11. “i hate u, i love u” - gnash ft. olivia o’brien
“i hate u, i love u” - gnash ft. olivia o’brien
Walker
I shouldn’t be surprised that he’s late.
Being on time is as repulsive to Heath as reading a dictionary is to most people.
By the time I’ve been standing outside the Archives for eleven minutes, I have thoroughly regretted not only the decision to come here with him, but every single decision that brought me to this place.
I have no idea what to expect once we’re inside—if he ever shows up. Will he want to talk? He’s never been big on conversation. Will he linger and make it hard for me to concentrate? I’ll have to ignore him if he does, pretend that he’s no different from the other scholars there to study quietly.
Of course, the idea of Heath being scholarly in any way, shape, or form is hysterical. The guy couldn’t even be bothered to read Animal Farm . He skimmed the CliffNotes and somehow managed to pass the exam.
My palms are sweaty again—my new default state—and the knot in my stomach grows by the second. I can’t identify every emotion wrapped within it, but anger is in there somewhere.
I check my watch. The guy is now fifteen minutes late. He probably overslept or decided he’d rather surf than show up. Or he forgot.
Apparently I’m the only one who was up all night wondering what kind of idiot agrees to this.
The sound of a rumbling engine cuts through the noise of the pedestrians slowly filling the city streets, bustling in and out of coffee shops and cafes with their morning lattes and breakfast toasties.
A sleek black motorbike pulls up to the curb.
My body knows it’s him before he even comes to a complete stop, in spite of the dark helmet he’s wearing.
He removes the helmet and shakes out that glorious head of hair. The sun hits his brown waves, turning them the color of caramel. He runs a hand through it to get it out of his face. My fingers itch with the memory of how luxurious it feels.
Shit.
How is he still able to cause a visceral reaction on my body? This is not good. In fact, this is the worst thing that could happen. I need to stay immune to him if I am to have any hope of completing my research and getting the fuck out of Wesbourne.
Heath walks toward the entrance to the Archives, avoiding every crack in the concrete. I physically feel the exact moment he notices me.
“Hey,” he says. My belly croons.
I bury a knife up to the hilt in it. “You’re late,” I snap.
He shrugs like he didn’t just make me wait twenty minutes in the sweltering sun. Because yes, I was five minutes early in case he happened to be as well. Lesson learned.
“Traffic was bad.”
I want to bark that traffic is always bad at this time of the morning, but it won’t do any good. “Button your shirt,” I say instead. “We can’t afford to get kicked out before we even get inside.”
He keeps his eyes on me while fumbling with his linen button-down. Enough of his chest is visible to know that he must still be hitting the gym every day. That kind of definition does not come without some serious discipline.
When he has fastened two more buttons—an improvement, but still too few to be decent—he motions toward the entrance. “After you,” he says in that low drawl that used to make my belly flip over.
I march to the door. If he’s trying to get under my skin, it’s working. If he’s not trying, it’s still working.
The same receptionist is sitting at the desk. If she recognizes me, she doesn’t mention it. “Welcome to the Archives,” she says.
Heath slides his mum’s card across the desk along with his driver’s license. She confirms that the addresses on both match and waves us through the huge arch and into the main room.
There’s an air of familiarity, but also of something new, like a treasure waiting to be discovered within the history-rich walls. The ceiling soars above us while light filters through the stained glass windows that line the space.
There are books as far as the eye can see.
Arch after arch melts into the distance, each one separating another section of Wesbourne history.
We have a historical society too, where some of the more important texts are kept.
The Archives is focused primarily on published works detailing the life of Wesbourne saints, politicians, kings, crusaders, and other important people.
I scan the rows, letting my fingers trail over the spines of antique books. The smell of this place brings back so many memories. It’s similar to the library at St. Anne’s, but it has its own particular combination of leather, book pages, and dust.
In the center of each aisle is a table and a few chairs. Some of these are occupied by old men in three-piece suits and reading glasses. They frown at us as we walk by.
Heath remains a few steps behind me. Neither of us says anything, but I can sense him as clearly as I can sense my own head on my shoulders.
I find the section on Wesbourne authors.
I haven’t studied G.R. Huntington in the Archives before.
My interest in his life didn’t start until after I was at Oxford.
I own a first edition of each of his works, of course, but don’t know more than the basics about his life and the influences that made him one of the most famous and respected Gothic horror novelists of all time.
When Heath realizes I’m going to be in this section for a while, he folds himself over one of the armchairs in the corner.
I try not to notice the way he manages to look graceful even though his limbs stick out at all angles.
Must be the surfer in him. Anyone who can manage to not only stay on a board while it’s riding a wave, but also do multiple tricks in the air, has to have at least a modicum of grace.
I continue perusing the shelves. I occasionally get detained by an interesting biography or collection of works I haven’t seen before. Wesbourne is a country ripe with authors, and I could spend an entire year learning about each one.
Heath shifts in his chair, and my eyes instinctively leave the pages I’m skimming on the life of Rhetha Barning Willoughby. He has moved so he’s facing the front, arms resting on his knees. His phone is in his hands. It looks like he’s playing a game of some sort.
I grit my teeth and return the book to the shelf.
My toes curl in my shoes as I stop in front of the next section of the bookcase.
It’s not like I want his help. In fact, I pointedly don’t want his help.
But something about the way he’s sitting there, playing on his phone like a sullen teenager, makes me want to scream.
He shifts again. Every nerve in my body stops what it’s doing to focus on this movement of his. Stop that, I chide them. We don’t care about him.
My body doesn’t listen. Two minutes later, when he moves again— this time to get up and pace—it launches a full five-alarm fire. When he stops right beside me, my organs threaten to burst into flames.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “Finding what you’re looking for?”
I shove the book in my hands back onto the shelf. “No,” I say, my voice choppy in contrast to his soft tones. “I can’t find anything on G.R. Huntington.”
“And he is . . . ?”
I turn to look at him, not sure if I can trust the interest in his voice. “He, uh . . . he was a Gothic horror novelist. Pretty famous, in fact. The Stephen King of the nineteenth century.”
“Ah.” Heath nods in understanding. “And you need him for your research?”
“I’m writing my dissertation on the effect he’s still having on horror literature today. Many of our modern stories use techniques he invented back in the mid-eighteen hundreds, such as the use of the—” The horror of what I’ve been doing sinks in.
I turn back to the shelf in front of me, using my finger to keep my place as I browse the titles.
“You didn’t have to stop,” he says.
My face heats, but I refuse to look at him. “I don’t want to bore you.”
He stays quiet, but his eyes probe. Finally I can’t take it anymore. I sneak a quick peek at him out of the corner of my eye. “You’re not boring me,” he says.
One of the things I’ve always liked about books is that no matter how many times you go back to them, the ending never changes. The bad guy always gets what’s coming to him, the couple always ends up together, the treasure is always found.
If only life came with that kind of predictability. We’d all be spared a world of pain.
“I can help you look,” he says.
This time I turn my whole head to see him. His face is blank. His dark eyes draw me in like quicksand. He’s leaning a shoulder against the bookcase—Heath doesn’t stand when he can lean, sit, or lie down. He is the personification of relaxation.
“It’s okay.” I face the shelf again. Looking at him for too long is dangerous.
“Walker.”
I ignore the butterflies that launch from my stomach and flutter their way around my chest. I clear my throat. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m perfectly capable—”
“I know you are,” he says. “But I want to help.” He kneels and pulls a thick volume from the bottom shelf.
The words in my own book swim before my eyes. I can’t make out anything with his tousled head in my peripheral vision. I slam it shut and return it to the shelf, then move several steps to the left, hoping a little distance will clear my head.
“Will this help?” Heath is still crouched beside the bottom shelf, the book in his hands open to the table of contents.
Reluctantly, I return to where he’s at. He stands quickly, brushing against me ever so slightly. Fireworks crackle across my skin. I ensure there are at least three inches between us before leaning over his shoulder to see what he’s pointing at.
The book is a collection of minibiographies of various Wesbournian authors. G.R. Huntington is listed, of course, but based on the size of the book alone, I can tell it won’t give me anything more than the bare-bones version I’m already familiar with. I explain this to him.
“Okay,” he says, just like that. He flips to the bio on Huntington. I take this as my cue to return to my own searching.
Several minutes later, he breaks the silence again. “I’ve read that.”
I look over at him. He’s still standing, but instead of leaning against the shelf, he’s pacing the small area between the bookcases.
“You’ve read what?” I ask .
“ The Disappearance of Emily Blanchard .”
It’s one of Huntington’s more popular works, but I don’t remember it on the syllabus for any of Heath’s classes. Yes, I read his syllabi. I used to read cereal boxes, too. Multiple times. “What, the CliffNotes?”
His eyes flicker over to meet mine. “No, the book.”
“You read a book,” I deadpan.
Several beats pass as we hold each other’s gaze. “Yep.” He drops his eyes back to the page. “I didn’t recognize his name when you said it, but I do remember that title.”
I reshelve my book without a word.
He returns to the bookcase and slides his own book back in. We continue browsing in silence for several more minutes. When I’m about to break the silence and ask what he thought of the book, he walks off.
Just up and leaves the section without a word.