To Have and to Hate

  To Have and to Hate

  Copyright © 2021 R.S. Grey

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This book is a piece of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Published: R.S. Grey 2021

  [email protected]

  Editing: Editing by C. Marie

  Proofreading: Red Leaf Proofing, Julia Griffis

  Cover Design: R.S. Grey

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  To Have and to Hate

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  Excerpt

  Make Me Bad

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Stay connected with R.S. Grey

  Thank you!

  Author’s Note:

  To Have and to Hate is a full-length standalone novel. At the end, I’ve included an excerpt from my bestselling romantic comedy Make Me Bad.

  To Have and to Hate concludes at around 90% on your device.

  Happy Reading!

  XO, RS Grey

  One

  I stand out like a sore thumb. Even in New York City, people tend to opt for cream or white when it comes to bridal attire. I’m in neither. Even worse, my dress is shorter than I remember it being when I left my hotel room. The hem has lost inches on my walk to the courthouse. I like to think the cheetah print is subtle, but my black Doc Martens are not. I’ve had them for years. They’re my version of Dorothy’s slippers.

  Another gust of wind blows up my dress and I shiver in my boots, looking up and down the street, waiting for him to show. I’m surprised by the number of blushing couples that rush past me, eager to get out of the cold and begin their wedded bliss with a ceremony inside the courthouse.

  I’ll be one of them soon, I suppose. I look down at my naked ring finger and imagine how it will look with a fat diamond weighing it down, then I think back to the phone call I received last night.

  My mom rarely calls me. In fact, I did a double take when I saw her name appear on the screen.

  “Mom?” I asked after I answered, still wary of the odd turn of events. Part of me assumed the call was a mistake—a run-of-the-mill butt-dial—until she spoke. Her sharp tone sent a shiver down my spine.

  “Elizabeth Brighton, where are you? All that background noise is dreadful.”

  The music grew louder as the artists continued their performance in the center of the museum’s foyer.

  “I’m at MoMA.”

  She tsked as if she didn’t like the answer, and before she even had to ask, I walked away from the thick crowd of onlookers who’d gathered until I found a quiet corner.

  “Can you hear me better now?” I asked, testing the waters.

  “Yes. Thank goodness. Now, before I begin, you should know I don’t relish making this phone call.”

  I puffed out a laugh, slightly taken aback by her candor.

  “Thanks, Mom. It’s nice to hear from you too.”

  “Don’t take that tone with me.”

  I ticked my jaw, willing myself to bite my tongue and rein in my sarcasm, not wanting to make the situation any worse for myself. My mom and I have a strained relationship to say the least. If she had it her way, I’d fall in line with the rest of my siblings, move home to Connecticut, and follow right in her footsteps.

  I assumed that was what the call would be about, actually. I thought it would follow the pattern of all the others: “Do you have to be so difficult? Do you truly think you can pay your bills with your doodles?” always leads into “Your father and I do not support this and we will not continue to fund this bohemian lifestyle you’re so hell-bent on achieving” which eventually dissolves into a teary “Elizabeth, I don’t understand how you could do this to us.”

  When I was growing up, my mom loved my interest in art, but only because she assumed it would eventually dead-end into a career accepted by her and her high-society friends. It’s one thing to cultivate a gentle pursuit in art advising or collection management. It’s another to be an artist, down in the trenches with the masses.

  I girded my loins for the same conversation we’d had a million times before, but then my mother sighed, deep and heavy. A long pause followed, and my heart sank in my chest. Something was off.

  “Mom?” I asked hesitantly. “Is everything okay?”

  “No,” she replied with a clipped tone. “As a matter of fact, it’s not. Your sister has run away with her driver.”

  Now, I’m not proud of the fact that I laughed in this moment. It was just so unexpected! My sister has always perfectly fit the mold of my mom’s dreams for her. Popular in school—check. Classically beautiful—check. Just smart enough to get into an Ivy League but not so smart that she could be labeled as a stuffy intellectual—check. I’ve never seen her without a full face of makeup. I’ve never seen her not decked out in designer clothes. She was probably on track to marry some blue-blood prince, and now this. THIS. Running away with her driver?! It’s too good.

  At least it felt that way until my mom started to cry over the phone.

  My laughter dried up on the spot once I realized her overwhelmingly dramatic sobs weren’t going to stop anytime soon.

  “Mom? Oh god. I’m sorry, okay? It’s going to be fine. So what if Charlotte ran away with her driver? At least she’s happy!”

  “No, Elizabeth. It’s horrible. Horrible.”

  I fought the urge to roll my eyes, knowing instinctively why my mom was having such a hard time with this. “Who cares what your friends think?”

  “My friends?!” Her shrill tone caught my full attention. “I don’t care about my friends! You don’t understand, Elizabeth. Your sister was betrothed to someone else.”

  My memory of the phone call is broken off by a loud honk as two cars nearly collide on the street in front of the courthouse. Windows are rolled down. Curse words are slung from one driver to the other. “Well screw you, pal!” is the parting shot before they disappear and my attention is drawn to the group of pedestrians crossing the street in my direction. In the back of the pack, with his hands tucked into his wool trench coat pockets and his attention on the horizon, is a man I recognize but don’t know. He’s a near stranger, and he’s about to be my husband.

  Butterflies stir in my stomach as excitement blends into dread. I can’t believe I’ve agreed to do this—to take my sister’s spot—and in fact, I’m still not so sure it’s a wise decision, but now that he’s here in front of me, flesh and blood, tall and handsome, I feel like I can’t back out of the arrangement.

  He looks up from the sidewalk and spots me. I freeze as he moves closer, assessing me
without giving any hint as to what he really thinks. His dark eyes slide down my dress, linger on my boots for a moment too long, and then finally drag back up to my face as he comes to a stop in front of me.

  I swallow and wait for him to smile and introduce himself. In fact, my mouth is already starting to tip up, preparing to reciprocate.

  Instead, he simply asks, “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  Bleak words for a bleak affair.

  “Having second thoughts?” I ask, squaring my shoulders and jutting out my chin, trying to exude false confidence.

  He sees right through it, narrowing his eyes so his black lashes cluster together, further defining his shrewd gaze.

  I don’t move an inch, not so much as a hair on my body swaying under his intense scrutiny. It feels like he stares at me so long I should have vines growing up my legs, anchoring me to my spot, before he gestures for me to take the lead into the courthouse. I hesitate at first, realizing instinctively I don’t feel comfortable turning my back on him.

  Who is this man?

  I mean, I know who he is on the surface.

  Walter Jennings II, AKA Walt.

  Almost a century ago, our grandfathers worked together to invent the battery-powered pacemaker, thus founding Diomedica. Today, the company has grown to be the largest medical device company in the world, specializing in the design and distribution of cranial and spine robotics, surgical tools, and insulin pumps. Diomedica employs over a hundred thousand people across the globe. It’s also the main reason I’m here today, willing to go through with this hasty marriage.

  I’ve been around Walt a few times in my life at dinners and holiday parties, though it’s been almost a decade since I last saw him. He’s ten years my senior, which means even back then, I don’t think we had much to say to each other outside of obligatory greetings. Beyond thinking he was pretty hot for someone way older, he wasn’t on my radar, and I definitely wasn’t on his. I try to imagine what I would have looked like the last time we were together. There’s no doubt I was rail thin and lanky, probably trying and failing to fill out my dress. In all likelihood, I was off reading somewhere on my own, trying to disappear into a corner. I always brought a book with me to those parties my parents dragged me to.

  I wonder what he would have been up to back then. Working the room? Flirting with women? My sister included?

  We reach the door of the courthouse, and he reaches out to open it for me and usher me inside. I catch a hint of cologne as I brush past him, slightly embarrassed to think of what I must smell like in comparison. I didn’t bring much of a wardrobe with me to the city. This is my fanciest dress, and I was wearing it last night, which meant there was no time to get it dry-cleaned before this morning.

  Walt is dressed much more appropriately than me in his camel coat and black suit. A leather watch is barely visible on his left wrist. His shined shoes click ominously against the tile floor, much more refined than my clunky boots.

  I’m not sure where he’s leading me. In fact, I’m not sure how any of this is supposed to go. I peer at him from the corner of my eye to see his gaze laser-focused ahead, down the hall. We keep walking, then he stops to call an elevator, and I have to awkwardly pivot my momentum to carry me sideways instead of forward. He doesn’t seem to notice my wobble. In fact, I don’t think he even notices me.

  I’d ask him questions—I have a million of them—but I suddenly feel like the cat’s got my tongue. I try to figure out why he seems to have stolen my voice as we step onto the elevator together, side by side. It’s the height, I tell myself. He’s got a good foot on me. Maybe more. The width of him doesn’t help either. He’s hefty, which I realize isn’t a wonderful way to describe a human as it lends itself to both trash bags and general wideness in any direction, but he is hefty. Strong and broad-shouldered.

  In contrast, I have the type of body that doesn’t quite know how to hang on to muscle. With my long legs, I could have been a ballerina if only I had grace and talent and dedication toward a skill outside of art. I am one of those people who promises to start taking care of myself tomorrow and—shockingly—tomorrow never comes. Gyms just don’t hold much appeal for me. I prefer hunching myself over my work table or easel, staining my fingers with pastels, letting the days blur together.

  The elevator carries us up and I wonder, yet again, where we’re headed. I know we’re supposed to have a marriage certificate before we’re allowed to go through with the ceremony itself. I assume that’s what we’re doing today, maybe just completing the preliminary steps toward a wedding that will be at some ambiguous date in the future, but that hope starts to drain out of me as we step out of the elevator to find two people standing near a closed courtroom. An older woman in black judicial robes laughs beside a young man with round acrylic glasses and short blond hair. He’s carrying a black leather padfolio, a datebook, and a phone, all tucked neatly one on top of the other. When they catch sight of us, they pause their conversation.

  “Judge Mathers,” Walt says with a tip of his head. “I appreciate the favor.”

  Her smile is wide and genuine as she meets his gaze. “Of course. I cared a great deal for your grandfather, and call me crazy, but even in my old age, I’m a sucker for love.”

  She meets my eyes as she finishes the last half of her sentence, and I catch genuine glee there. Oh dear. It’s obvious she thinks she’s marrying two lovebirds desperate to be together. I force a smile quickly, hoping I haven’t already ruined the façade.

  “You must be Elizabeth Brighton,” she says. “I have to say, I love the dress.”

  I glance down at the cheetah print and blush. “Oh, thank you.” And then I sense that Walt is watching me too, almost expectantly, so I quickly tack on an additional thank you to her for helping us out today.

  “Like I said, it truly is my pleasure,” she assures us. “Now I don’t mean to rush you two along, but I only have a ten-minute window in my schedule. If we’re going to do this…” She nods her head back in the direction of the courtroom, and everyone gets the hint.

  The blond man springs into action, tugging open the door for us. Judge Mathers strolls in first and then Walt waves for the man to go ahead so he can take the door from him. As I step past, Walt’s free hand hits my lower back for a moment to help usher me inside, and the contact is the start of a chain reaction in my body, one nerve firing to the next until I’m suddenly ablaze with anxiety.

  I turn quickly, lowering my voice so only he can hear me. “I’m confused. Isn’t there some sort of waiting period? A few days between when we get a marriage license and when we can officially get married?”

  “Not for people like us.”

  His eyes are almost bored as he looks down on me. My panic is obviously not shared.

  “Oh…okay.” I look into the courtroom, then back down the hall as if assessing my escape options.

  “But if you’d like to back out, all you need to say—”

  I straighten my spine and whip my gaze back into the courtroom. “No. Of course not. I just wasn’t sure of the procedures. Let’s…get married.”

  Two

  I’m not someone who imagined what their wedding would be like at a young age. No binge-watching Say Yes to the Dress, no pining after dream venues or Vera Wang gowns. Even still, I can admit I didn’t see this arrangement in my future: a quick walk down the center of a courtroom, a hasty signature on a prenuptial agreement, and now I’m standing across from a man I’ve exchanged only a handful of words with. Honestly, I chatted more with my Uber driver on the way over here.

  I catch whiffs of classic wedding words. Judge Mathers repeats vows and says my name to prod me to repeat them. I think I say the right thing, but I can’t be sure. The whole affair has taken on a dreamlike quality, like at any moment, Walt’s head will dissolve into a thousand snakes and then I’ll wake up in a sweat, trying to determine what it all means.

  “Would you like to exchange rings now?” Judge Mathers asks Walt.
<
br />   He shakes his head. “Not today.”

  This doesn’t faze the judge, but it fazes me.

  I clasp my hands together and brush my thumb over my naked ring finger, trying to decipher why the absence of a ring that would symbolize absolutely nothing hurts my feelings. It’s not about the ring itself. I don’t covet diamonds. In fact, I wouldn’t care what stone the ring was made of. I suppose I just wanted something. A sign that this farce of a wedding was built on something more than business alone. I now realize that was pretty juvenile. My mom laid out the terms clearly enough last night, and the sheer desperation in her voice is something I’ll never forget.

  “Broke” is a word I’ve never heard Julianne Brighton utter before yesterday. Over the course of one phone call, I learned just how much my parents had been hiding from me and my siblings over the years. My parents had hit the end of the road. Up to their ears in debt and out of options, they were facing imminent consequences: their homes, cars, clothing—all of it would be repossessed by the bank. They would be left without a dime and with no way to take care of themselves or my younger siblings. In their tight-knit social circle, there’s no doubt they’d face public humiliation; their reputations would be forever tarnished. At first as I listened to her describe their circumstances, a small voice inside of me said this would be a good thing, a much-needed dose of reality, but that bitterness dried up as my mom continued to cry and let me in on their despair. I had no idea how much debt they’d accrued. I had no idea someone could be so far past the point of no return. My father had taken loans from the banks, and when that was no longer a viable option, he’d borrowed from his friend, Walter Jennings Senior.