To Have and to Hate Read online

  “Are you mad? Absolutely not. There’s no time. I need to go to an art supply store.”

  “All right, c’mon then. There’s one a few blocks over, and better still, there’s a camera store right next door.”

  We head there together at a breakneck pace, shoulders bumping as we walk and talk. He pays attention to where we’re going better than I do. Every now and then, he’ll reach out to direct me to the side so we don’t cut off the flow of traffic as I talk.

  “Paris, Matthew. PARIS!”

  “I know. Sounds pretty cool.”

  “Better than cool. Cool doesn’t come close to describing how I feel right now. I want to call everyone I know and tell them the good news. I want to call—”

  “Who?” he asks.

  A sad laugh bursts out of me as I realize the truth. “No one. Honestly, there’s no one I can call.”

  Matthew’s smile fades as he looks down at me.

  “No, don’t do that. Don’t feel bad. I don’t feel bad. I feel so excited I could float away. I’ll call you. How’s that? Get your phone out.”

  He does, playing along, and I dial his number.

  “Hello? Matthew Jennings?” I ask once the call connects.

  “Yes. And who do I have here?”

  “Elizabeth Brighton,” I say with a teasing smile as we keep walking side by side.

  He contorts his face as if completely confused. “Who?”

  “E-liz-a-beth Brighton,” I say again, enunciating the syllables.

  “Oh yeah, rings a bell. Are you that girl my brother’s married to?”

  I reach out to punch him lightly on the shoulder. “Stop teasing. I have big news. HUGE news.”

  “Go on, say it then.”

  “I might…possibly…could be selling my art in a Parisian gallery.”

  “No shit?”

  I crack up and press end on the call as we round the corner and come face to face with the art supply store—in short, my mecca.

  Hours later, we’re riding the elevator together back at Walt’s apartment, arms laden with paper bags.

  “Thanks. You didn’t have to help me bring this stuff back,” I say to Matthew as we step out into the entry gallery.

  “How else were you going to do it? Hire a cart horse?”

  “Elizabeth?” Walt calls out.

  We both turn in sync as he walks out of the kitchen, wiping his hands with a tea towel. He’s wearing a forest green sweater and jeans. Casual yet still painfully attractive.

  Something smells absolutely delicious, and Matthew notices too.

  “Did you get dinner delivered?” he asks, practically licking his chops.

  “I cooked,” Walt says, tossing the towel over one shoulder before walking toward me to take the bags out of my hands.

  “For one?” Matthew asks.

  “For two,” Walt replies, catching my gaze.

  “Oh? Camila coming over? You two work it out?” Matthew asks, dropping my bags haphazardly near the door.

  “No.”

  My head whips in his direction, my mouth opening with a question I’m too shy to ask.

  No, she’s not coming over? Or no, you didn’t work it out?

  Walt peers inside the bags to see my art supplies. Then without being asked, he turns in the direction of the library to take them there.

  “Matthew, bring those bags for Elizabeth,” Walt says.

  Little brother rolls eyes at big brother, but nonetheless, he does as he’s asked. I smile and shout a thank you to both of them before stepping into the kitchen.

  Frank Sinatra is playing quietly on hidden speakers. A bottle of red wine breathes beside two wine glasses. A kale salad dressed with raisins and sliced almonds is prepped nearby. Plates are already pulled out, along with cutlery.

  “Who are you trying to impress?” Matthew teases as the two of them follow me into the kitchen a moment later.

  My cheeks burn as I consider the fact that Walt was likely cooking dinner for me. Unless he invited someone else over?

  I glance over in time to see him shrug. “I wanted to cook, and it’s just as easy to cook for two as it is to cook for one.”

  “Is that lamb?” Matthew asks.

  “Braised lamb chops with cranberry-harissa chutney.”

  “Smells really good,” I tell him with a small smile.

  He nods but doesn’t look over at me.

  “It looks like there’s plenty for all of us if you want to stay, Matthew,” I say, trying to be nice.

  “Considering I was planning on eating cereal when I got home, I think I’ll take you up on the offer.”

  We divide Walt’s dinner easily between the three of us, sharing the bottle of wine as we sit at the corner of the long dining table. Matthew and I sit across from each other, and Walt takes the head. He’s quiet as we eat, though that’s nothing new. He retreats so easily into the background, taking in the conversation rather than participating, especially around Matthew, who seems to soak up attention like a sponge.

  Matthew talks enough for everyone, telling Walt about our afternoon, filling him in about my meeting with Nadiya and then recounting our time at the art supply store.

  “I had to practically drag Elizabeth out of the paint aisle. I swear she would have stayed there all day if I’d let her. And for the love of God, don’t let her look at the easels or you’ll never escape.”

  “Not true! I was brief compared to the way you were in the camera store. It’s like you’d never seen a lens before. I think you were drooling at one point.”

  “Sounds like the two of you had a good time,” Walt replies, picking up his wine and taking a long sip. “Are you done with that?”

  He suddenly stands and reaches for Matthew’s plate, leaving his brother to quickly finish grabbing his last bite with his fork before he loses the chance.

  “Hey! I was still—”

  “I’m glad you could stay for dinner, but I’ve got an early morning.”

  His tone clearly says, You’ve overstayed your welcome.

  Then he turns for the kitchen, carrying Matthew’s plate away.

  Matthew looks to me for backup, but there’s no way I’m jumping into the ring on his behalf.

  “I get it loud and clear,” Matthew shouts with a laugh and a shake of his head.

  Then he drains the last of his wine and pushes to stand. “Elizabeth, walk me out?”

  I do as he asks, though I want to make it a quick goodbye so I can hurry back into the kitchen and help with cleanup.

  “Thank you so much for connecting me with Nadiya. It’s all so exciting, even if nothing comes from it.”

  He shrugs into his jacket. “It will,” he says, full of confidence before he leans in and kisses my cheek. “I’ll text you later this week. Maybe we can grab dinner or something.”

  I hear dishes clang in the kitchen, so I agree quickly as I start to walk backward. “Yes, let’s do it.”

  Walt’s already at the sink with his back to me, scrubbing away at dishes with a sponge when I hurry into the kitchen.

  “Here, let me,” I say, touching his forearm to get his attention.

  His muscles flex under my hand and I jerk away quickly, immediately regretful that I’ve touched him.

  “It’s fine. I’ve got it.”

  “But you made dinner and it must have taken forever. It was really good. I meant to tell you that while we were eating, but Matthew wouldn’t stop talking for half a second.” I laugh.

  He doesn’t respond and he doesn’t relinquish the sponge, so I try to take it from him.

  “I said, I’ve got it.”

  I tense at the sound of annoyance in his voice, stepping back and dropping my hands.

  There’s deafening silence, and then he reaches for another plate and dismisses me with a flat, “Good night, Elizabeth.”

  Unsure of what else to say, I retreat back to my room, happy to be behind my closed door so there’s no fear of him seeing how upset his mood has made me.


  God he’s infuriating.

  The antithesis of his brother.

  With Matthew, it’s sunshine and happy days. With Walt, it’s the opposite. I thought we were slowly building toward a friendship, and if not that, then at least a mutual respect for one another.

  Tonight, it’s as if the last few days never happened. Like we’re right back at square one, and that thought is driven home even more over the next few days.

  Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, he works so late I don’t even catch him before I go to sleep. His absence makes our interaction on Monday seem to grow even more menacing, as if, left on their own, my weeds of insecurity are growing completely out of control. I start to wonder if he’s annoyed with me for anything and everything. Maybe I’m leaving too much of a mess in the kitchen after I make breakfast, so I make a point to get it spotless before I retreat into the library to work. Maybe he wants me to write another check for the rug, so I leave one on his desk even though it pains me to take money out of my savings. Maybe he’s annoyed I’m not contributing to groceries, so I make sure to pick up some essentials at the store on Thursday evening. I make warm chocolate chip cookies and leave them out with a note for him to eat as many as he wants. I pick up flowers from a shop around the corner from the apartment to spruce up the table in the entry gallery. The next morning, I find he’s moved the vase into the library.

  Friday, I catch him for a brief moment when I get home from a yoga class. My body was starting to hate me for all the hours I’ve been spending in front of my easel. Aches and pains were growing aches and pains of their own, so I decided to try out a place with rave reviews.

  The studio was heated, so by the time the class was over, I was sweating from head to toe. Add on to that my brisk walk back to the apartment, and I’m desperate to yank off my jacket and scarf the moment I step out of the elevator. I don’t even make it past the entryway before I strip down to my sports bra and leggings, and the moment my outer layers are piled at my feet, I look up to see Walt staring at me from the other end of the hall.

  Oh Jesus.

  “I’ll pick everything up,” I say sheepishly, assuming that’s why he’s staring at me with such a harsh expression.

  He probably assumes I leave my things wherever I like and let the cleaning people pick them up later, but I don’t. Never.

  As if to prove my point, I bend down right then and start to gather up my belongings. When I’m done and I glance up, Walt’s not standing there anymore.

  “Nice seeing you too,” I whisper under my breath, more than a little annoyed.

  It’s a tipping point for me, this weird game he seems intent on playing. If he has a problem with me, he can just damn well say so.

  I drop my clothes in my room and continue down the hall, checking in his office to find he’s not there. Not willing to give up just yet, I head to his room.

  As a rule, I don’t make it a habit to go near his bedroom, for obvious reasons. Right now, though, my temper has erased any sense of propriety.

  “Walt?” I ask, pounding my fist on his door. “Can I have a word?”

  The door flings open immediately and he looms on the other side, somehow bigger than I remember. His running shoes are in his hand, along with his AirPods. He’s clearly on his way out, but I’m blocking his path.

  “Whatever you need, we can discuss it when I get back.”

  He tries to step past me, but I block him. Well, slightly. He’s a lot taller than me and he could easily move past. In fact, he sidesteps like he’s about to do just that until I fling my hands out and grab hold of the doorframe like a child playing a game, blocking him for good.

  I think he’ll laugh. Hell, I’m about to. But he only looks down at me like I’m a bug he’d like to swat away.

  Fifteen

  Walt doesn’t laugh. Not even a hint of one.

  “Oh c’mon, isn’t this a little ridiculous?” I point out, still not moving my hands from the doorframe.

  “Indeed it is.”

  He shuffles his weight to the left like he wants to pass that way, so like an NBA point guard, I’m forced to match him.

  “The thing is…you’ve been quiet this week.”

  “I’m always quiet.”

  “Sure. Yes. But this week you’ve taken it to a whole new level. I get the feeling it’s because of me.”

  “That’s pretty arrogant, don’t you think? You’re not the only source of stress in my life.”

  I smirk a confident got-ya smirk that he immediately notices. “So I am a source of stress?”

  “Barely. Would you please move?”

  He reaches out to grab my biceps so he can forcibly move me out of his way, but I jerk my arm away before he can.

  “Not so fast.”

  “Elizabeth.”

  “Yes, see—do you hear how you say my name? Like I exhaust you?”

  “You do exhaust me.”

  “Good. It wasn’t so hard to admit the truth, was it? Now elaborate. What is it about me that makes you so annoyed? If you let me know, I can change and make life easier for you.”

  He rubs his head. Truthfully, I think he’s had the same headache since the day I moved in.

  I let go of the doorframe and cross my arms, showing him with my body language that I have no plans to move until he starts to talk.

  His gaze locks with mine, butterflies fill my stomach, and even still, his expression says, I can stand here all night if I need to. I’m not budging.

  I wince. “Not going to tell me? Okay fine, then I’ll have to guess. Am I making too much noise when you’re home? I could be quiet as a church mouse if only you’d tell me to be.”

  Nothing from him, no confirmation or denial.

  All right…

  “I could pick up the slack around here. Help make dinner or something? Or wait.” My eyes light up with an idea. “Are you moodier than normal because I finished off the last apple the other day? Because I swear I didn’t even think you would care. I thought you preferred oranges. At least I assume you do because you’re always eating the oranges before I can even get to them—”

  My sentence cuts off when—in one swift movement—Walt steps forward, bends down, and presses his lips to mine.

  He quite literally kisses me into silence.

  It’s a hard, aggressive action that sends me stumbling backward in shock. My eyes are wide with wonder. My hand—as confused as the rest of me—flies up to cover my lips as if to find evidence of its own. Did that truly just happen?

  I ask the question out loud, and to my utter horror, Walt looks as shocked and appalled by the kiss as I do.

  “You kissed me!” I exclaim.

  “You wouldn’t shut up!” he says, throwing his hands into the air.

  “YOU KISSED ME!” I repeat again, as if shouting the words will make it somehow easier to believe.

  Walt pivots and tugs his hands through his hair. He takes two steps away, sighs, and looks back at me with something akin to remorse. Though with him, I highly doubt it.

  “I’d apologize, but I don’t think you’d accept.”

  “No. Absolutely not. You just stole a kiss from me, and I want it back,” I say, gesturing with my hand.

  That, of all things, makes him laugh—a good rich laugh that goes on for so long it’s like he’s been holding it in for weeks. His deep dimples mock me.

  “Sorry, Elizabeth. That’s not how it works.”

  I’m suddenly inexplicably angry. Angry at him for giving me the silent treatment for the better part of a week. Angry at him for being such a hostile hermit that I can’t tell what he’s thinking from one moment to the next. Angry at him for doing something like that TO ME.

  I want to stomp my foot, shout in rage, storm out, back in, out again. I want to peel him open and see his heart beat just to ensure he’s human.

  “I think I hate you,” I say, speaking truthfully. “Why can’t you just behave like a normal human? Why can’t you just greet me in the morning with a cheerfu
l ‘Good morning!’ and ask me about my day and smile when I say something nice?”

  “I don’t work like that.”

  This proclamation is accompanied by a shrug so confident, so rooted in arrogance it sends me right over the edge.

  I release a crazed shout and turn to leave, but not before tossing out one more taunt.

  “Don’t ever kiss me again!”

  “You’re my wife—I can kiss you anytime I damn well please,” he replies, almost lazily.

  “No you can’t! Absolutely not. Don’t spout that old-timey bullshit at me. You’re my husband in name only. If you kiss me again, I’ll…” I look around as if trying to get inspired. “I’ll…”

  “You’ll what?”

  “I’ll file for divorce.”

  I realize later, as I’m stewing in my room in a vat of regret, that I didn’t exactly behave like I wish I had in regard to Walt. Where was the class? The suave? The cool-girl don’t-give-a-rip attitude? I could have simply laughed and brushed him off when he kissed me. I could have been the bigger person. I could have kissed him back…just to see if the zing I felt was real or imagined.

  I hear him leave the apartment a few minutes later, probably to go on that run, or maybe to go see Camila…to confess to her that he kissed me but it meant nothing. It was hardly a peck, less than a peck. She’ll be upset, but he’ll assuage her concerns, tell her he only has eyes for her and then they’ll fall even deeper in love. I’m aggressively wringing out my pillow, so I apologize to it and toss it back on my bed.

  When I get a text later from Matthew, I’m nervous to open it, worried Walt might have spilled the beans to his brother.

  Instead, I find a friendly message asking me if I want to get lunch tomorrow.

  We meet at a deli near the NYU campus because he only has an hour in between classes. Matthew’s as polite as ever, well-dressed and in a good mood. The antithesis of his brother…the brother I can’t stop thinking about. Matthew talks my ear off as we wait in line to order and I grow more and more anxious. Then, when we’re sitting across from each other in a little booth, our sandwiches unwrapped on their wax paper, Matthew’s about to shove his first bite into his mouth and I confess in a sudden burst, “Your brother kissed me yesterday.”