Loathe to Love You (The STEMinist Novellas #1-3)(8)

The doorbell rings. I stop midsentence and run to the entrance. Which takes me, like, two whole minutes, proving my point that this house is plenty large for two people.

I wish I could say that Liam Harding has shit taste in home decor. That he abuses inspirational-quotes decals, buys plastic fruit at Ikea, sticks neon bar lights everywhere. Sadly, either he knows how to put together a pretty nice house interior, or his FGP Corp blood money paid to hire someone who does. The place is an elegant combination of traditional and modern pieces; I’m almost certain that whoever furnished it can correctly use the word palette in a sentence, and that the way the deep reds, forest greens, and soft grays complement the hardwood floors is a little more than accidental. And there’s the fact that everywhere looks so . . . simple. With a home as large as this one, I’d be tempted to stuff every room with tables and sideboards and rugs, but Liam somehow limited himself to bare necessities. Couches, a few comfortable chairs, shelves full of books. That’s it. The house is airy, full of light, sparsely decorated in warm tones, and all the more beautiful for it. “Minimalist,” Sadie told me when I gave her a video tour. “Really well done, too.” I believe my response was a snarl.

And then there’s the art on the walls, which is unwelcomely growing on me. Pictures of lakes at sunrise and waterfalls at sunset, thick woods and lone trees, frozen grounds and blooming fields. The occasional wild animal going about its day, always in black and white. I don’t know why, but I’ve been catching myself staring at them. The framing is simple, the subject mundane, but there’s something about them. Like whoever took those photos really connected with the settings. Like they tried to truly capture them, to take home a piece of them.

I wonder who the photographer is, but I can find no signature. It’s probably some starving Georgetown MFA grad, anyway. They poured their soul into the series hoping it’d be bought by someone who appreciates art, and instead here it is. Owned by a total ass. I bet Liam didn’t even choose them. I bet they were just a tax-deductible purchase for him. Maybe he figured that in the long run a nice collection is as good as stock dividends.

“I’ll need a signature,” the UPS guy tells me when I open the door. He’s chewing bubblegum and looks about fifteen. I feel decrepit inside. “You’re not William K. Harding, are you?”

William K. It’s almost cute. I hate it. “Nope.”

“Is he home?”

“No.” Mercifully.

“Is he your husband?”

I laugh. Then I laugh some more. Then I realize that the UPS guy is squinting at me like I’m the Wicked Witch of the West. “Um, no. Sorry. He’s my . . . roommate.”

“Right. Can you sign for your roomie?”

“Sure.” I reach for the pen, but my hand stills in midair when I notice the FGP Corp insignia on the envelope.

I hate them. Even more than I hate Liam. Not only does he make me miserable at home mowing the lawn at seven thirty a.m. on the one day of the week I can sleep in, but he adds insult to injury by working for one of my professional nemeses. FGP Corp is one of those huge conglomerates that keep on causing environmental messes—a bunch of overeducated dudes in $7K suits who disseminate biotoxins around the world with utter disregard for the brown pelicans (and the entire future of humanity, but I’m personally more attached to the pelicans, who did nothing to deserve this).

I glare at the thick bubble mailer. Would Liam sign for an EPA envelope on my behalf? I doubt it. Or maybe he would. Then he’d tie it to red balloons his buddy Pennywise provided and watch it disappear into the sunset. I’m already 73 percent certain that he’s been hiding my socks. I’m down to four matching pairs, for crisp’s sake.

“Actually.” I take a step back, smiling, reveling in my own pettiness. Helena, you’d be so proud. “I probably shouldn’t sign for him. I bet it’s a federal crime or something.”

The UPS guy shakes his head. “It’s really not.”

I shrug. “Who’s to say?”

“Me. It’s literally my job.”

“Which you are performing admirably.” I beam. “But I still won’t sign for the envelope. Would you like a cup of tea? A glass of wine? Cheez-Its?”

He frowns. “You sure you won’t? This is express shipping. Someone paid a lot of money for same-day delivery. It’s probably really urgent shit that William K. will need as soon as he gets home.”

“Right. Well, that sounds like a William K. problem.”

He whistles. “That’s cold.” He sounds admiring. Or just scared. “So, what’s wrong with poor William K.? Does he leave the toilet seat up?”

“We have separate bathrooms.” I mull it over. “But I’m sure he does. In the very remote possibility I end up using his.”

He nods. “You know, when my sister was in college she used to have a roommate she hated. I’m talking warfare. They’d yell at each other the entire time. She once wrote an entire list of everything she hated about him on her phone and it crashed her Reminders app. It was that long.”

Uh-oh. That sounds familiar. “What happened to her?”

I cross my fingers that the answer won’t be She’s serving a lifetime sentence at a nearby correctional facility for shaving off his hair while he was sleeping and tattooing “I’m a bad person” on his scalp. And yet, what UPS guy ends up saying is ten times more disturbing.