An innocent and friendly thank-you that had gone a bit awry. With hopeful eyes, I looked up at him and waited for an I’m sorry or even a quip about Was it good for you?

  But there was nothing but Cooper staring at me like he wanted to do it again.

  And the biggest unanswered question of all was: Why did I have this overwhelming urge to let him?

  15

  * * *

  For the first time in my years working at the CDO, I had no choice but to work from home. The day after the high school incident, I was lounging in yoga pants and a purifying mask, sporting a very pink and infected left eye. When I’d woken up that morning, I couldn’t open it. I figured it was leftover mascara that I hadn’t quite gotten rid of, but I popped by Dr. Bishop’s office before work just in case. Turned out, spending three hours in a hotbed of germs—aka a school—wreaked havoc with your immune system.

  Dr. Bishop had said it wouldn’t last long but had recommended that I not leave the house as I was highly contagious. Goody.

  I was video chatting with Nancy around lunchtime, waiting patiently for my prescription to be delivered from the pharmacy, when the doorbell finally dinged.

  Thank God, I thought. I hung up with her, promising to check back in once my eye was a little less goopy.

  “Coming!” I shouted, pulling on my plastic gloves to retrieve cash from my wallet. I didn’t want to be responsible for spreading conjunctivitis around town. Typhoid Emma was not a nickname I wanted.

  “Just leave it on the mat. Here’s the total plus tip. Thanks for getting here so fast!” I exclaimed, slipping cash under the door. I counted to twenty before opening it a crack. The last thing I wanted was anyone seeing me in my condition.

  “Emmanuelle,” Cooper said smoothly, holding up a small white prescription bag. His smile was toothy and full of mischief to match the twinkle in his eyes.

  My smile dropped like a stone in a bucket. I swung the door closed again, slamming it in his face.

  Then the strangest thing happened. I felt tingly. It wasn’t my itchy eye but my lips. And the vision of Cooper being attached to those lips. Remembering what happened back in the high school auditorium sent goose bumps up both arms.

  Not. Good.

  He knocked again, and I could hear him shuffling around on the other side of the door. “That wasn’t very nice!” he called, and I heard him opening the paper bag. “What’s sulfacetamide? Sounds serious. Do you have an STD?” he asked, and I wondered what the hell my neighbors were thinking.

  Whipping the door open, I took advantage of having startled him and grabbed the bag from his hand. Just as I was closing the door again, he pushed his foot between it and the jamb, effectively stopping me from shutting him out. “I brought you that. You could at least say thank you.”

  I just wanted to put my damn drops in so I would stop wanting to pull my eyeball from my head. “Thank you. I’m not trying to be rude, I just have a lot going on right now,” I said sheepishly. That was the understatement of the year. “Now please leave so I can be miserable in peace.”

  I heard him sigh heavily. “Emmanuelle, I just want to chat. Not be a pain in the ass.” He sounded disappointed but understanding.

  Did my pleading work? Will he leave?

  I couldn’t imagine how crazy I looked with my hair pulled back into thick plaits, a bright green avocado mask on, sporting an oozy pink eye.

  When I opened the door the rest of the way to check if the coast was clear, Cooper was still standing there, looking as serious as ever.

  Damn it.

  I watched as his eyes flitted across my face, documenting the mess of things going on. I felt self-conscious. Not a feeling I enjoyed, especially around Cooper.

  “Good to see you’re alive. Anyway, I have something else,” he said, bending to pick up a plain white plastic bag with a paper one stuffed inside it.

  “Listen, I know you’re used to getting what you want, but I’m miserable, my eye is itchy, and I really just want to curl up, eat some cup o’ noodles, and watch bad TV. Besides, you shouldn’t be here.”

  He looked momentarily hurt, his
brow furrowed. “Why not?”

  I was exasperated on top of everything else. “Let’s see: First of all, I’m highly contagious—I don’t think running for mayor with gunk streaming out of your eyes would be a good look for you. Second of all, my helping you is a secret, and I don’t need you raising any flags by showing up here with my prescription and whatever that is,” I said, pointing to the other bag he held. “What is this, anyway?” I asked, raising the bag and shaking it.

  “I was coming to bring you this when the delivery boy from Shea’s Pharmacy pulled up. I saved him the trouble of walking up that indecent number of stairs. Honestly, you need to get that elevator fixed. And, Emmanuelle, you’re being dramatic. Why couldn’t I just pop in as a favor to an old friend?”

  If it had been Nick or Henry, that would have been fine, but this was Cooper.

  “How do I explain this nicely?” I began, simultaneously ripping open the prescription bag for the drops. “If I showed up at your place, no one would bat an eyelash.”

  “Why not? I’m sure people would notice you,” he murmured, looking at me.

  “Oh, I’m sure they’d notice, but I doubt they’d notice me. I would just be another woman using the revolving door to your bedroom. I wouldn’t want my neighbors to get the same idea about me. I have a reputation as a highly classy lady.”

  Cooper rolled his eyes. “I have feelings, you know.” With that, he slid around me to walk into the apartment.

  “I didn’t invite you in,” I mumbled into the hallway. My nosy neighbor, who was leaving and had witnessed the whole exchange, shot me a withering glare. I smiled awkwardly at her and took ten seconds to calm my breathing before turning to face Cooper.

  “Forgive me, may I come in?” he mocked. “I come bearing a peace offering. Even though you just insulted me, and yourself, in the process.”

  I pulled up short. “How did I insult myself?”

  “You compared my bedroom activities to a revolving door, therefore highlighting your own prudish sensibilities.”

  “I am not a prude!” I scoffed indignantly, crossing my arms over my chest.

  He set the take-out bag down on the coffee table and leveled me with a scathing look. “Oh, I know you’re not. It’s just too easy to rile you up, Emmanuelle.”

  With those words, the tingle in my lips was back. I decided to ignore it.

  “Emma,” I insisted, putting my hand on the door handle. “I’m very busy.”

  “Clearly,” he said with a laugh, waving a dismissive hand at my appearance.

  I snapped my gloves off. “Listen, I’ve had a day already and it’s barely past noon, so unless that’s the salty goodness of cup o’ noodles that I’m craving, I’m not interested. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  As I opened the door to let him out, he pulled something from the bag on the table. He turned it to show me the logo stamped to the brown paper. My eyes widened.

  Turning, I gasped. “Oh, my God—it is Pho 75!”

  The restaurant was by the University of Pennsylvania. Prior to going to college, I had never had Vietnamese food. After one taste of Pho 75, though, I’d had no idea how I’d managed eighteen years without it.

  I’d basically survived on it in college.

  Sick? Run to get pho.

  Hungover? Run to get pho.

  Stressed? Run to get pho.

  “You went to Philly?” I asked disbelievingly. The trip was nearly two hours each way.

  He nodded, smiling shyly. “It’s a peace offering. A fresh start, if you will.”

  “Plying me with delicious soup is a great way to let water flow under the bridge,” I teased, enjoying the way his ears pinked up.

  “Sort of,” he said, looking down at his shoes.

  “I’ll put away the voodoo doll,” I said, taking the bag into the kitchen. “For now.”

  Inside the bag was a myriad of containers, and the aroma was a delightful reminder of how much I missed this food. Would it have been in poor taste to shove my head into the bag and slurp the broth straight from the plastic take-out container? Probably, but I was suddenly so hungry I was seriously considering it. Flank and skirt steak, chicken, melt-in-your-mouth brisket, and then longans and dried fruit for dessert. There was more than enough for two people.

  “I assume some of this is for you?” I asked, ignoring the fact that my palms had gotten sweaty.

  “I was hoping to stay. Eat. Talk about . . . things. You know, I loved Pho 75, too. It was a little farther from Drexel, but I went often,” he said, walking into the kitchen.

  Swallowing a sudden bubble of nerves that popped up at the prospect of being alone together, I blurted out, “I’m going to go wash this mask off my face and—uh—medicate.”

  “This is in no way how I thought this conversation was going to go,” he said with a smile.

  I laughed awkwardly, turning toward the hallway. “What? You don’t usually have conversations about contagions and conjunctivitis over lunch?”

  Even after closing the bathroom door, I could hear his laughter.

  By the time I emerged with a clean, face mask–free face, jeans, a T-shirt, and a makeshift eye patch thanks to an old pair of glasses and a sock, Cooper had already assembled everything into pots to reheat.

  “I didn’t think you could cook,” I said, impressed that he’d managed not to burn my apartment down in the few minutes I’d been gone.

  He shrugged, focused on stirring the pot. “I’m a pro at this part. It’s better than using a microwave, in my opinion.”

  We worked in amiable silence for a few minutes, stirring and shifting pots around before ladling the pho into bowls he’d arranged on the counter. “You rummaged through my cabinets, I see.”

  “I wasn’t snooping. Just looking for plates and stuff.”

  Glancing around at the setup, I teased, “No chopsticks?”

  He laughed lightly, stepping forward. “I wasn’t going to press my luck by giving you a weapon.”

  Leaning casually against the countertop, he watched me, a curious look on his face. I’d never noticed it before, but it was a small kitchen. He seemed even taller than usual in the compact space.

  I cleared my throat. “Mind setting the table?”

  Doing as I asked, he deposited the bowls on the small table and began arranging them as we had been taught in home economics many years before.

  “Mrs. Smith would be thrilled that you remember how to properly set a table,” I teased.

  He stepped back, admiring his handiwork. “That was by far my worst class.”

  “Oh, please,” I scoffed.

  I moved back and forth between the small table and the kitchen, handing off more dishes and utensils before going back for the rest.

  “Mrs. Smith loved you. You got straight A’s through all four years of high school with her.”

  He took the tray from me and kept arranging. “She did love me, but I was still terrible at home ec. I think the only reason I passed was because her daughter was my partner every semester, and we only received group grades. It would have looked terrible if she’d failed her own child.”

  I pulled out two sets of chopsticks that I’d gotten as part of a Secret Santa gift from the office a few years back and had never used.

  I handed them to him. “Here. I think you’re safe today.”

  His hand lingered on mine for a second as I passed him the utensils. “These look new,” he said, regarding his set as he pulled it from the cloth sleeve. “I thought you would have used them by now.”

  “Used what? These?” I questioned, wondering why he’d be interested.

  “Yeah, these. I figured by now you’d have used them quite a bit.”

  I watched as he deftly twirled the shiny off-white stick between his fingers like a thin baton.

  “How did you know about these? They were from the Christmas exchange years ago.”

  Then it hit me. “You bought these?” I asked, stunned that Cooper, king of the last-minute gift cards, ha
d bought me a thoughtful present. I remembered the gift wrap they had come in. They had been interestingly wrapped, with way too much tape and a bow that didn’t match. Now that I thought about it, that part made sense.

  “I can’t believe these were from you,” I whispered, shocked.

  He nodded, setting them down on top of each place setting. He even folded the napkins into decorative fans. Walking around me, he pulled out my chair, encouraging me to sit.

  “You, me, Henry, and Nick had taken those cooking classes before we left for college, and you kept talking about owning a nice set of chopsticks, so—” He cleared his throat.

  I vaguely remembered the conversation, but I was stunned. Cooper had not only remembered what I’d said but gone out of his way to purchase something meaningful.

  “Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that I should never have doubted you.”

  “Excuse me?” I asked, unfolding the napkin fan over my lap, still amazed at discovering a layer of Cooper that I hadn’t known existed.

  It was hard enough to read him on a daily basis. Being one eye down thanks to the conjunctivitis made it even harder to get any insight into what was going through that head of his.

  “I just meant—” He paused and took a sip of water. “Can I be honest?”

  I nodded. “I would prefer it.”

  He pushed around the pho in his bowl for a few seconds, as if lost in thought about where to begin. He skewered a piece of chicken with his chopsticks, pushing it into his mouth. Around it, he covered his chewing with his hand and mumbled, “When you first agreed to do this—you know, to help with the campaign—I questioned your motives. I thought given our—” He paused again, searching for the right word, so I helped him out.

  “Strained friendship? Complicated history? Usual bouts of animosity?”