Page 22 of Hard to Forgive

“Jonas Koetter,” I answered automatically. She told me what floor he was on, though she couldn’t recall his actual apartment number either. I thanked her profusely and went up to the fourth floor.

There were six doors on the fourth floor. I was able to rule out two of them immediately. The decorative seasonal wreaths were a dead giveaway. Jonas didn’t strike me as someone who would hang a craft project on his door. He did not give off Pinterest boy vibes. I looked down at the doormats and chose the most likely candidate.

It was a black mat with a simple white phrase:There’s No Place like 127.0.0.1.

There’s no place like home.

Only another computer nerd would have that doormat.

If I weren’t so pissed off at him, I might have even found it amusing. Instead, I filed it with the other information I’d learned about him and sat down against the door. I pulled out my phone to find a text from Isabel.

Isabel

Thanks for dinner tonight.

Isabel

It really did make me feel better. You’re a really great friend, Si.

I wondered if she’d say the same thing if she knew where I was and what I was doing. I pushed the thought aside. There was no reason she ever needed to know that I was going to make Jonas apologize. She could live in the fantasy world where he did it on his own.

Silas

I’m glad you’re feeling better. Coffee before work Monday?

Isabel

It’s a plan.

I didn’t bother texting back. Instead, I pulled up the Swyper app and browsed, because what else did I have to do while I waited for Jonas to return to his apartment? Absolutely nothing, that was it. I just hoped he didn’t leave me waiting too long.

My hope was rewarded ten or fifteen minutes later. Jonas appeared in front of me wearing a pair of gray sweats and stained tank top with his dark hair plastered to his head with sweat. My mouth went dry.

Because fuck, he was hot.

No, I scolded myself. It didn’t matter if he was hot. He was an absolute dick who had made Isabel cry.

I stood up and crossed my arms over my chest, blocking his door.

“Move,” he growled.

“We need to talk,” I countered.

“No. We don’t.”

“Yes, we do,” I matched the gruff tone of his voice. If he thought he was going to get rid of me that easily, he had another thing coming. It had been said on more than one occasion that I was an entitled, spoiled rich kid. It was high time that he was introduced to that side of me.

Our eyes met. Moments passed, tense and electric, filled with barely concealed rage. I’d thought maybe he might have been a somewhat decent person underneath the bad attitude. I wasn’t letting high school influence my thoughts on him, but that day? He proved that he was not. He was just an asshole with a bad attitude.

He broke eye contact first. His shoulders slumped, and his fists clenched to his side. I could see the strain on his knuckles as they turned white underneath the redness. I was curious about that redness. Had he gotten into a fight of some kind? Was he about to punch me?

I would not hesitate to press charges if that asshole laid a hand on me. I would ruin his life. I would ruinhim.

“Fine,” he finally conceded.

I stepped aside, but stayed close to the door. The moment he opened it, I pushed inside with him. I wasn’t going to give him the opportunity to slam it in my face. We were having this conversation.

I didn’t expect him to whip around the moment the door clicked shut.

---