Loathe to Love You (The STEMinist Novellas #1-3)(10)

Liam pours olive oil in a pan, cracks an egg in it, and seems to revert to his default state: forgetting that I exist.

“Liam, whether you like it or not, I. Live. Here. You can’t do whatever the hell you want!”

“Interesting. You seem to be doing exactly that.”

“What are you talking about? You are making an omelet at two in the damn morning, and I am asking you not to.”

“True. Although there is the fact that if you had done your dishes this week I wouldn’t need to wash them so noisily—”

“Oh, shut up. It’s not like you don’t leave your stuff around the house all the time.”

“At least I don’t stack garbage on top of the trash can like it’s a Dadaist sculpture.”

The sound that comes out of my mouth—it almost scares me. “God. You are impossible to have around!”

“That’s just too bad, since I’m here.”

“Then just move the fuck out!”

Silence falls. An absolute, heavy, very uncomfortable silence. Just what we both need to replay my words over and over in our heads. Then Liam speaks. Slowly. Carefully. Angry in a scary, icy way. “Excuse me?”

I regret it immediately. What I said and how I said it. Loud. Vehement. I am many things, but cruel is not one of them. It doesn’t matter that Liam Harding has displayed the emotional range of a walnut; I said something hurtful and I owe him an apology. Not that I particularly want to offer him one, but I should. The problem is, I just can’t stop myself from continuing. “Why are you even here, Liam? People like you live in mansions with uncomfortable beige furniture and seven bathrooms and overpriced art they don’t understand.”

“People like me?”

“Yes. People like you. People with zero morals and way too much money!”

“Why are you here? I’ve offered to buy your half about a thousand times.”

“And I said no, so you could have spared yourself about nine hundred and ninety-nine of them. Liam, there is no reason for you to want to live in this house.”

“This is my family’s house!”

“It was Helena’s house as much as it’s yours, and—”

“Helena is fucking dead.”

It takes a few moments for Liam’s words to fully register. He abruptly turns off the stove and then stands there, half-naked in front of the sink, hands clenched around the edge of the counter and muscles as tight as guitar strings. I can’t stop staring at him, this—this viper who just mentioned the death of one of the most important people in my life with such angry, dismissive carelessness.

I am going to destroy him. I’m going to annihilate him. I am going to make him suffer, to spit in his stupid smoothies, to break his vinyls one by one.

Except that Liam does something that changes everything. He presses his lips together, pinches his nose, then wipes a large, exhausted hand down his face. All of a sudden something clicks inside my head: Liam Harding, standing right in front of me, is tired. And he hates this, all of this, just as much as I do.

Oh God. Maybe my broccoli stir-fry really did stink, and I should have put it in a Tupperware. Maybe the Frozen soundtrack can be a tiny bit annoying. Maybe I could have signed for that stupid envelope. Maybe I wouldn’t react well to someone coming to live under my roof, either, especially if I didn’t have a say in the matter.

I press the heels of my hands into my eyes. Maybe I am the asshole. Or at least one of them. God. Oh God.

“I . . .” I rack my brain for something to say and find nothing. Then some dam inside me breaks, and the words explode out. “Helena was my family. I know you don’t get on with your family, and . . . maybe you hated her, I don’t know. Granted, she could be really grumpy and nosy, but she . . . she loved me. And she was the only real home I ever had.” I dare to glance at Liam, half expecting a sneer of derision. A snarky comment about Helena that will make me want to punch him again. But he’s staring at me, attentive, and I force myself to look away and continue before I can change my mind. “I think she knew that. I think maybe that’s why she left me this house, so that I’d have some kind of . . . of something. Even after she was gone.” My voice breaks on the last word, and now I’m crying. Not full-on bawling like when I watch The Lion King or the first ten minutes of Up, but quiet, sparse, implacable tears that I have no hope of stopping. “I know you probably see me as some . . . proletarian usurper who’s come to take over your family fortune, and believe me, I get it.” I wipe my cheek with the back of my hand. My voice is rapidly losing heat. “But you have to understand that while you’re living here because you’re trying to prove some point, or for some sort of pissing contest, this pile of bricks means the world to me, and . . .”

“I didn’t hate Helena.”

I look up in surprise. “What?”

“I didn’t hate Helena.” His eyes are on his half-made omelet, still sizzling on the stove.

“Oh.”

“Every summer she’d leave California for a few weeks. Where did you think she went?”

“I . . . she just said she spent her summers with family. I always assumed that . . .”

“Here, Mara. She came here. Slept in the room next to yours.” Liam’s voice is clipped, but his expression softens into something I’ve never seen before. A faint smile. “She claimed it was to check up on my world-pollution plans. Mostly, she nagged me about my life choices in between meeting with old friends. And she kicked my ass at chess a lot.” He scowls. “I am positive she cheated, but I could never prove it.”