Page 80 of The Love Haters

“Is it?”

“It’s mean as shit, but it’s funny, too.”

What did that mean, exactly—for him to think it was funny?Nothingabout this was funny. Was he so obtuse that he couldn’t see that? Was he so callous that he enjoyed laughing at other people’s pain? Did he have such a terrible sense of humor that he didn’t know the difference betweenfunnyandlife-destroyingly cruel? Was he so unrelentingly handsome that he had no capacity for empathy about what being called ugly might even feel like?

I swallowed, then steeled myself, then met his eyes. “What about this, exactly, is funny?”

Hutch frowned, likeWhat else?“How jealous they are.”

“What?”

“The people leaving those comments. They’re so jealous.”

“Of—what?”

And then, in the most straight-shooting, unselfconscious way, in a tone likeWhat else could we possibly be talking about?, Hutch said, “Of you.”

Then, when I didn’t respond in any way, Hutch prompted: “Of how pretty you are.”

Important addendum: I was not one of those pretty girls who didn’t know she was pretty.

Equally important extra addendum: apparently, Hutch thought I was.

I just stared.

“Right?” Hutch went on, reading my face and intuiting that I might have come to a different interpretation—but unable to fathom what it could be. “Those people are on the internet, looking at a photo of the ex-fiancée of a famous singer. The ex! And you’re so pretty, they have to go after you.”

“You haven’t seen the picture, have you?”

“I don’t have to see the picture.” He pointed at me. “You’re right here.”

Bizarre. I’d worried that telling him might change how he saw me. But it never occurred to me that it might change how I saw myself.

Hutch tilted his head and frowned. “Wait,” he said. “You didn’t—believe them, did you?”

I wasn’t sure how to answer that.

“Katie, tell me that’s not why you’ve been crying.”

But I couldn’t. Because I could feel myself starting to cry again.

“Oh, my god,” Hutch said, breaking away and pacing off—by all indications,angrily—before U-turning back.

Wait. Was hemad at meright now? What was going on?

But then, from a bit of a distance, Hutch shouted, “Those assholes!”

Notme, then.

“I can’t believe you believed them!”

Or maybe a little.

Hutch went on: “A famous singer wrote a chart-topping love song about you, so they have to bring you down. You have something they don’t—manythings they don’t. You have that guy pining for you. You have a ballad that sings your praises all over the airways. Your name is on everyone’s lips. And look at you!” Hutch gestured at my whole vibe, and then he took a few steps closer. “You’ve got that—mouth, and those… lips. And you’ve got this—I don’t know—brightness that radiates out, and this effect on people.” Hutch was closer now. “I can’t figure out what it is, but it’s something about the way you laugh, or maybe the curve of your neck, or…” He paused, just inches away now, and took in the sight of me. “It’s just a fact. It’s just reality. You’re just… You’re like a human hot-fudge sundae or something.”

In the past, I’d coped with the meanness by just shutting down—like a little pill bug curling up into a ball. But this time was different. Hutch wasn’t letting me shut down—or maybe he was just giving me a better option. Because if I did that, I’d be missing this exquisite monologue about how great I was.

No way was I missing that.

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