Page 68 of Better Hate than Never

Nick narrows his eyes at my phone. When it dings again, and I nearly jump out of my skin, a knowing grin lifts his mouth. “You have yourself a good night, too.”

As soon as he eases off the doorway and disappears into the hall, I lift my hand and read the new message lighting up my screen.

KATE:Pretty sure I left my phone at your office. Mind looking for it? I can come by tomorrow andlook for it myself, but I figured I’d ask you to look now. I assume you’re still at the office, counting coins and inventorying your empire.

A dry laugh jumps out of me.

CHRISTOPHER:I already finished inventorying my empire today, but I’m still at the office. I was about to leave. Let me find your phone and I’ll bring it to your place, if that’s where you are. Any idea where you might have left it?

My phone dings with her response.

KATE:I’m at the apartment, yes. Maybe the room where I took photos? I honestly don’t remember. Enjoy the scavenger hunt.

CHRISTOPHER:I expect some kind of compensation for this favor.

KATE:Of course you do, you soulless capitalist.

Another laugh jumps out as I type back,See you soon to collect my due.

—

After knocking a few times with no response, I let myself into the Wilmot sisters’ apartment with my key. The door swings open, and I shut it behind me gently. “Kate?”

Glancing around, I take note of the place—the main room dark and empty, only the pendant lights on over the kitchenisland, where I see her laptop sits open to Messenger. That explains how she was able to text me without her phone. Beside her laptop are those familiar bulky headphones and a bag of dill pickle chips, their crumbs strewn across the counter.

As I set Kate’s phone on the island, my ears snag on the sound coming from her headphones. The volume must be incredibly loud because even as they sit a foot away, I can tell it’s a person’s voice, clipped and urgent. I glance up at her laptop and briefly see what’s on the screen. I can tell it’s news, and it’s not good—a rough handheld video of emergency vehicles, a crowd in chaos, people’s clothes and skin stained ominously red.

I look away from it quickly not just to respect Kate’s privacy but also because I hate the sight of blood.

The bathroom door opens, and I turn, facing the hallway. Kate steps out, then, when she notices me, comes to a halt.

She stands, hair in its messy knot, red-rimmed eyes locked on me, chest heaving unevenly like she’s trying very hard not to cry.

My heart twists as a terrifying need rattles my bones like they’re prison bars—begging me to wrap her in my arms, to take from her body to mine whatever is hurting her.

A tear spills down her cheek, a winding rivulet that slips past those freckles to her trembling lip. She wipes it away and tries to exhale slowly, but it comes out a broken half breath, half sob.

My feet move, closing the distance between us. My bag drops from my shoulder. My coat slides off my arms, past my hands, freeing them to grab her by those sharp elbows and drag her against me. Her head lands with athudover my heart, and her arms wrap around me like a vise. Another deep, stilted sob wrenches out of her.

I clutch her tight, one hand cradling her head, the other low onher back, holding her hard against me. “Kate,” I murmur. “Shhh. It’s all right.”

“No, it’s not.” She shakes her head. “So many people... I’m just so”—she exhales a shaky sob—“so tired. So many good people, trying to live good lives, and it’s so fucking easy for bad people to ruinallof it. I hate it. I hate it so much,” she growls, another sob wrenching out of her.

“Shhh.” I rock her in my arms, swaying her, knowing there’s nothing I can say, knowing she’s right—how irrevocably people’s carelessness and selfishness and hatred can destroy lives, the terroristic violence humans have normalized and accepted, how defeating it is, how hard it is to have anything hopeful to say.

“Katydid,” I whisper, my mouth against her temple as I comb her hair back from her tearstained cheeks. “Take a nice slow breath.”

“D-don’t tell me what to do,” she says unsteadily. But then she sucks in a slow, shaky breath.

“Good. Now another.”

She takes in another breath, this one a little slower, a little more even.

I hold Kate as she takes more breaths, as her head gets heavier on my chest, calm settling into her body.

It could be minutes or hours that we stand there. I have no concept of time. Frankly it doesn’t matter. What matters is this: holding her, comforting her, knowing, even in some small way, that being here, wrapping myself around her, helps.

“Thank you,” she whispers, her head still resting over my heart.

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