The Hating Game

Let’s put our weapons down, okay?” He raises his hands to show he’s unarmed. His hands are big enough to encircle my ankles. I swallow.

To hide my awkwardness, I mime taking a gun out of my pocket and toss it aside. He reaches into an imaginary shoulder holster and takes out a gun, putting it on his planner. I unsheathe an invisible knife from my thigh.

“All of them.” I indicate under the desk. He reaches down to his ankle and pretends to take a handgun out of an ankle holster.

“That’s better.” I sink into my chair and close my eyes

If you knew the kind of little miracles happening every moment you breathe in, you wouldn’t be able to handle it. A valve could close and not open; an artery could split, you could die. At any moment. It’s nothing but miracles inside your tiny city.”

He’s laughing, my favorite sound in the world.

Here’s a fact. Hating someone is exhausting. Each pulse of
blood in my veins takes me closer to death.

That’s why I never needed help to beat you. I didn’t want to beat you.

Love and hate are visceral. Your stomach twists at the thought of that person. The heart in your chest beats heavy and bright, nearly visible through your flesh and clothes. Your appetite and sleep are shredded. Every interaction spikes your blood with a dangerous kind of adrenaline, and you’re on the brink of fight or flight. Your body is barely under your control. You’re consumed, and it scares you.

Both love and hate are mirror versions of the same game—and you have to win. Why? Your heart and your ego. Trust me, I should know.

friendly and efficient people at HarperCollins, especially my editor, Amanda Bergeron, for making me feel like one of the family.

Speaking of family, I want to send love to my parents, Sue and David, my brother, Peter, and my husband, Roland. Rol, thank you for believing in me. Even though my pug, Delia, cannot read, she has bee

imprisoned at my desk for another few hours. I wish I was in solitary confinement, but unfortunately I have a cellmate. Each tick of his watch feels like another tally ma

Every interaction spikes your blood with a dangerous kind of adrenali

Love and hate are visceral. Your stomach twists at the thought of that person.