Page 2 of Hate To Love You

“Yes.” I swim because my mom started me in it. She loved it herself, and her love for it was passed down to me. My dad says she’s up there watching me, and when I swim, I think about making her proud.

“She gave you the wrong name, you know. She should have named you Poseidon.”

“I guess she wanted one of those catch-all gods. You know Apollo was the god of pretty much anything and everything.”

“She always said you were the light of her life. That’s why she named you Apollo. Because she knew when you were born that you were the sun.”

We’ve both heard that so many times, and even though my mom isn’t around to say it anymore, my dad makes sure to tell me often so I’ll never forget.

I turn my eyes back up to the roof of the treehouse as though I can see the sky and the sun beyond—the very sun I’m named for. I want to change the subject. I know there’s no sun out there today, and knowing it makes me sad. I guess thinking about my mom actually makes me sad. Not all the time, but it does right now.

“If you don’t want to get married one day, that’s okay. I’m still going to promise you that no matter what, I’ll always be here. That I’ll always take care of you.”

Patience can be bossy when she wants to be, but right now, I think we’re both feeling tender about things, so she doesn’t put on her know-it-all face. She just traces a pattern on the floorboards. “I can take care of myself. And who would want to be with anyone anyway? Marriages don’t last because men are always walking around the house farting non-stop.”

I giggle, and she cracks a smile. “What’s wrong with farts? They’re natural.”

“They’re gross.” She used to think they were hilarious.

“I don’t fart on you.”

“No, but you fart at me, and it’s the same thing.”

“Sometimes you just can’t hold it in. You really don’t want to be with someone just because they might fart? Girls fart too.”

“Then guys shouldn’t want to be with them either. People are gross. I don’t want someone gross knowing about my grossness.”

“I know about your grossness.”

She blushes and shoves at my shoulder, then rolls away, flipping onto her back again. This is the first time I’ve felt her pull away from me. The first time there have been secrets implied between us, and something going on with her that I don’t know about. I can imagine because I know what happens to girls when they get older. They go through changes, and things start happening with their bodies. It’s not wrong or gross, but maybe it’s happening to Patience, and she doesn’t want to tell me about it. Maybe it’s happened already, and she went through it alone. It stings if that’s true. Because we’ve always been so close. We’ve been like one person, and she didn’t tell me. I get it, but it’s like the bottom of the treehouse has collapsed, and I’m the only one who has fallen through. I’m down there on the ground, winded and bleeding and full of rubble, and Patience is up here, looking down at me, her face closed off and shuttered, far out of my reach, as though I’ll never reach her again.

“I’m never getting married,” she repeats. “It’s a silly thing to do, and it doesn’t mean anything anyway. That’s the promise I’m making here and now. It’s my vow.”

“More like an anti-vow.”

“Fine. It’s my anti-vow, then. I’ll never get married. Ever.”

“Ever is a long time.”

“Yes,” she whispers solemnly, her lips pressing into a thin line, her eyes luminous and sparkling like it’s night, and she has all the stars contained within her universe. “The longest of times.”

“Well…” I grab her hand, and she doesn’t pull it away. Her fingers are cold. The wind is too strong today, and her sweater isn’t thick enough. “Your anti-vow is not changing my promise. I’m still going to be here for you no matter what happens. Always.”

CHAPTER 1

Patience

My parents named me after the virtue I least possess. But patience isn’t something anyone is inherently good at. It’s something that comes with time and hard life lessons. It’s something we all have to learn and cultivate.

Except that, if I were trying to grow flowers in my garden—metaphorical patience flowers—it would be full of weeds. I don’t like waiting and not knowing. I don’t like just standing back and letting life happen. I like doing. I like acting and taking control. I’m the driver of my own destiny, not whatever forces are out there, trying to suck the life out of us.

Which is why I really hate the expression on my dad’s face.

I hate that he came home in the middle of the night, or more like the early morning, with that same look. And that instead of falling into bed like he sometimes does, to toss and turn and maybe dream about all the wrongs and rights of his life, he sat down at the kitchen table. He hasn’t moved. It’s been hours.

I tried getting up this morning and setting a cup of coffee in front of him. But he hasn’t touched it. He hasn’t even blinked. He looks like he’s turned to stone. He’s wearing the expression I hate. It’s the one that says, I fucked up, there’s no fixing it, and everything is fucked, fucked, fucked. Triple fucked is bad. Triple fucked truly is unfixable.

He sat at this very table and wore this very expression fourteen years ago when my mom left.

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