Hate Crush by A. Zavarelli

Author:A. Zavarelli [Zavarelli, A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-11-18T16:00:00+00:00

ROUTINE IS the death of joy.

Katie once told me that while she was drunk on wine coolers and high on life. She could be oddly prophetic when she drank, and I lost track of how many times she rattled off something that made perfect sense. They were always simple but enlightened truths. I wonder what she’d have to say to me now, watching as I repeat the same sequence every week with little chance of deviation.

I am a creature of habit. Shopping at the same stores, eating at the same restaurants, summers in Nantucket, and winters at Loyola. I sleep very little and maintain my fitness by running, even though it hurts like a motherfucker with my reconstructed knee. I enjoy the pain, and up until now, I have enjoyed the comfort of my routine. But when Friday rolls around, I know that if I spend one more goddamned day around Stella, I’m going to do something stupid, like shove my cock down her throat.

So instead, I leave after third period and venture into the city. I don’t particularly know why. It isn’t a place I’m fond of visiting, and I have no good memories here. But at one point in time, this was my routine. Walking down the streets of New York. Staring up at the steel and glass monstrosity of Carter Holdings as I considered what my future would be like. Now, I can just imagine my father up there, ruling his empire with an iron fist even as the cancer eats away at his body.

I don’t step inside. That was never the intent of my trip. My father and I said everything we had to say to each other during his last visit. We both know I’ll never forgive him for what happened to Katie, just as I’ll never forgive myself. There will be no Kumbaya moments between us, and I accept that as I move along to one of my favorite haunts a few blocks away. It’s a specialty bar where rich douchebags like me drink exquisitely overpriced and exotic whiskys. In particular, I’m fond their Japanese selection, and I used to sample them often when I lived here.

Like everything else in New York, the place is already crowded, but I manage to find a secluded booth in the back. It isn’t taken because it’s not trendy to sit alone and drink, which is evident by the number of patrons standing at the bar, scanning the sea of potential for the night. Among them, I’m not even really surprised to see a familiar face. He recognizes me too before I can look away, and I immediately regret my decision to come here as he cuts through the crowd. The waitress appears before he does, offering me a disinterested glance as she requests my order.

“He’ll take a double Yamazaki 12,” Remington answers for me as he slides into the opposite seat. “And so will I.”

Efficiently, she files away the order in her memory and leaves, and then I’m left alone with Remington Moncrief.

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