Page 25 of Hate the One You're With
Maybe she’s hurting more than she lets on, and this is her way of coping. I know I should be more understanding—Gertrude lost the love of her life, and not long before that, her daughter. Now, she’s left with me, and maybe that’s why she’s pushing so hard, trying to mold me into someone I’m not.
But it’s so hard to accept this part of her and even harder to imagine becoming like her, like all the women of society she admires. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to fit into that mold, no matter how much she tries to press me into it.
With one last glance around the dimly lit hallway, I decide the front elevator is too risky. My grandmother is likely pacingin the living room, ready to pounce on any sign of rebellion. The only option is the back kitchen—out of sight, out of mind, just like I need to be right now.
Holding my shoes so I don’t make much noise, I slip into the kitchen, the cold marble floor sending a chill up my body. The place is eerily quiet, with only the buzz of the refrigerator to keep me company. I hum a low tune under my breath, something like the Mission Impossible theme song, as I inch toward the door. Each step feels like I’m sneaking past a sleeping dragon—one wrong move, and I’ll wake the beast.
The stairs are my escape route, a narrow and winding passage used mostly by the staff. I grip the handrail, glancing over my shoulder to make sure I’m still in the clear. My heart races, pounding in my ears as I descend, the sound of my footsteps muffled against the carpeted steps. I can’t help but smile at the absurdity of it all, humming the tune a little louder, imagining myself in a spy movie. I pause halfway down the first flight of stairs looking up, holding my breath as I listen for any signs of movement above.
Nothing. Just the steady rhythm of my breathing and the beat of my heart in time with the imaginary soundtrack playing in my head.
Finally, I reach the floor below and slip into the hallway, heading straight for the elevator. As I wait, I quickly slide on my shoes, mentally preparing myself for my escape to freedom. The moment the elevator doors slide open, I step inside, press the button, and watch the doors close on the world of expectations and rules.
Once I’m out of the building, I take off running, my heart pounding with a mix of excitement and nerves. The coolevening air greets me as I push through the door, and I inhale deeply, letting the tension slip away.
“Miss Langley,” the doorman calls after me, and I freeze mid-step.
I glance over my shoulder, trying to play it cool. “Umm, yeah?”
“Your grandmother wants you to know that you’ve lost your privileges for a week and that she expects you back before dinner time,” he says with a knowing smile.
I can’t help but laugh, a mix of disbelief and amusement bubbling up inside me. How did she catch me after I was so discreet? I take a few more steps and spot Logan pulling up. With the agility only he can muster, he’s out and opening the car door in an instant.
“Where to, Emmersyn?” he asks, his tone casual as if this is just another day on the job.
I slide into the passenger seat, still shaking my head. “How didsheknow?” I ask, more to myself than him.
“As a matter of fact, I caught you while you were trying to sneak past the kitchen. I was there,” he admits with a grin. “Told your grandmother I had to get the car so I could drive you.”
“Of course it was you,” I mutter, half-annoyed, half-impressed.
“You’ve got to stop sneaking around,” he says, a hint of teasing in his voice.
“Can you just drive me to the bookstore, please?” I reply, trying to change the subject.
Logan raises an eyebrow. “I could’ve just bought any books you needed.”
I shrug, not really in the mood to explain. This is about more than just books. I might be getting myself a husband—or facing rejection. If he says no, I’m definitely leaving my grandmother’s house after graduation and moving into the Brooklyn apartment. According to my budget, my savings should be enough to last me six months without worrying about money. Plus, the manager at the bookstore said I could have a job for the summer, and so did the owner of the coffee shop down the block.
But that’s all contingent on how tonight goes.
When I arriveat the bookstore, Caleb is outside waiting for me, looking undeniably handsome with his freshly cut hair that accentuates the sharp lines of his jaw. His blue eyes, bright and warm, light up as they meet mine, like he’s genuinely happy to see me. As I get closer, he steps forward and wraps me in a tight hug, pulling me close like I’m the most important thing in the world to him.
The way he holds me, firm and secure, sends a flutter through my chest, and for a moment, I forget why I’m even here. It’s like he’s silently telling me that everything is going to be okay, and I almost believe him.
“Hey, stranger,” I greet him as we untangle from the hug. “I thought you’d be calling me from Boston.”
“I only have a week here, and I thought—” He lets out a breath. “I accept. Let’s get married.”
“Are you sure?” I ask, my heart skipping a beat. This is it, and even though I know it is the right thing to do I’msuddenly panicky about it. I swear my hands are beginning to sweat.
He nods. “Can you really take care of them? My parents?”
“Of course,” I respond, knowing that this is exactly why I’m doing all of this.Them and not me.
I could take care of myself and hope that one day I could step into my grandfather’s shoes, even if it’s not on his timeline. But his parents can’t wait that long. If we don’t act fast, they’ll lose more than just the house, and Mr. Cunningham needs more therapy than what basic insurance can cover right now. Mrs. Cunningham has a job offer in North Carolina but they need money to move.
“I was thinking we could go to Connecticut tomorrow morning. It’s the closest state without a waiting period after acquiring the marriage license. We can get married right away,” he says, his tone practical.
