Hate to Want You

by Alisha Rai

  They’d talk about how Maria and Robert had dated in high school, and how strange it had been they hadn’t ended up together, because they were fun and normal and relatable, unlike their distant, wealthy spouses.

  They’d whisper about an affair.

  Suddenly he was twenty-three again, standing in front of his father, the man destroying the softest part of his heart. Be realistic, Nicholas. If you can’t do this for your mother’s memory, then do it for the rest of your family. Family first.

  “Think of the family,” Brendan said now, and Nicholas knew exactly what he was really saying. My threat from ten years ago still stands, and you know it.

  Young Nicholas had looked into his father’s eyes and fully believed that the man was capable of anything in his blind quest for revenge against the dead man who had wronged him. Including cheating that dead man’s widow, a woman he’d grown up with. Including blackmailing his one and only son.

  Older Nicholas still believed it.

  He tightened his fist so much that pain shot through him. You are a realist. This should not hurt. Do not let it hurt.

  He slowly released his hand. “I always do.”

  “Good.” Brusque now, mission accomplished, Brendan stalked to the door. “Get me that site survey.”

  Nicholas listened to the echo of the door as it closed behind his father. Ice cold. The chill had settled in his chest and spread to his arms and legs, the animation Livvy had cranked into him halted.

  He had a mountain of work on his desk, dozens of people waiting for him to make some sort of decision on a million different subjects. He’d go and handle all of that. He’d keep busy.

  He moved over to the corner and crouched down next to the broken glass and picked up the pieces, putting the tinier ones inside the bigger base. Then he paused for a second. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, calling up his messages.

  Can I help you?

  Quit creeping.

  If you want a tattoo, you’ll have to come inside.

  Three texts. One number at the top.

  If you want to talk to me, text me.

  Only he’d never done that. Texting her would be out of character, out of the pattern.

  He watched the cursor in the empty reply box blink. He could send her a message, warning her about his father, but he didn’t think Brendan would actually do anything to her. Brendan had railed about Tani and Paul remaining in what he viewed as his town, but as far as Nicholas knew, the old man had never actually confronted them.

  He swiped his thumb over the conversation and stared at the Delete box. He should do it. Remove the temptation of even having her number. He accepted the deletion, an odd sense of loss moving through him at erasing his link to her.

  It’s still in the cloud.

  Technology. It ensured no ex was ever truly gone.

  He tucked the phone back into his pocket and finished cleaning up the glass. As he was leaving the room, he grabbed the untouched tray of cookies to deliver to his staff.

  He picked up a chocolate chip cookie. The dough was soft, depressing under his fingertips, the chocolate smearing over his thumb. He lifted it to his mouth and took a tiny bite, the bittersweet chocolate exploding on his tongue.

  Not healthy.

  He licked his thumb and dropped the cookie in the trashcan on the way out. The wind-up man was back in his case, and there he would stay.

  There was no other choice, not for him. Or Livvy.

  Chapter 4

  EVERY YEAR, after Nicholas left her while she slept—or pretended to sleep—Livvy would roll over in the hotel bed and grab her phone. The first couple of years, she’d read the text that brought him to her and cry, clutching her phone to her chest, aching over the empty space in the bed.

  As she grew older, the tears had come less and less, but she’d never been able to stop herself from rereading that single message time and again. She’d also never been able to stop the aching.

  Eventually she’d get out of bed, shower, and put her clothes on. Then she’d grab her phone and delete that message. Within a month or so, she’d get a new phone or switch numbers.

  Livvy leaned against the granite island and stared at the texts she’d sent Nicholas. For three days, she’d picked up her phone, determined to delete them. Each time, she’d simply reread the one-sided conversation, and put the damn phone down.

  She traced her finger over each word she’d sent him, but instead of glass, she imagined she was touching his warm forearm. It had been so long since she’d caressed him like that. They were always greedy and needy, not soft or slow.

  Oh God, quit it.

  She swiped the conversation to the right. Her thumb hovered over the Delete. Archiving the chat was largely symbolic. She had his number memorized. It hadn’t changed in ten years. It wouldn’t change anytime soon. God forbid the man had to cope with something like a brand-new number. It would upset his perfect world.

  “Livvy?”

  Livvy jumped at the booming, deep voice coming from the living room. Feeling oddly like she’d been caught doing something illicit, she shoved her phone into her pocket. “Yes, Aunt Maile. I’ll be right there.”

  Livvy depressed the plunger on the French press and tried to let the scent of Kona calm her.

  When she’d left home all those years ago, she’d had a couple years of art school and a tiny bit of experience working at her father’s family’s little café under her belt. That slight work history had been enough for her to get a job and pay the bills while she apprenticed part-time.

  While she prepared two mugs on a tray, she mentally ran through what was in the fridge. She’d lost track of time while she did the laundry and ironing this morning, and she was behind on dinner preparation. She’d tried to use the stack of cookbooks to create nice meals when she wasn’t working, but so far, her mother had only picked at every dish she made. Livvy didn’t entirely blame her—Jackson had been the twin who had hovered around the kitchen, eager to learn everything he could from their personal chef. Livvy had been much more interested in disappearing somewhere with a sketchbook.

  Her hand shook as she poured the coffee and a little spilled on the counter. Son of a bitch. She set down the press and grabbed a towel, cleaning up the granite so it was gleaming again.

  Sometimes she managed to go weeks without thinking of Jackson and worrying over where he was and whether he was okay. Curse Nicholas for so many reasons, but especially for bringing up her twin brother yesterday.

  You weren’t cursing Nicholas in your bed last night. No, she’d been stifling his name on her lips as her fingers brought her body to swift climax. That was hardly new. She had enough Nicholas material in her spank bank that she could probably take care of herself forever.

  But she wasn’t going to think about him now. That wasn’t what she was here for.

  Livvy took a second to bundle her hair up on her head and picked up the tray of coffee, balancing it as she left the kitchen, using her elbow to knock open the swinging door. She was met with the sound of a cheering studio audience and the loud clicking of knitting needles, as well as the running patter of her aunt’s deep voice.

  “Do you think these doctors on these shows have actual medical degrees or—?” Her aunt broke off, a grin creasing her round face. Livvy always got a slight pang in her heart when she looked at the woman. Maile Kane resembled Robert Kane, with the same dark hair and eyes and brown skin. She was large boned and sturdy, her shoulders broad and strong, her hands capable.

  Her father’s younger sister had been a steady constant in Livvy’s life for forever, and never more so than after the accident. It had been Maile who had propped up her and her brothers during her father’s funeral; Maile who had tried to talk Tani out of selling her company shares for a pittance; Maile who had helped Livvy find a lawyer for Jackson when he was arrested for arson.

  And once the charges against Jackson had been dropped, it had been Maile who had handed Livvy and her brother a f
ew thousand bucks each and told them they could leave if they wished. No guilt necessary.

  Livvy couldn’t help the guilt, but the money had tided her over through those first lean months. She’d spoken to Maile more over the past decade than her mother, but not by much. Never once had her aunt made her feel bad about that.

  “Oh, Livvy, how nice, did you make us some coffee? It’s a little late, but you know I read this study that said you should drink a cup of coffee a day in order to maintain a good digestive system and also prevent cancer.”

  “I did make coffee.” Livvy smiled at her aunt. As usual, Maile was dressed fashionably, in black jeans and an exquisite pink cashmere sweater, her shiny dark curls tumbling down her back. Livvy resembled her Japanese-American mother, but in everything else, including her love of dressing up, she could have been Maile’s daughter.

  Livvy steeled herself to look at her mother, sitting on the couch, prepared for the hit of guilt and anxious need. Tani was patiently winding a ball of yarn for Maile, and didn’t glance up at her.

  Her mother had been a celebrated beauty in her youth. Save for a streak of white in her hair, she hadn’t aged much, maintaining a smooth, unlined complexion and a fit figure. The metal walker next to the sofa seemed out of place.

  The surgery they’d done on Tani’s hip had been minimally invasive—she’d been out of the hospital in a couple of days, before Livvy could even get to town. The first few days she’d been here, Livvy had matter-of-factly approached Tani to provide assistance in dressing and other basic matters, but she’d been straight-armed away fairly quickly. I can see to my own personal needs, Olivia. Since then, Tani had mostly only accepted help from her sister-in-law.

  Gregarious, flighty Maile and distant, reserved Tani made an odd pair, but as far as Livvy could tell, they got along well, with Maile chattering and Tani listening. The two women had been living together since her mother had sold everything. This home, a wedding present from Tani’s father to Robert’s parents, wasn’t a mansion, but it was paid for, large enough for the two women and located in a quiet, safe cul-de-sac.

  Tani had never talked finances with her daughter, but Livvy’d gleaned enough from their stilted conversations to determine that after she’d sold everything, even at a loss, Tani had amassed enough in savings to support both women. A good thing, since Tani had never worked outside the home. Maile occasionally talked about selling her knitted creations, but Livvy doubted they would cover all their bills.

  Livvy skirted the leather couch and placed the tray on the table. She handed a mug to her aunt first. Maile took a sip. “Oh my, is this coconut milk?”

  “It is. I thought you’d like it.”

  Livvy picked up a mug to hand to her mother, but Tani shook her head. “No, thank you. I only drink my coffee black.”

  “Try it, Tani. It’s delicious,” Maile urged.

  “Too fatty.”

  “I can make you a cup without milk,” Livvy responded.

  Tani wrinkled her small nose. “I’ll be up all night if I have coffee now.”

  It was barely three p.m., but there was no point in arguing with her mother. “Sure. I’ll drink it, don’t worry. What are you watching?”

  “This doctor is so smart. It’s a show about how to lose fifteen pounds in a week on his new diet. You only eat vegetables that start with the letter c.” Maile’s bright, dark eyes went back to the television.

  Livvy’d grown up with little to no television in her home, but her mom had apparently changed her views on T.V. time over the years. The older woman spent most of her day sitting in the armchair of her bedroom, switching through various channels like it was her job, pausing only to move to the living room and the T.V. there. “I really hope coffee and chocolate are on that list,” Livvy said.

  Maile snorted. “And carbs.”

  “Speaking of carbs, I was thinking of what to make for dinner. Pasta, maybe?” Livvy perched on the arm of the couch where her aunt sat.

  “You don’t have to cook,” Tani said.

  “I want to.” No, she didn’t. But she’d ordered pizza yesterday, and she couldn’t do that two days in a row. “I make a really great marinara sauce too.” More lies. She could open a jar.

  “Hmm, maybe not marinara,” her aunt said. “Your mother’s allergy.”

  Livvy looked at her mom. “What allergy?”

  Tani shrugged. “I’m allergic to nightshades.”

  “Since when?”

  “A few years back.”

  She thought of all the meals she’d prepared since she’d gotten home. The omelettes. The pizza she’d ordered.

  All made with tomatoes.

  Suddenly, Tani’s pecking made more sense.

  “Why didn’t you say something?”

  Tani gave another delicate shrug and put the ball of yarn in the basket next to the sofa. “I didn’t want to be a bother.”

  Livvy took a drink of her coffee to hide her annoyance. This was so like her mother, not to communicate one simple thing. Livvy had thought Tani didn’t like her cooking, not that she couldn’t eat her cooking.

  Start a fight. Do it.

  No. No. That would be the immature thing to do, and she wasn’t immature. At least, not that immature. “Any other allergies I should know about?”

  Tani frowned at the coffee table and rubbed a stain there. Cleaning was definitely not one of Livvy’s skills, but she’d spent most of the day tidying up in here. The gesture felt like an implicit rebuke. “Dairy.”

  Livvy thought of the cheese she’d put on most everything. “Got it. Sure.”

  Aunt Maile nodded at the T.V. “This doctor did a whole episode on adult allergy onset.”

  Livvy took another sip of coffee. “I’ll have to catch that later. Or we could go for a walk around the neighborhood, Mom. Do those exercises the physical therapist gave us. I don’t have to work tonight.”

  Livvy waited, but Tani’s only response was silence. She’d talked about her part-time job about a dozen times over the past week, but Maile had been the only one to show any interest. Once upon a time, Tani would have leapt up to tell her exactly what she thought about her only daughter being a tattoo artist.

  Olivia, really, I was fine with you not having any interest in the business. I spent a small fortune on art supplies and classes, and this is how you want to use it? To pierce people’s skin with ink?

  The good old days. She’d never had a close, tender relationship with Tani, but at least her pecking and criticism had been some sort of attention.

  When Livvy’d lost her father in that accident, she’d lost her mother too. Tani had effectively withdrawn from all her children, spending her days either sobbing or sleeping. She’d seemed oblivious to Livvy’s heartbreak over losing her father and Nicholas back-to-back, Paul’s devastation over losing his place as heir apparent to C&O, and—most important—Jackson’s run-in with the law and the two weeks he’d spent in jail. At the time, Livvy’d felt blindsided, utterly and totally alone.

  As an adult who struggled with maintaining emotional equilibrium, though, Livvy could empathize. In hindsight, she could see a pattern in her mother’s behavior that suggested the depressive episode after Robert’s death hadn’t been entirely situational.

  Headaches and fatigue. Growing up, those had been the excuses her mom had given when she’d retreat to her bed for days on end. There hadn’t been tears then, only silence. Livvy’s father, normally cheerful, would walk around with a worried scowl on his face, shushing Livvy and her brothers. After a few days or a week, her mother would emerge, a little more fragile-looking, but back to her cool and contained self.

  Part of Livvy wanted to ask her mother straight out if she’d ever seen a doctor about her depression, but she wasn’t sure how to broach the subject. Even when life had been more stable, the Kanes had never discussed mental health. It had taken years for Livvy to seek help and even longer for her to understand there was no cure or magic pill that could fix everything.

&
nbsp; In the dark days and weeks following Paul’s funeral, Livvy’d finally confronted and acknowledged the scary, lonely emptiness she’d carried inside her for most of her adult life. She’d tried to fuck it and move it and ignore it and run it away, to no avail.

  It would never leave her, fine. She was done flailing in the darkness when she could take actionable steps to help herself.

  Coming home right now was her chance and she’d take it. Livvy sipped her too-sweet coffee. Even if she had to cook and clean and confront her ex-lover, she’d force her mother to . . . well, maybe not shower Livvy with love, but at least care enough to criticize her a little.

  Nobody had ever said her family was functional.

  A knock sounded at the front door, but before Livvy could move, the rattle of keys preceded a familiar throaty voice. “Hello?”

  Tani straightened. She didn’t exactly light up, but her gaze focused on the arched opening of the living room.

  “We’re in here,” Maile called out.

  A small, dark-haired whirlwind came barreling through the door. The six-year-old paused only when he caught sight of Livvy and shoved his silky black hair out of his eyes, a shy smile creasing his baby-round face. Kareem had his mother’s hair, build, and face, but he had his father’s smile.

  Livvy wasn’t great around kids, but her heart caught, something deep and warm lodging there. She wanted to grab the kid and haul him in for a hug, but he barely knew her and would probably be freaked out. She settled for a smile, dialing up the warmth.

  “Hi, Livvy,” he said.

  “Aunt Livvy,” Livvy’s sister-in-law said as she rounded the corner of the door and smiled at Livvy. Sadia had been Livvy and Jackson’s best friend from the time they were in elementary school, well before she’d fallen in love with and married Paul. She hadn’t changed much over the past decade, though motherhood had rounded her already dangerous curves.