Page 20 of Hate To Love You

They do an admirable job of glaring each other down, even with me in the middle.

Patience has hauled herself out, and she’s sitting on the edge of the pool, her pink boots still just under the surface. They look huge down there, like monster clown shoes. Her chest is heaving, and I’m pretty sure she’s still crying.

An insane bolt of rage rips through me. Not for anyone in particular, but okay, kind of for both our dads because she’s crying, and she should not be crying. I want to tear the whole world apart if it will make her stop.

She doesn’t need me to tear anything down or put anything back together. She swipes at her cheeks, then grabs her hair and twists it into a big knot. It looks so dark when it’s wet. She wrings the water from it and tosses it over her shoulder before flinging her legs up over the edge and scooting back. Water gushes out of her boots. She stands up, and they make a wet squish noise. She shifts from one foot to the other and folds her arms over her chest. Her clothes are more than clinging to her curves. I want to stop staring, but I can’t.

“I would like both of you to get your butts in the house and dry off!” Sqeeeeeeee. Her boots. They highlight the point hilariously as she steps back. Squisssssshhhhhhh. “I’m making egg salad sandwiches for dinner, and you’re both eating. Also, the skunk is a darned pet!”

“You have a skunk for a pet?” My dad doesn’t like it. I can hear the hurt in his voice, too, because I should have told him things like this.

Gerry looks slightly triumphant, but only because it’s clear my dad doesn’t know everything, not even about his own son.

Patience ignores them both. “I’m not taking no for an answer from either of you. And if either of you tries and leaves this house before you’ve both cleared everything up and stopped this absolutely ridiculous and childish feud, I will never speak to any of you again!” Squissssshhhh. Squeeeeee. “I mean it.” She looks like a goddess, dropped into a woman’s earthly body. She’s fabulous, furious, and fierce. “I’ve had enough. I’m not your parent, but you’re both acting like children. Grow up! If I’ve ruined my best and favorite pair of boots for nothing, I’m going to be so aggravated. I’m already aggravated.” Squish, squish, squeeeeee. Her shoes are singing the song of wet leather as she takes a few more steps backward and then whips around and points at the house. “Get in the mushroom. Don’t make us tie you up and haul you into the middle of the woods to force you to do a bonding exercise as you try and find your way back to civilization while fighting off all the dangers of the woods. I know what’s out there. Like mud, mosquitoes, poison ivy, toads with really loud and forceful ribbits, and, oh, bears. I’m sure there are super grouchy bears out there. And…and…big horned sheep. And moose. And killer pinecones, wolves, foxes, and murder death birds.”

My dad blanches, and he gives me the—is she serious? Do you really live next to all that out here—look. I turn my head and take in Gerry. He looks stunned, standing half in half out of the pool on the steps in all his clothes. His sneakers will probably dry out. I like that they’re the dad kind with Velcro straps, white with blue accents. I can see them shimmering under the water. They also look huge. It’s not the shoes that catch my attention, though. It’s how much Gerry has aged. I hadn’t seen him in years before the card game, over a decade, but I really didn’t notice the fine details that night because I was too focused on the hand I was playing, the dangers of what was going down, and the anger suffocating the room like a toxic gas.

Maybe it’s the water that clings to the deep grooves in his face or the sodden clothing on a shrunken frame that was once big and strong. Maybe it’s the sadness in his eyes or the way his hair is plastered against his head, but I realize he looks old.

My dad too. I take in all those same details, too—gray hair, deep wrinkles, a frame that is smaller than mine when it once used to be so huge. I know that’s part of growing up, how you realize your parents look smaller, but I think it’s more than age that’s stooped both our dads over. It’s this stupid feud, years of stress, and losing our moms. The years and trials of life have worn them out. Neither of them ever found love again. And they wrecked their brotherhood over a disagreement.

I haul myself up, too, the water sluicing off my T-shirt and shorts. My hair is already starting to dry under the hot sun as I wipe the salty droplets of pool water from my face with a swipe of my hand. “Hatred isn’t good for anyone.”

Behind me, Patience tenses. She looks like she wants to run away, but not to the house. To the woods. She looks like she’d rather take on all the death birds and poison ivy in the world than sit through trying to get our dads to agree to put aside their hurt feelings.

“It’s like cutting off your own arm,” she whispers. “Will you stop hurting each other and everyone around you with your anger, or will you work even harder to outdo each other? Will you try and vie for our affections now that we’re married?” That word is careful on her tongue. Like she thinks it’s dangerous. “Is this going to become a competition?” She pauses for a second. “Dad?”

He looks guilty. Sheepish. He won’t look at my dad, but he does look at his daughter. It’s obvious how much he loves her. “You know egg salad is my weakness,” he mumbles. “I might just have to stay for lunch.”

My dad doesn’t agree, but he doesn’t disagree either. Instead, he huffs and swings himself over the edge of the pool. Neither of them leaves. Neither of them goes for each other’s throats. I guess that’s about as good as it’s going to get at the moment.

CHAPTER 8

Patience

My mom told me something right before she left my dad. I might have been young, but the whole her leaving and me never seeing her again has basically made sure it’s stayed embedded in my brain. I don’t know if I’ve ever really understood it until now, even though I’ve tried to practice it my whole life.

You’ll only ever get the kind of love you give.

Pretty much my whole life, I thought it was her fancy way of telling me that I would only ever get back what I gave. Everyone says that. You get what you give.

Dripping wet and leaning over the fancy-ass antique dresser, which somehow completes this forest-themed room because it’s round and bubbly-looking while being elaborately carved with lion feet and a mirror that is at least eight feet tall and has two smaller side companions that are also round, bubbly-looking, and intricately completed at the top with scrolling detail, I realize I was wrong.

She wasn’t saying you get what you give.

Why is it only now that I hear the rest of that statement? She’d bent down to me so we were eye to eye. She was so much taller. Blond and slim. So pretty. She always smelled like roses. That was her favorite flower. Mine have always been bleeding hearts and thistles. How fortuitous, except they’re also remarkably beautiful. It doesn’t matter that one is the national flower of not liking people, and the other is the emblem of funerals. I didn’t know any of that as a little girl. I just thought they were pretty. I thought she was pretty—the prettiest woman in the entire world. There was no one more beautiful than my mom. No one I trusted more. When she spoke, I listened. It felt like she was imparting secret wisdom that day.

You’ll only ever get the kind of love you give. And right now, it’s better that I leave because you both deserve more than what I can give you. I’ll always love you, sweetheart. Always. In my own way.

“In your own way means jack fucking shit!” I hiss under my breath at the mirror. My cheeks get pink with anger, and I can see the spitting rage in my eyes as they darken. My hair drips in slow, methodical streams, and my clothes do more than a slow drip. They’re soaking the room, plastered against my body. My shoes are the worst of it. They’re now two wet, squishy, swampy sponges. “You never loved me enough to come back. You didn’t even love me enough to call or write.”

I never forgave her. I’ve been holding all this anger, watching it grow and build. The resentment often felt like it was choking me. I hated her for hurting my dad. I hated her for abandoning me.

I hated Apollo the same way. He abandoned me too. He made a promise just like she did. He promised he’d protect me and that we’d always be friends. That no matter what, we’d stick it out together. He lied. He lied. He left.

But then he came back.

He thought I needed saving, so he saved me.

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