Page 13 of The Friends and Rivals Collection

SCHADENFREUDE

Hazel

I’m an asshole.

I need to apologize for my big, stupid mouth.

But that’s a little like asking a dog to meow. It’s not a natural skill for me.

I’m still working through how to do it when Axel returns from his call ten minutes later, slumps into a seat across from me at the gate, and drags a hand down his face.

My throat tightens. I messed up badly. I shouldn’t have said that to him. I crossed a line, and now I’ll have to uncross it.

As the gate agent barks announcements, I rehearse options this time.

Sorry I was rude, but I thought you’d want to get as far away as possible from a lying pig. My bad for not realizing you’d stayed with him.

Sorry I said your agent’s scum. Of course you’re not scum for working with scum.

Sorry. You can work with whoever you want, but how could you stay with him when you knew that about him? Oh, right, because romance is bullshit.

But none of those will work. Because they aren’t real apologies. They’re un-apologies.

Why is saying sorry so hard?

“In five minutes, we’ll begin boarding our flight to Rome. We will board by group. Please check your boarding passes so you can board when your group is called,” the agent warbles.

Okay, I know this plot device. It’s the ticking clock. I have five minutes to choose a path to apology. I should apologize before we board, especially in case we die on the plane. No one wants to die with apologies on their tongue.

But apologizing is like learning French.

It’s complicated and requires new neural pathways, and new emotional ones too.

When I was in grade school, my father would lash out at my mother when he came home from the local university after teaching English all day.

He’d tell her she was toasting the bread wrong, slicing the cucumber wrong, cleaning the sink wrong.

The next morning, he’d say he was sorry for being such a perfectionist, but he just liked things done the right way. She understood, right? He’d kiss her and that was the end of his apology.

The English professor in him was a perfectionist with Veronica and me too. He wanted his two daughters to learn the difference between among and between, affect and effect, peak and peek and pique.

If we didn’t nail them, we’d have to write the correct usage down one hundred times.

There were no morning apologies for us.

Never. Not one.

I’m so glad my mother left him before I became a total asshole.

“And now we’ll begin boarding our first-class passengers,” the agent says, and the crowds at Gate Eighteen stretch and rise.

I grab my backpack, and Axel hoists up his messenger bag. We head to the gate kiosk, but I don’t say a word to him, and he doesn’t seem keen on speaking to me. This is worse than I’d thought. The silence cloaks us as we line up, like we’re marching down the gangplank.

With no real map, I’m going to have to wing this apology.

Once the attendant scans our boarding passes, I draw a fueling breath.

I’ll do my mea culpa as we walk along the jetway.

I turn my gaze to Axel, ready to say I’m sorry , but he’s chatting with the guy next to him.

“Oh, that’s a good one. Your mind will be blown. ”

A forty-something guy in khakis and a corporate polo—that’s my best guess since the insignia on the chest reads Aviano and that sounds tech-y—is clutching a hardback of The Girl in the Hotel .

That’s Vince Caine’s latest thriller, which has been climbing the charts for weeks now.

“Good to know,” the tech guy says gratefully, waggling the book. “But hopefully not too good. I need to sleep on this trip.”

Axel laughs. “Then you’re going to have to switch to the news, my man. This is a page-turner,” he says, pointing to the tale.

The man curses under his breath, but it’s aw-shucks style. “Oh, well. What’s sleep for anyway? I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”

“Until then, there are books,” Axel says.

And damn, it’s cute how Axel talks to fellow readers. Like he’s just another reader too.

As we shuffle down the jetway, they chat more behind me, trading recommendations on favorite romantic thrillers until the guy asks, “And have you read A Lovely Alibi ?”

I smile at the mention of one of Axel’s books.

But I fight off the urge to spin around and point at him gleefully while shouting, That’s his!

He wrote it! Remember the scene at the gala in Barcelona where the hero dances with the heroine while she’s still wearing a knife in her garter like the badass she is?

I stay quiet while Axel hums doubtfully. “Hmm. I’m not sure I have.”

“Oh man, you have to. That’s the one where the hero commandeers a Jeep in Barcelona to chase down a thief of rare antiquities. He nabs him, then takes his woman out dancing after. He’s so smooth,” the guy says, admiring a fictional hero that my friend—ahem, former friend—crafted artfully.

“I’ll have to check it out,” Axel says.

“Huxley. Axel Huxley. But don’t blame me when you’re up too late,” the tech guy says as we reach the galley.

“I won’t,” Axel answers.

I step onto the plane first as a flight attendant in a red pantsuit greets me.

When I show her my boarding pass, she says, “Right this way, Ms. Valentine.” She gestures to the second row, then turns to Axel.

“And Mr. Hendrix-Blythe, you’re in the second row too,” she says to my companion, and we slide into our seats, me by the window, him by the aisle.

When the man walks past Axel to the last row of first class, the fanboy nods at Axel without knowing who the guy next to me really is.

I have a hunch as to why Axel didn’t tell him. Only, as much as I want to dive into his motivation, now’s not the time. I put a pin in the you still don’t believe your success convo.

A girl with a big old apology chip on her shoulder has got to do what a girl with a big old apology chip on her shoulder has got to do.

“Axel,” I say quietly, stripping any residual snark from my tone. I’m tempted to reach out and touch his hand. His arm. His shoulder. But I refrain.

Like a mistrustful dog, he turns to me, blue eyes guarded. “Yeah?”

Just do it . Just say it. No conditions. No justifications. The opposite of your father. “I’m sorry,” I say quickly.

He blinks. “For what?”

“For what I said about Max,” I say, nervous. I hope I’m not making this worse.

He scoffs. “Max?” he asks, incredulous. “You’re sorry about Max?”

I wince. This is so much harder than I’d thought. I’m going to have to repeat my snide comment. “That was shitty for me to say I can’t believe you’re working with him. Just because I have issues with him doesn’t mean you should stop doing business with him. He’s a great agent.”

Axel smiles, easy and confident, like a superhero shedding his mortal origins, donning his cape, luxuriating in his new powers.

This smile is Axel at the hipster restaurant.

It’s know-it-all Axel. It’s Axel who silently corrects people’s grammar.

“Max is a great agent. He’s also a great jackass.

” Somehow, that superhero grin grows impossibly wider. “I left him ten months ago.”

Seriously?

I sit up straighter. Study the guy next to me like he’s under a microscope. “You left him?”

“Mason Stein reps me now, but Max will always be in my work life. He’s a soul-less, money-loving bastard, enjoying all his last laughs since, obviously, he makes money off my backlist. But at least Mason makes the fifteen percent on my new deals.”

Mason.

That’s right. Axel mentioned Mason’s last name to Linus outside the hotel after the reader Q and A last month— lunch with Stein .

He said Mason, too, a little while ago when he picked up the phone.

I know Mason. He’s fantastic. He’s TJ’s agent.

A sarcastic, Ari Gold-esque, will-go-to-the-ends-of-the-earth-for-you agent. He’s perfect for Axel.

“He’s terrific for you. He’s great,” I say, meaning it completely.

“He is,” Axel says. Then his expression goes blank before he turns serious. “Appreciate you saying that. And listen, Hazel, I agree with what you were saying before we saw him. For this trip, we’ll do our best just to be…writers touring together.”

He extends a hand to shake. I take it. It’s the first real handshake we’ve had since I ran into him again. It feels good to hold his hand. There’s a zing, a little shiver down my spine.

That’s just because I love a good handshake.

Not because his dark blue eyes hold mine for a long beat.

Not because his touch feels both familiar and new.

And not because I’m still thinking about him with his shirt off.

I let go of his hand. “Does this mean we’re friends?” Because someone has to end the moment, return to barbs and stings.

With a laugh, he says, “Oh Hazel. Please.”

I smile, relieved to be enemies again. “Don’t worry. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Good. You wouldn’t want me to relent that easily. If I know one thing about you it’s that you love a challenge.”

“Oh, I do? And you’re a challenge?” I ask.

“I’m your Everest, sweetheart.”

I lean my head back against the leather chair, scoffing at his analogy. “You know I can’t stand outdoor sports.”

He snorts. “Who said climbing this Everest was an outdoor sport?”

I smack his arm. “You dog,” I chide.

“You know you want to plant your flag,” he says, crossing his arms, so defiant, so familiar. So entertaining.

“You think I want to plant my flag on my archnemesis?” I ask.

“I’m still your archnemesis?” He uncrosses his arms, delivering a hard stare through those black glasses. Hmm. Have those glasses always looked so sexy smart on him?

Wait. Nope. I can’t go there. I backpedal to enemy-land. “Of course you’re my archnemesis. What could possibly have changed?”

“You apologized. Doesn’t that make me a mere nemesis now?” he asks, intensely serious.

I nearly break first, but I hold my laughter. “You want a demotion from archnemesis to mere nemesis?”

“Sure. I thought we were regular… nemesises, ” he says, attempting to make a plural of that word and failing. “Shit, what’s the plural of nemesis?” He grabs his phone as if world peace depends on the answer.

But before he can ask Google, I answer with, “ Nemeses.”

He checks the dictionary still. Understandable. I’d do the same, since there’s no better way to drill home a word. As he reads the definition, he cringes, bemoaning his own mistake. “ Nemeses ,” he repeats as he bangs his head against the back of his seat.

“You know what this means,” I say, far too pleased.

“I do,” he mutters.

A vocabulary sin requires repentance. It’s a game we invented when I told him about my dad’s Draconian grammar rules. We took Dad’s ruthlessness and turned it into fun.

“Lunch is on you,” I say, delighted to celebrate this schadenfreude as I’d expect him to do if the tables were turned.

The last time we played was more than a year ago, when we were working on Lacey’s story. The brilliant and pretty ER doc was arguing with her annoying co-worker Noah, before she went home to prep for her date with her sexy new neighbor.

I wrote another thing coming in chapter three instead of think . Oh, the pain. The terrible pain I felt.

“You’ve got another think coming if you think I don’t know that about lunch,” he says.

“I do know that,” I say.

“Good. You understand the rules,” he says.

And I understand him too. Because ten months ago was when I broke up with Max. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that that’s when Axel split with his agent.

“You left Max ten months ago?” I ask, wanting to be one hundred percent sure.

“I did,” he confirms.

“Because he’s a jackass?”

“And a liar,” he adds.

I take a few minutes and let this new understanding of Axel fall into place, like a room rearranged. A table’s in a different spot. A couch is up against the wall. But this new room layout makes so much more sense. It aligns with the man I knew.

It makes sense—intrinsic sense—that Axel would leave Max.

It makes me feel understood too. Like maybe we’re… frenemies .

I meander back in time to thirty minutes ago. To Axel’s dry mic-drop— I’m sure the reviews would love a smackeroo . To the smart dig in those words. My heart gives a happy little squeeze.

A few minutes later, as we prep for takeoff, I close my eyes then say quietly, “Thanks, Axel.”

“For what?”

“For leaving Max.”

He’s quiet at first, then, barely audible above the hum of the plane, he says, “I couldn’t stay with him after that.”

Maybe, just maybe, I can make it through this trip.