Loathe to Love You (The STEMinist Novellas #1-3)(47)

“Sadie.”

What? I want to scream. What more do you want? Instead I just look back at him, feeling like the elevator has shrunk again, this time to the pocket between my eyes and his.

“It’s been weeks, and . . .” He shakes his head. “Can we please talk?”

“We are talking.”

“Sadie.”

“I’m saying stuff. And you’re saying stuff.”

“Sadie—”

“Okay, fine: you were right about Neuer. Happy?”

“Not particularly, no.” He looks at me in silence for several seconds. Then he says, calm and earnest: “I’m sorry.”

It’s the wrong thing. I feel a surge of anger travel up my spine, bigger even than when I learned about his betrayal. There is a bitter acid flavor in my mouth when I lean forward and hiss, “I hate you.”

He briefly closes his eyes, resigned. “I know.”

“How could you do that, Erik?”

He swallows. “I had no idea.”

I laugh once. “Seriously? How—how dare you?”

“I take full responsibility for what happened. It was my fault. I . . . I liked it, Sadie. A lot. So much so that I completely misread your signals and didn’t realize that you didn’t.”

“Well, what you did was—” I stop abruptly. My brain screeches to a halt and finally computes Erik’s words. Liked it? Misread? What does that even mean? “What signals?”

“That night, I . . .” He bites the inside of his cheek and seems to turn inward. “It was good. I think . . . I must have lost control.”

I freeze. Something about this conversation isn’t quite right. “When you said you were sorry a minute ago, what were you referring to?”

He blinks twice. “The things I did to you. In my apartment.”

“No. No, that’s not . . .” My cheeks are hot and my head’s spinning. “Erik, why do you think I stopped picking up your calls?”

“Because of the way I had sex with you. I was on you all night. Asked for too much. You didn’t enjoy it.” Suddenly, he looks as confused as I feel. Like we’re both in the middle of a story that doesn’t quite make narrative sense. “Sadie. Isn’t that the reason?”

His eyes bore into mine. I press my palm against my mouth and slowly shake my head.





Eight


Three weeks ago

We haven’t touched all night.

Not at the restaurant. Not in the car. Not even in the elevator up to his Brooklyn Heights apartment, which is larger than mine but doesn’t look it because Erik is standing in it. We’ve been chatting like we did over dinner, which is fun and great and kind of hilarious, but I’m starting to wonder whether when I fooled myself into believing that I was bravely hitting on Erik, he actually thought that I was inviting myself over to play the FIFA video game. He’s going to say Come, I want to show you something. I’ll follow him down the hallway jelly-kneed, and once I’m at the end he’ll open the door of the Xbox room and I’ll quietly die.

I stand in the entrance while Erik locks the door behind me, shifting awkwardly on my feet, contemplating my own mortality and the possibility of making a run for it, when I notice the cat. Perched on Erik’s spotless living room table (which appears not to be a repository for mail piles and take-out flyers; huh). It’s orange, round, and glowering at us.

“Hi there.” I take a few steps, cautiously holding out my hand. The cat glowers harder. “Aren’t you a nice little kitten?”

“He isn’t.” Erik is taking off his shoes and hanging his jacket behind me. “Nice, that is.”

“What’s his name?”

“Cat.”

“Cat? Like . . . ?”

“Cat,” he says, final. I decide not to press him.

“I’m not sure why, but I pegged you for more of a dog person.”

“I am.”

I turn and give him a puzzled look. “But you have a cat?”

“My brother does.”

“Which one?” He has four. All younger. And it’s clear from the way he talks about them, often and with that half-gruff, half-amused tone, that they’re thick as thieves. My only-child, “Have this coloring book while Mommy and Daddy watch The West Wing” self burns with envy.

“Anders. The youngest. He graduated college and is now . . . somewhere. Wales, I believe. Discovering himself.” Erik comes to stand next to me. He and Cat glare at each other. “While I temporarily watch his cat.”

“What’s temporarily?”

He presses his lips together. “So far, one year and seven months.” I try to keep a straight face, I really do, but I end up smiling into my hand, and Erik’s eyes narrow at me. “The beginning of our . . . relationship was rough, but we are slowly starting to come to an agreement,” he says, just as Cat jumps off the table and pauses to hiss at Erik on his way to the kitchen. Erik snaps back with something that sounds very harsh and consonant based, then looks at me again. “Slowly.”

“Very slowly.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you lock your bedroom door at night?”

“Religiously.”

“Good.”