Page 11 of Hate To Love You

And the outside? I guess that was my vision, but I’ll get to that later.

For right now, I’ll say she had good vision, even back then.

She was pretty much the best person. She’s still pretty much the best person ever, even when she’s busy hating me. But it’s not her fault. I know what I did was an asshole move, even if I thought it was the best way to help.

And speaking of helping, my own dad was pretty darn livid with me after. He still hasn’t cooled down yet, not when he found out I was planning on helping Patience’s dad.

Everything will just take some time. Everyone will calm down, and we’ll all forgive each other, talk it out, and become friends again.

I hope.

It might be ideal and idealistic thinking, which never got anyone very far, but I live in a mushroom, so that should tell you a lot about where refusing to be a realist gets you.

CHAPTER 4

Patience

I feel like the right, mature adult thing to do would be to suck it up at breakfast the next morning and figure out a way to make my nightmare of a life work.

I have this whole plan rehearsed by the time I get downstairs. Downstairs, I might add, is reached by a spiral staircase that is carved from wood and includes all sorts of vines and leaves. Coupled with the stained glass, the murals on the walls, the incredible light fixtures all made of blown glass in different formations, and the thousand other details like the super duper soft bed shaped like a lily pad that I spent the night in and the gauzy green curtains that look like a bunch of leaves sewn together, the trim in the room at the ceiling that has wooden squirrels and acorns all over it, and the unbelievable upholstered furniture in shades of mossy velvet…and yeah, okay, the place is starting to grow on me.

Ugh, who am I kidding? I love it. I love it so freaking much, and that’s the most maddening part. I don’t want to love it. I don’t want to love any of this. I want to just keep on hating it, being ornery, and not wanting this. At least for one more day. I don’t want to give in and be charmed by this one-of-a-kind, fairy tale house. I don’t want to have soft feelings about the not-cat skunk-cat.

At the table, which is freaking carved out in all sorts of scrolling vines and is shaped like a darned tree with a dark green glass top, I find that breakfast is already served.

I’m not used to anyone anticipating my needs.

For the last few years, Dad has been pretty preoccupied with work, so I’m the one who takes care of things at home. I make all the meals. If I didn’t remind him to eat at the right times, he’d completely forget. There’s no one else in my life to worry about me at this point. Not because I don’t have lots of people who love me and who I love right back, but because I’m an adult, and I’m big into selling the whole I’m fine deal. Because I am. Fine.

I’m fine that Dad is probably telling our extended family some version of the truth and some version of a lie about this marriage. They haven’t blown up my phone yet, but then again, I haven’t turned it on.

I’m still fine.

I’m fine that all my creepy dolls arrived last night with my other things, packed neatly in boxes that look as immaculate as when I put my things into them, so someone clearly shipped them with care. I’m fine that my dolls look like they’re enjoying their extra creepy selves in their new theme room because, god, who doesn’t love the forest?

I’m fine that my life has become a dumpster fire where I have zero control.

Wait, no. That’s not true. I do have some control. I do. And it’s time I use it instead of pouting.

Apollo looks wonderfully chipper. Asshole.

I force myself not to notice his freshly shaved jaw or how his manly scent wafts throughout the kitchen and somehow both overlay but don’t overpower the fluffy scrambled eggs, perfectly cooked ham bacon—because I hate the slices—and freshly cut tomatoes that look like they’ve come right from his garden. Or someone’s garden. I didn’t check out the backyard yesterday. I basically refused to come out of my room until he told me my boxes had arrived.

There are cheese, peppers—probably also homegrown—green onions, a whole bunch of herbs on everything, and a dollop of orange sauce—probably something hot—on the side of the plate.

I also don’t notice how when Apollo walks to the table, he practically saunters. Not in an arrogant, swaggering way. He just…floats. Glides. He looks like he brought all the freaking sun into the room with him, and he’s glowing from within. Not gloating. Glowing. He’s happy, and he wants me to be happy. He did this because he genuinely thought it would make my life better.

He almost reminds me of the little kid he was before he went away for greener pastures like really good high schools, college scholarships, and swimming in boatloads of money.

I’m not bitter. I’m not jealous. I’m actually happy he made it in life.

But the little girl in me is still deeply, deeply hurt that he didn’t bother to check in on her all this time.

“So,” Apollo starts as he takes a seat. The chairs are the same soft, mossy velvet as the ones upstairs, but these all look like throne chairs with really tall backs and crazy arms that come out the sides at wild angles. “I think we should come up with a plan to get our dads talking again. If we force them to make that first step, maybe they’ll be able to work things out.”

I pick up my fork and resist the urge to be spiteful and venomous. The skunk isn’t around. I don’t see her. But I wish she were around because I’d like to pet her. She looks soft, and she has a cute little skunk face. I also like her feet and the way she waddles when she walks. I like that Apollo saved her the same way he’d once saved broken, wounded animals every so often when they needed it, back when we were kids. At least he’d try.

I remember the way he was the only one who got me through my mom leaving.

---