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Hate the One You Lust
Willow Aster & Laura Pavlov
Chapter 1
Mazie
Why did I choose to walk to work today of all days? The rain starts about four blocks in, and it’s already gone from a mist to steady, fat drops. I wasn’t in the mood for the bus today, but that was a mistake. I’m just glad my hair is somewhat tamed in a messy bun on top of my head. I pause at the corner, ready to cross the street, when I see a stunning guy braking at the stop sign. His Jag is surely worth more than I make in a year, but then he makes eye contact with me, and I forget about his fancy car. My ovaries squeeze when he gives me an appreciative look. Even from here, I can see his bluer-than-blue eyes and his white teeth, his hair looking perfectly tuggable.
The car behind him honks and he grins at me, making a face like Oops, caught me.
I grin back. I don’t normally appreciate being gawked at, but since I’m gawking right back at him, I don’t mind one bit.
But then he rolls forward, albeit slower than he should be, considering the impatient guy behind him, and somehow, in slow motion, his car makes contact with the largest puddle known to man. I don’t even know how it’s possible since it hasn’t been raining all that long.
It’s like a small swimming pool of water pours over me.
All over my new white yoga outfit.
I shudder and glance at him, and his eyes are wide and horrified as he takes in my—I glance down, and yep, they’re standing loud and proud—nipples in this drenched, white skintight top, and he books it out of there.
I do think he might’ve yelled Sorry out his window, but that’s too little too late.
Okay, Mr. Jag Hag.
He could’ve at least stopped and offered a more heartfelt apology than yelling something out his window that I couldn’t even hear very well.
I’m fuming and don’t have enough time to turn around and go home to change. I walk faster toward the studio, hoping I at least have enough time to stand under the dryer in the bathroom to hide the nip situation.
When I round the corner and hightail it into Corner Pilates, I put my hand over my chest and wave at Alicia, the receptionist. Her eyes widen when she takes me in.
“I know it’s bad. You don’t happen to have an extra shirt, do you?” I ask.
“No, but take one from the shop. Jenny will understand,” Alicia says.
We exchange a look. Jenny will understand all right, most likely after she deducts the cost of whatever I pick out to wear from my paycheck. It doesn’t matter that I’ve been an instructor here for the past six months, Jenny is a stickler. I can’t blame her—I’d probably be particular if I owned my own business too.
I go to the bathroom just to see how bad my outfit is and it’s beyond standing under the dryer, so I go to the shop and grab an outfit, wanting to cry at the chunk of change this is going to set me back. And cursing Jag Hag every step of the way.
I’m presentable enough when I step into the studio and smile as my regulars trickle in. Two of my favorites walk in, Mya and Emma, and I wave at them, laughing as Emma frowns when they have to stand in the back. I’m trying desperately to shake off the mood I’m in and as we get started, somewhere between single leg stretches and back extensions, I’m breathing easier.
I barely think of Jag Hag until I’m walking home that evening and looking at every fancy car that passes, wondering if I’ll see him again. I don’t. Which is obviously for the best. There’s no telling the chewing out I’d give him after this long day.
Jenny did deduct the outfit from my pay, even with Alicia filling her in on my run-in with the puddle.
When I step inside my apartment, I sag against the door and close my eyes. I usually come home from a day of teaching pleasantly exhausted but relaxed. Tonight, I feel anything but.
My phone buzzes in my backpack and I reach for it, glancing down to see my mom’s face brighten up the phone screen.
“Hi, Mama,” I say, pushing off the door and heading toward my laundry room, also known as a closet. This is New York City, not Knotty Pines, Iowa, where I grew up. Back home you have a proper laundry room, whereas now I have a stackable washer and dryer tucked behind a door next to my bedroom.
Hey, the bagels are much better here. There are Broadway shows and endless opportunities. I wanted to get away and spread my wings, so I’ll trade it all, even if it means having a tiny laundry room/closet.
“How was your day? Did you hear from anyone?” she asks.
I graduated from NYU almost four months ago. I’ve been waiting tables at the corner diner since I started college, and I added in teaching Pilates when my student loan bills started arriving.
I need a job. A much better-paying job.
