Hate to Love You

by Isabelle Richards

  He needs to invest in some higher thread count sheets, because my ass is getting chafed from all the friction of him treating my body like a heavy bag. If sex is going to leave marks, it better damn well be worth it.

  Henrik and I had only been intimate once before his ridiculous proposal, and before I realized we had started, it was over. After that, my periods lasted two weeks and came every two weeks. I was also plagued with yeast infections and UTIs. Strange how that had never been a problem before. Crazy how that happens.

  After I accepted his proposal, I decided I needed to at least give this a shot, so my periods lightened up, and my infections miraculously cleared up. But practice does not seem to make perfect. Practice doesn’t even seem to make things mildly enjoyable. With his ADD brain, Henrik’s in, out, over, and moved on to the next thought. Our sex is unimpressive, but at the same time, the short duration is its saving grace.

  But tonight, Henrik won a big match. He scored three goals, and in his mind, Viagra seemed like a logical way to celebrate. He broke the news to me after he’d taken it. I tried to give it a chance—I really did. We’re getting married, so I might as well try to make it work. That lasted about three minutes.

  I swear he’s part cat! His tongue is more abrasive than sandpaper. He’s doing his best to lick and suck all the right parts, but I feel scoured. It takes all I have not to scream, “You’ve already sanded that part! Move on to something else before it bleeds!”

  I should give him direction or even take over. Clearly, despite his extensive history with women, he never learned what he should be doing down there. I’m not sure how that’s possible, but if I were a good fiancée, I’d communicate that playful biting does not result in drawing blood. But I just don’t want to.

  Oh, thank God, he’s changing positions. Good. Maybe things will improve. Wait, no. I think this may be worse. How is this possible? I didn’t think it could get worse. Leave it to Henrik to prove me wrong.

  I never had this problem with Chase. I shouldn’t be thinking about him right now, but sometimes—as much as it pains me to admit it—thinking of him is the only thing that gets me through these experiences. When Chase and I started, we were fumbly and a little awkward, but we established a rhythm, and man, did that rhythm work. Every damn time.

  Oh, a new move. Well, this one doesn’t hurt. That’s a plus. Scratch that. He’s started with the sexy talk. The not good sexy talk. It makes me want to cover his mouth with duct tape.

  Hmm, he really should get this ceiling repainted. It’s a mess. In fact, the whole place could use a makeover. I should go get some paint chips for him to look at…

  Bananas, almond milk, red peppers… Do I need anything else at the market? I bet I can talk him into going there if I promise him froyo. He’ll do anything for that all-you-can-eat topping bar they have…

  I think my finance guy is right. Now is the time to diversify my stocks. What have I been waiting for?

  Oh, Jesus. What is he trying to do now? He’s going to pull a damn muscle! Fabulous. He’ll pull a groin muscle, and I’ll become the bad guy when Munich’s number-one guy is out for three weeks. Three weeks, maybe longer. The flip side is that he’ll be out of commission in bed for three weeks too. And if he’s smart, he’ll retire this “move” for the rest of eternity. Perhaps there is an upside…

  Oh, crap. The O face. There’s something just wrong about his O face. The way it scrunches and skews, it scares me. If I were actually close to an orgasm, that face would chase it away.

  “Are you close? I’m close, Lamm. Tell me you’re close, gorgeous.”

  The pleading look in his eyes reminds me of a little kid when they’re just learning to ride a bike without training wheels. The “I think I’m really doing it” look. If I don’t fake it, that look will shift from eternal optimism to soul-crushing devastation.

  Fine. No one can say I don’t support a boy’s dream.

  Yes!

  Yes!

  More!

  Right there! Yes, don’t stop!

  Right there! Fuck yes!

  Oh, God!

  Oh, God!

  Oh, God!

  Take that, Meg Ryan.

  Chapter Ten

  Arianna

  “Our last discussion was cut short, but I made a note of something I’d like to go back to,” Dr. Clawson says, looking over her notes. “You were discussing your fear of being in a relationship. What was the turning point for you? What made you take that step away from fear and toward your relationship?”

  “I’m a sucker for a grand gesture, and Chase is very good at making them.”

  She looks at me, waiting for me to continue. I hate remembering these things. I can’t hate him when I remember him like this, and hating him is the only way I know how to protect myself.

  “How will this help me move on from him?” I ask. “He’s marrying someone else. Don’t I need to come to terms with that reality rather than understand our relationship? It’s over and cannot be resuscitated. Doing a post-mortem isn’t going to solve anything.”

  She puts her pad down and leans forward. “You say you’re still in love with him and you haven’t been able to successfully move on. If you understand the relationship, you can learn from it. That means looking at the good, the bad, and the ugly. You were afraid to commit to him, to trust him, yet something helped you take that step. Typically, your initial fears and insecurities play a role for the duration of your relationship and in future relationships. Exploring this will help you move forward.”

  Or you’re just a gossip whore. I suppose either theory could be true. I fight the desire to walk out by reminding myself I paid for the hour before coming in. I have to give the doctor some credit. Asking the client to prepay is a genius way to keep her ass in this seat. A mistake I won’t make again.

  She leans back, calmly waiting for my response. Five hundred dollars an hour sticks in my craw enough to get me to talk.

  “You know that saying, the first fight you have is the same fight you’ll have for the rest of your life? Well, that was the case for us. We never had a conversation defining the parameters of our relationship, then in the spring, I was asked by my agent to accompany a colleague to a few events. It was nothing. We walked the red carpet, then went our separate ways. Our picture hit the internet, and Chase was hurt. Instead of talking to me, he posted on Facebook about his crazy hot plans for prom. We had just discussed prom and how I couldn’t go as his date. He said he didn’t want to go with anyone else, so he was going to go stag. That meant a lot to me, and he just shattered it.”

  I shift in my seat. Dr. Clawson stares at me, hanging on my every word, and it makes me uncomfortable. Maybe it’s better when she’s taking notes—the spot light isn’t as intense.

  I clear my throat and begin again. “We passive aggressively battled via social media. He’d post pictures of him with girls; I’d post pictures of me with guys on tour at social events. Eventually he called me and we had a huge blow out, and I assumed it was over.” I pause to take a sip of water. The glass is soaked with condensation. Even the water feels the tension in the room. “The night of prom, I was in Madrid. With the time difference, it was the early morning, and like an idiot, I was glued to Facebook, waiting to torture myself with his posts, but they never came. That night, I got a message from the hotel that I was needed in one of the ballrooms. I came down, and there was Chase in a tux. He had a table for two set up with champagne, and a small dance floor. His iPod was connected to a small sound system, and there were these really tacky disco lights.

  “He said since I couldn’t go to him, he’d brought the prom to me. He’d skipped prom and jumped on a plane. The hotel staff had an event later that night, but he’d managed to convince them to let us use the room for an hour or so. We had dinner, talked, and danced a little. It was really sweet.

  “When I walked into that room and saw him there, I was overcome. I can’t remember ever feeling that happy, and I just knew I needed to give our
relationship everything I had. Later that night, we were sitting on the balcony of my hotel room, and I said something like, ‘You know you could have just sent flowers.’ He said that when he stopped to think about actually losing me, it made him panic. He realized he was in love with me, and he couldn’t wait another second to tell me. So we agreed to be exclusive. We still felt we needed to keep it a secret, but we were committed to making it work. It wasn’t just about sex anymore. It hadn’t been for a while, but I don’t think either of us was ready to admit it.”

  She gives me a syrupy sweet smile. “You said that this was a reoccurring issue in your relationship?”

  I nod. “I wouldn’t be upfront enough about my professional obligations that had me interacting with other men. He’d find out and overreact. We’d fight and break up. He’d lash out by screwing anything with a pulse, then come groveling back, and I’d give in. I wasn’t innocent. I gave him the impression I was doing the same thing, but I wasn’t. I tried a few times, but I just couldn’t go through with it. I found a myriad of ways to hurt him as much as he was hurting me without actually doing the deed though. Put that on repeat, and it’s our whole relationship.”

  “Tell me about your relationship with Henrik. Do you trust him?”

  I stare out the window as I ponder her question. I hadn’t really considered it, which is absurd. “I don’t distrust him,” is the most honest response I can give.

  She leans forward and takes off her reading glasses. “Have you let him in enough to earn your trust?”

  For the first time, I don’t have a pithy comeback to avoid her question. “I let Henrik take me on crazy adventures, things I would never typically do. That requires a great a deal of trust.”

  She nods. “Yes, but have you opened yourself up to him? Do you share your fears, desires, concerns with him? Or do you keep him at a safe distance?”

  “Henrik and I met years ago on a photo shoot. Nothing came of it, other than Chase’s jealousy. We ran into each other again in rehab—not drug rehab, physical therapy rehab. I had just had my second knee surgery, and he had just had his LCL repaired. I was in a dark place, completely obsessed with getting back in playing shape. I had shut out the whole world and was pushing myself too hard. Henrik was this beam of sunshine that helped me remember that there was more to life than tennis.

  “He’s in constant motion and has endless enthusiasm. I used to joke that I was in a state of inertia, resistant to change. I wanted to keep my head down and focus on only my knee. He bounced into my life and shook everything up. He made me smile again.

  “For months, we were just friends. We’d connect when we happened to be in the same corner of the globe. He got me to go camping and fishing and any other random impulse he had. I’ve never been impulsive, and he was good for me. After I decided to retire, I felt lost, and I didn’t feel like I could go home. So he helped me stay lost. Our relationship developed from there.”

  “It sounds like he was good for you, but you didn’t answer my question. Do you trust him?” she asks again.

  I pull at a loose thread on my skirt. “He offered me adventure and excitement that would keep me thousands of miles away from everything and everyone that hurt me. I never would have gotten through that time without him.”

  “Did he help you deal with your problems, or did he help you escape them?”

  “It doesn’t have to be mutually exclusive. He helped me deal by helping me escape.”

  “Running from your problems is the antithesis of resolution,” she says. “Why don’t you share your feelings with him? Do you think he wouldn’t help you? Do you want him to help you, or is he just a vehicle for your escape from reality?”

  Henrik had helped me escape, but she makes it sound as though I used him. It wasn’t like that. Not consciously anyway.

  “I think we were just what each other needed at the time,” I finally respond. “He wanted a partner in crime, and I wanted to be anywhere but here. It was mutually beneficial.”

  “And now? I’m guessing you’re here because you don’t want to run away anymore. You’re trying to face your problems. Where does that leave Henrik?”

  I’ve been asking myself the same question. If I know I still love Chase, it’s not fair to continue my relationship with Henrik. But Chase is getting married to someone else. Holding out for him is foolish. Henrik, in his own crazy way, loves me and makes me smile. We don’t have the same depth in our relationship as I did with Chase, but sometimes shallow is safe. Shallow can’t destroy your heart. Depth has only lead to destruction.

  I cross my legs. “It means Henrik is still the man in my life. He came for me when I had no one else to turn to. He swept in and turned my life around. It isn’t perfect, but it works.”

  She taps her pen on her pad. “It worked when you wanted to be anywhere but here, as you said. You’ve come home to be with your father, and it sounds like you may be here for quite some time. If he can’t help you run away, does your relationship still work?”

  “I don’t know,” I say quietly.

  She takes her glasses off and places them in her lap. “Have you told him about Chase?”

  My eyes widen. “Of course not! Why would I do that?” The woman is nuts! Telling her and Charlie about my residual feelings for Chase was hard enough. If I never have to utter those words again, it will be too soon.

  “I think the question is, why wouldn’t you?” She stands. “Our time is up, but before you go, I’d like to give you a suggestion. Perhaps now would be good time for a visit with Henrik. It may help you see things more clearly. You need to decide what role you will allow him to play in this new stage of your life.”

  My brain is so overloaded with memories and questions after my appointment that when I pull in my parking garage, I barely remember the drive.

  The next morning, I’m in a first class seat on the tarmac at San Francisco International Airport, wondering if I’m making the right decision. It’s a little late for doubts, but I’m sure I’ll spend the next twenty-three hours second-guessing myself.

  Chapter Eleven

  January, 2015

  Sydney, Australia

  Arianna

  It feels so strange having nothing to do. I can’t remember the last time I didn’t jump out of bed to spend the whole day training until I crash. I’ve been sitting on my balcony for hours, and I have absolutely nowhere to be. I have no idea what to do with myself. It’s unsettling. What do people do when they have nothing left to do?

  I don’t even have any friends here to spend time with. Since coming here six months ago, all I’ve done is train. I came here to see if my knee can handle professional play. I haven’t had time for social endeavors. The only person I know here is Lachlan, but our relationship has always been, at my insistence, strictly professional. From the few times they’ve met, Henrik’s confident Lachlan wants more, but what does Henrik know? As a precaution though, I was careful never to cross that social barrier, and now doesn’t seem like the time to start. My career is over. I’m not sure I can stand to look at him, let alone tolerate idle chitchat.

  It’s not Lachlan’s fault he’s become the villain in my tennis fairy tale. To his credit, he was honest with me from the get-go. He didn’t think I had a chance in hell at coming back at full strength. After the second surgery, my doctors didn’t even want me to try to make a comeback. But I chose to try to prove them wrong. Lachlan warned me when he signed on that this may not end well, but I never really believed him. There’s never been a ceiling I couldn’t bust through. Of all of the coaches on the circuit, he has the most experience bringing players back from injury. If he’d done it before, he could do it again. Or so I thought. After a few months of working with Lachlan, I thought I was well on my way back. That was when the swelling started. By November, I could barely make it through a set without intense pain. I kept it to myself and played through the pain, but by December, I was falling a step behind. The medical opinion is that the ligaments in my knee ar
e far too weak to keep up with the pace my career demands. If I keep pushing it, it’s only a matter of time before I end up back under the knife. Two surgeries and eighteen months of rehab and strength training wasn’t enough to save my career.

  I could continue to play, as long as I play at a max of seventy percent of my capacity. Maybe I’d break the top one hundred, if I’m lucky. I simply don’t love the game enough to put myself through that. It’s not just the pain—I can take that. The endless comparisons are what will kill me. My whole career, I’ve been compared to my mother. If I return as a substandard version of myself, they’ll compare me to me in my prime, and both versions will fall short of my mother. I’ve already lost so much because of my commitment to my career. Returning just isn’t worth it.

  My agent and PR rep are coordinating the press conference. Once they touchdown, they’ll schedule a million meetings to discuss my next steps, which will be a nightmare. Daddy and Pat both begged to come be by my side, but I turned them down. I think this is something I need to do alone. Plus, if they come, they’ll try to get me to come home, and I’m not ready to go back. I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready to go back. Chase has ruined home for me.

  The doorbell rings, forcing me to get up. I open the door to find Charlie, looking haggard. I open my arms and pull her into me. “Charlie, what are you doing here? I told Daddy and Pat I was fine.”

  She breaks away and picks her handbag up off the ground. “I needed to come whether you wanted me here or not. We’ll catch up in a minute. First thing’s first; I need your restroom.” She pushes by me and drops her purse on the sofa.

  “Down the hall, fourth door on the left,” I direct.

  I get us some lemonade and carry it to the balcony. She joins me out there a few minutes later.

  “You look like you haven’t slept in days,” I say as she sits.

  “It’s because I haven’t, really. Spencer and I got back from Cozumel, and I essentially drove straight to the airport and came here. I slept on the plane, but that’s never restorative.”