10. I Dont Hate You
Chapter ten
I Don't Hate You
Jack
Claire's voice cuts through the living room, and I look up from where I'm sitting on the couch with my elbows braced on my knees.
The lantern on the coffee table throws soft light across the walls while the storm continues hammering the house like it has nothing better to do.
Which, I suppose, it doesn't.
I haven't even bothered going upstairs. I know I won't sleep, and lying in bed staring at the ceiling doesn't sound particularly appealing.
I hadn't expected Claire to come back out of the guest room, though.
“Yeah,” I say finally, because it's the only honest answer that doesn't make the situation more awkward.
Claire steps farther into the room with her lantern, then pauses like she's trying to decide if turning around and pretending she never saw me is still an option.
Dusty, traitor that he is, lifts his head and starts wagging his tail like Claire is the solution to all of life's problems.
She looks down at him. “Of course you're here too.”
His tail thumps harder against the floor.
I sigh. “He thinks everyone is his friend.”
Claire's mouth twitches. “Smart dog. Unless you intended for him to be a watchdog. In which case, maybe not the best choice.”
I almost smile as she moves toward the couch like she's approaching a wild animal.
I don't shift or make room. Not because I'm trying to be difficult.
I just have no idea what the appropriate amount of movement is when the woman you've spent years avoiding suddenly appears in your living room in the middle of the night.
She sits on the far end anyway and sets her lantern on the side table.
“So,” she says, glancing over at me. “Neither of us can sleep.”
“The storm's too loud.”
It's only half true. I can sleep through storms.
Apparently, I can't sleep through knowing Claire Monroe is in my guest room.
Or supposed to be.
Claire makes a small sound that could mean agreement or disbelief. “Sure.”
Silence settles between us, filled by the rain hitting the windows and the wind pushing against the house. It isn't hostile, exactly, but it isn't particularly comfortable either.
It's the kind of silence that leaves too much room for my mind to wander.
To the fact that Claire is sitting in my house instead of hers.
To the fact that I've spent years telling myself she's a problem I don't need, and somehow, within forty-eight hours of her returning to Tidehaven, my life has started rearranging itself around her.
Claire shifts, pulling her legs up beneath her, and Dusty immediately gets to his feet. He crosses the space between us, circles once, then settles beside her with his head near her thigh like he's officially claimed her as his preferred human.
She glances at me. “Are you going to scold him, or should I get used to being adopted?”
I clench my jaw. “He's fine.”
One eyebrow lifts. “You said fine.”
I shoot her a look.
A small, satisfied smile appears on her face before fading almost as quickly.
She clears her throat. “Can I ask you something?”
I already know I'm not going to like this.
“As long as I have the option to plead the Fifth.”
Claire tilts her head, studying me like she's trying to decide how to ask the question without making it sound as important as it clearly is.
“Why do you dislike me so much?”
I go still.
“I mean, the glaring,” she continues. “What is with the constant glaring? Your face has to be exhausted whenever I'm around.”
I don't answer right away.
The truth is, I've never had to explain it to her. I've never had to explain it to much of anyone. It was easier to let the resentment sit where it was and avoid examining whether it still belonged there.
That's what emotionally healthy adults do.
Probably.
Claire waits.
Surprisingly, she doesn't push.
I exhale slowly. “You want the short answer?”
Her eyes narrow. “There's a long answer?”
“Yes.”
“Then give me the short one, as long as it contains all the pertinent information. I'm tired and trapped in your living room. I don't have the emotional bandwidth for a trilogy.”
I almost laugh.
Almost.
“The property line.”
Claire stares at me.
“The property line,” she repeats slowly. “Okay. Maybe a slightly longer answer would be helpful.”
“You know. Our families. The shoreline access. The development plans.”
Her expression doesn't change.
I frown. “The messy business between our fathers.”
She continues staring at me.
Then her brow furrows.
“I genuinely thought you just woke up one morning and decided you hated me.”
“I don't hate you.”
Claire gives me a look that says the evidence suggests otherwise.
Fair.
“When we were younger, our dads were working on something,” I explain. “My dad had a development project lined up. Contracts, permits, investors. The whole thing. It was supposed to be a big deal for my family.”
“Okay.”
“As you know, my dad was a contractor. Not just handyman work. He took on bigger projects, and he'd been trying for years to land something substantial. Something that would keep work steady and put his company on the map beyond Tidehaven.”
Claire listens without interrupting.
“The project involved property near ours, including shoreline access along the Monroe boundary. That's where things got complicated.”
Her brow furrows. “And what? My family stopped the deal?”
My hands curl loosely over my knees as the old frustration starts working its way back to the surface.
Not at Claire.
At least, I don't think it's at Claire anymore.
“It wasn't a hard stop,” I say. “Not exactly. But your dad pushed back on the access agreement. There were disputes over boundaries, environmental concerns, permits. Everything kept getting delayed until the investors eventually walked.”
Claire looks genuinely confused. “My dad was never the confrontational type.”
“I know.”
The words come out before I can stop them.
Because I did know her father. I'd grown up next door to him. He wasn't some villain twirling a mustache while destroying my family's future.
Things would've been easier if he had been.
“But at the time, all I saw was what happened afterward,” I continue. “My dad lost the project. He'd already invested a lot of time and money into making it happen, and when it fell apart, it wasn't just one job he lost. It affected everything that came after.”
Claire's lips part slightly. “Jack…”
I keep going, because if I stop now, I probably won't finish.
“My dad tried to recover. He went after other projects, but nothing worked out the way that one was supposed to. Eventually, my parents decided they were ready for a change and moved to Florida.”
I glance at her. “Like every other person who decides they're allergic to winter.”
“Or storm season, in our case.”
“Exactly.”
Claire gives me a small smile. “Seems like you have a bit of a cliché story of your own.”
The joke doesn't quite land.
Not because it isn't funny.
Because there's still too much history sitting between us.
And for the first time, I'm starting to wonder how much of that history Claire actually knows.
I look at her. “They still come back during the summer, but other than that, I'm mostly on my own.”
Claire tilts her head. “So you blamed my dad.”
I don't correct her.
Because, yes.
She waits for me to say something else, but there isn't much I can add that makes me sound any better.
“And then you blamed me?”
I wince.
“You were a Monroe.”
Claire stares at me like she can't decide whether she wants to punch me or laugh at how ridiculous that sounds.
“That's your defense?” she asks slowly. “I was a Monroe?”
“I know it wasn't fair.”
One eyebrow lifts. “Oh. You know that, do you?”
I shoot her a look.
“I have spent years trying to figure out why you look at me like I kicked your dog,” she says, throwing her hands up. “And you're telling me it's because my last name was Monroe?”
“I don't—”
“Don't.” She points toward Dusty. “Because I've met your dog now, and he is deeply offended by the suggestion that I would ever kick him.”
As if he understands every word, Dusty's tail thumps against the couch.
I look at him.
Traitor.
Then I look back at Claire.
“I'm sorry.”
The words feel strange coming out. Not because I don't mean them. Because I should've said them a long time ago.
“I shouldn't have taken any of that out on you. You weren't even here when most of it happened.”
Claire doesn't say anything.
I look away, because sitting here making eye contact while apologizing feels a little too much like walking into a wall on purpose.
I brace myself for the sarcasm.
A jab.
Maybe a well-deserved explanation of exactly how much of an idiot I've been.
Instead, Claire gives a single nod.
“Okay.”
I look back at her. “Okay?”
She shrugs, but there's nothing flippant about it. She just looks tired.
“It's helpful to know you weren't born miserable.”
I glare at her on instinct. “I wasn't born miserable.”
“Good to know.”
“I know I've been difficult.”
“Mhmm.”
I narrow my eyes.
She looks entirely too pleased with herself.
I should be annoyed.
I am annoyed.
But somehow, the weight that's been sitting between us feels a little lighter than it did ten minutes ago.
Silence settles over the room again, but this time it doesn't feel like something either of us needs to fight.
After a minute, Claire glances toward the kitchen. “I need a drink.”
I stand immediately, grateful for a reason to move. “Agreed. What will it be?”
“After that fun conversation? Clean hydration.” She gets to her feet. “Water is fine.”
I head into the kitchen and open the refrigerator, grabbing a bottle from inside. It's still cool, but that probably won't last much longer.
When I turn around, Claire is leaning against the counter with her arms crossed.
I hadn't expected her to follow me.
She watches me like she's waiting to see whether there's more to the story.
There isn't.
Or at least, there isn't anything else I'm willing to unpack tonight.
“So that's the short version,” I say.
“That's it?”
“That's it.”