Love. Of all the things to leave as her final message to the world, this seemed both perfectly fitting and off. At the same time Grandma had been love’s greatest giver, she’d been one of its greatest victims as well. She’d been scalded by it in as grand a measure as she’d bestowed it.
I’d always assumed Grandma held a sort of love-hate relationship with love, as familiar with its sting as she was with its healing powers. But was I wrong?
That was the question I was wrestling with as I continued to study those four large letters staring back at me. Love.
Do you love me?
My heart ached at the question, giving its answer. My mind rallied, offering a different one.
Love. My grandma’s last manifesto to the world and the word she’d chosen to summarize seventy-six years of life.
What did she mean by it? Love more? Love was the answer? Love was the theme? Love was a verb? Love was a noun?
I’d never given so much thought to love before. I’d never agonized over one word so much in my entire life. How could a person choose as her parting word to the world the very thing she’d been betrayed by?
Love.
Of all the life she’d lived, all of the lessons she’d learned, was that the one thing it all boiled down to? Was, perhaps, this one word meant for me and me alone? Had Grandma somehow predicted this day I’d fall in front of her grave, looking for answers, and realized this was the one thing I needed to read?
Was this her way of telling me that instead of spending the rest of my life running from love, I should spend the rest of it chasing love? Instead of avoiding it, embracing it? Instead of fearing it, searching for it?
Love.
The storm of confusion receded.
Do you love me?
My feet had taken me out of the cemetery—my heart had taken me the rest of the way. For the first time in years, I felt like I was finally moving forward, instead of spinning in circles in the same small space.
My fear of being hurt and abandoned by someone I loved had been responsible for driving away a person who cared about me and who I cared about in return. My fear of being alone had created that very reality. No more.
Fear had no place in my life.
Love was not the enemy.
This was what I reminded myself of when the urge to turn and run hit me every few steps. Those sentences played on a loop as soon as his office building came into view and fear really tried to send me running. But no more. I was exhaling fear and inhaling love from this moment on.
In the elevator on the way up to his office, I tried to focus on what I was about to say instead of who I was about to see. If I thought about him, I might chicken out.
When the elevator doors slid open on the top floor, I stepped out into his office. It was dark, all of the lights off, nothing but the glow from outside filling the expansive space.
Rounding down the hall toward his office, my body shook from the emotions charging through me. I didn’t know what I was going to say. What he’d say. I wasn’t sure what I’d do when I saw him or what he’d do when he saw me.
I just knew I needed to be there.
Instead of knocking, I shoved the door open and stepped inside. Max was sitting in his chair, staring at his computer screens with an absent look. He hadn’t shaved in days. His eyes looked flat, almost lifeless. The rest of him kept with the same theme.
When I moved inside his office, his eyes slid in my direction. Emotions that made my throat tighten drew hard lines on his forehead.
My heart was slamming against my ribcage, its beat echoing in my ears. “You were right,” I said slowly, forcing myself to look him in the eyes. “About me being scared.”
Max swallowed, his gaze suggesting he was trying to ascertain if I was really standing in front of him. “Being scared of what?”
At first, the words stuck in my throat. On the second try, I got them out. “Falling in love with you.”
His face pulled into a wince. “Why?”
I absently twirled the ring still on my finger. Having him close, in a confined space, and looking at me like he was made it hard to breathe, let alone speak.
“Because when you give what you feel a name, a name like that, it’s real.” I moved a few steps deeper into his office. “When it’s real, it means you’ve got something to lose, and in my experience, something like love is a guarantee that I’ll lose it. I didn’t want to lose you.”
Max’s chair rolled back from his desk. “I didn’t want to lose you either, but I couldn’t make you marry me because you’d signed some agreement. I couldn’t marry you because you felt it was some kind of duty. Because, for me, marrying you would have been my greatest honor.”
My throat burned as I watched him put together words that seemed to cause him physical pain. I’d never intended to have feelings for Max Sturm, but I’d developed them. They’d carved their way deep into my being, settling into the empty places that had been hollow for so long, I’d forgotten they were there.
By walking away on our wedding day, I’d fooled myself into believing I’d left Max behind. But I’d never be able to leave him behind because every step I took, I carried him inside me. He’d nestled into my empty spaces and filled them with the kind of permanence that didn’t crumble with time or absence.
He was part of me. I was part of him.
“I wanted to marry you, Max. God, I wanted to, but when you told me how you felt, it scared me.” My feet kept moving closer to him.
His brow arched. “But you’re not scared anymore?”
“I’m terrified,” I breathed, “but I’m not letting my fear guide my life any longer. I’m letting something else.”
He shifted in his chair. “What else?”
An invisible force coiled around my throat, constricting my vocal cords. But I beat it back.
“Love,” I said a moment later. “You asked me a question. I didn’t answer it honestly last time, and I’d like the chance to answer it again. If you still want to know my answer.”
At the same time his expression cleared, Max shoved out of his chair. “Do you love me?” His whispered words filled the empty space.
Willing my eyes to stay on his as he came around his desk, I felt my heart beat for what felt like the first time in months. “I do.” When he reached for me, the warmth of his hand enveloping mine chased away the rest of my fear and pain. “I do love you.”
It was divorce day.
Or at least it was according to Max’s perfectly planned schedule. We’d burned both copies of our original arrangement a couple of years ago, along with the rest of the pages in the folders. We’d burned them the day before our wedding, and this time, we made it to the altar. This time, we exchanged vows, and when he whispered he loved me during our first dance, I said it back without hesitation.
Since today had been the original date we’d set as the day to go our separate ways, it seemed kind of poetic that we were sitting at the Immigration office, in front of the officer giving us our interview for Max’s green card.
We’d lingered in the waiting room for over three hours with other couples awaiting their interviews, but that had been the easy part. Ever since we’d crossed into Officer Cranky Pants’s office, I’d felt as though we were in some interrogation room and being investigated for being double agents or something.
Officer Cranburg looked like the type of person who had seen it all and been disappointed by it all. He looked close to retirement, but from the way he held on to a perpetual frown, I thought he had another decade of hell to endure before getting out.
From the start, he’d acted as though there was a shortage of green cards and he was the one gatekeeper who ruled them all. Like the only way to get one would be to pry one from his dead fingers.
Everyone was guilty until proven innocent.
At least that was the feeling I got as soon as I sat down in front of his desk, Max sliding into the chair beside me. My smile was met by his frown—maybe his smile mu
scles had atrophied and smiling was a physical impossibility now. Max’s attempt at a handshake was met by a cocked brow.
We’d already been sitting here for over thirty minutes, answering question after question clearly intended to confuse us or catch us in a lie. From the looks of the officer, he was only getting warmed up.
“How many guests were at your wedding?” His droll voice filled the small office once again.
Max and I glanced at each other.
“Forty-five, wasn’t it?” he checked with me, his brows coming together.
“Forty-four,” I corrected. “Your cousin had to cancel at the last minute, remember?”
“That’s right.” Max snapped his fingers. “Forty-four.”
It was a miracle those forty-four people had been able to attend with as short of notice as we’d given everyone. Especially since our first attempt at becoming husband and wife had wound up a no-go.
“What food was served at the reception?”
I slumped a little farther in my chair. The questions were never going to end. Max and I had answered them all honestly, and this guy was still looking at us like he was just itching to call the authorities.
“We didn’t exactly hang around long enough to find out.” A grin stretched across Max’s face as he leaned forward in his chair. “If you know what I mean.”
“I’m sure I don’t.” Officer Cranky Pants scratched something down on his notepad. “What side of the bed to you sleep on, Mr. Sturm?”
Max’s grin stayed in place. “Whatever side I roll off on.” My elbow jutting into his ribcage dimmed the grin some. “Usually the right side though.”
“What was the reason for the last fight you got into?”
Max ran point on this one as well. “Nina had ridden the bus home late one night. Again,” he muttered at me.
The officer’s forehead creased as he shuffled through the stack of paperwork we’d assembled for the interview. Everything from wedding pictures to original birth certificates to bank statements. It was the financial stuff he was riffling through now. “Mrs. Sturm rides the bus?”
I lifted my finger. “Mrs. Burton—Sturm rides the bus sometimes.”
Officer Cranburg’s forehead creased deeper as he skimmed the financial statements. Probably didn’t make a lot of sense that the wife of a man who’d made a small fortune would utilize public transportation.
“I like the bus,” I explained with a shrug. Why was that so hard a concept for people to wrap their heads around?
“Mrs. Burton-Sturm”—the officer looked at me over his bifocals—“if I’m to understand this correctly, you were in a grave degree of debt when you and Mr. Sturm first met. Is that correct?”
Max’s hand tightened around mine. Not enough for the officer to notice, but enough for me to feel its reassurance.
“That’s right.” I nodded, remembering not to add anything more. Max and I had been prepping for this interview for months, and I knew not to say anything that didn’t need to be said. Unless I was asked why I had been in so much debt, I didn’t need to tell him. Keep it brief and honest. That was our plan for the interview.
“And Mr. Sturm was a man of substantial means at the same time, correct?”
My ankles crossed. I didn’t want to fidget, but I needed to move. “That’s right.”
The officer was quiet after that, letting the implications and accusations settle in the air.
Across the desk from him, Max and I stayed quiet as well. He couldn’t break us with a couple of loaded questions and a few minutes of bloated silence.
Max and I might have started our relationship on one foot, but that wasn’t the reason we were there now. Our love might have been fake at the start, but now . . . it didn’t get any more real than this.
Our relationship was a testament to the strangeness of love. How it worked in unusual ways. How it cropped up when you least expected it. How it appeared when it was the last thing you thought you wanted.
“You know, this might be a good time to bring this into the interview.”
Max looked at me as I riffled through my purse for the item I’d stuffed in there earlier today.
Pulling out the white stick, I held it out for the officer.
At first, his face creased with surprise, like he had no idea what I was holding. Then I tapped my index finger just outside the window that showed two pink lines. The officer’s nose curled as he shoved back in his chair. That this surly old immigration officer was grossed out by a pregnancy test was all kinds of funny.
Max had moved so close to the edge of his seat, he was lucky he hadn’t fallen out of it. Grabbing my hand, he turned it so the stick was facing him.
The look on his face? Priceless.
We hadn’t talked about getting pregnant, and we sure as hell hadn’t been trying, but kind of like the majority of our relationship, it had sneaked up and surprised us.
“What . . .” Max had to shake his head a few times, blinking like he was making sure he wasn’t seeing things. “Does that mean . . .”
“I’m pregnant,” I said, leaning in to give him a kiss. He was still frozen, which made me laugh. “You’re going to be a dad. In seven and a half months to be exact.”
Dropping the stick in my lap, I fitted my hand around the side of his neck. His face was kind of pale and he even felt clammy, but a smile was stretching into place. One of those bewildered smiles.
“A dad?” His voice matched his expression.
When he swayed in his chair, I roped my arm around his waist so if he did pass out, he wouldn’t hit the ground. He kept staring at me, his eyes swimming with a million different things that all reduced down to one thing—love.
“Your green card’s approved,” the officer announced, stamping Max’s passport. “You’ll receive your official one in the mail in a few weeks.”
My head whipped toward the officer, but Max’s attention stayed centered on me. All of it.
The officer must have noticed the surprise in my expression because one of his shoulders lifted as he waved the stamp between Max and me. “No one can fake the look on their face of finding out they’re going to become a parent.” He circled the stamp at Max’s face a few times. “Congratulations.” Clearing his throat, Officer Cranky Pants almost cracked a smile. “On both subjects.”
Laughing with excitement, I found Max still reeling in his seat. The words a dad were still whispering on his lips. What a dad he’d be too. If he was half the dad he was a husband, our child would never lack for love.
After shaking hands with the officer, Max threw me into his arms and carried me out of the room. He carried me through the waiting area and down the hall and out the front doors.
It wasn’t until we were outside on the sidewalk that he set me down.
I stared up at him, the man I’d planned on marrying before I even met him. The same one I was planning on staying married to until the day I left this world. I loved him. Hate had been wrong. Hate was love not ready to be realized. Hate came from fear and doubt and burned at the same degree as passion. Consumed as much thought space, required as much energy to feel, dominated as much mind space.
Our hate story had become a love story.
“Come on.” He took my hand and started down the sidewalk. “Let’s go home.”
My gaze locked on his and my hand tightened around his. “I am home.”
THE END
Thank you for reading HATE STORY by NEW YORK TIMES and USATODAY bestselling author, Nicole Williams.
Nicole loves to hear from her readers. You can connect with her on
Facebook: Nicole Williams (Official Author Page)
Twitter: nwilliamsbooks
Blog: nicoleawilliams.blogspot.com
Other Works by Nicole:
CRASH, CLASH, and CRUSH (HarperCollins)
UP IN FLAMES (Simon & Schuster UK)
LOST & FOUND, NEAR & FAR, HEART & SOUL
FINDERS KEEPERS, LOSERS WEEPERS
STEALING H
OME, TOUCHING DOWN
COLLARED
THE FABLE OF US
THREE BROTHERS
HARD KNOX, DAMAGED GOODS
CROSSING STARS
GREAT EXPLOITATIONS SAGA
THE EDEN TRILOGY
THE PATRICK CHRONICLES
Table of Contents
Title Page
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Epilogue
About the Author
Nicole Williams, Hate Story
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