The Hating Game (12 page)

“And you're right. I don't work here anymore, so I'm free to date Lucy if I want.” Danny looks past me at my desk and raises his eyebrows. “Well, well. What do you know. Romance isn't dead.”

Joshua scowls darkly and picks at his thumbnail. “Get out before I throw you out.”

Danny kisses my cheek, and I am almost certain he did it because of our audience. It was a petty move on his part.

“I'll call you later today about dinner, Luce. And we'll probably need to talk more, Josh.”

“Bye, man,” Joshua says in a fake voice. We both watch Danny get in the elevator.

Mr. Bexley makes a bull-calf bellow from his office and I finally notice the red rose on my keyboard.

“Oh.” I'm a complete and utter moron.

“It was there when I got in.” I've more than a thousand hours in the same room as Joshua and the lie in his voice is crystal clear. This rose is velvet-red perfection. In comparison, the daisies look like a tangle of weeds growing in a sewer.

“They were from you? Why didn't you say so?”

Mr. Bexley bellows again, more annoyed. Josh continues to ignore him and impales me with his glare. “You should have had Danny stay with you. Not me.”

“He's . . . We're just . . . It's . . . I don't know. He's nice.” Olympic-level floundering.

“Yeah, yeah. Nice. The ultimate quality in a man.”

“It's right up there. You were
nice
to me on the weekend. You were
nice
to send me roses. But you're back to being a total fuckwit.” I am hissing like a goose by this point.

“Doctor Josh,” Mr. Bexley interrupts from his doorway. “My office, if you can possibly spare me a moment. And mind your language, Miss Hutton.” He huffs off.

“Sorry, boss, I'll be right there,” Joshua says through gritted teeth. We're both blazingly frustrated and mere seconds away from mutually strangling each other. He sweeps past my desk and whips away the rose.

“What is wrong with you!” I make a grab for it and a thorn drags across my palm.

“I only sent you those fucking roses because you looked so cut-up after our fight. This is why I don't do nice things for people.”

“Ow!” I look at my palm. A stinging red line is forming. I'm holding drops of blood. “You scratched me!”

I catch him by the cuff and squeeze his wrist in a death grip.

“Thank you, Nurse Joshua, you were wonderfully kind. And thank your gorgeous doctor brother.”

He remembers something. “I have you to blame for the fact I
now have to go to his wedding. I'd nearly gotten out of it. That's your fault.”

“
My
fault?”

“If you hadn't been sick, I would never have seen Patrick.”

“That makes no sense. I never asked you to call him.”

He examines the line of blood I've left on his cuff with a look of complete and utter revulsion. He stuffs a tissue into my palm.

“Just wonderful,” he tells me, tossing the ruined rose in the trash. “Disinfect that.” He disappears into Mr. Bexley's office.

I open my inbox and see our interviews have been scheduled for next Thursday. My stomach makes a little heave. I think of my rent. I look at the empty desk opposite me.

I then lift up my mouse pad where I have hidden the little florist's card from the bunch of roses. I'd peeked at it last week whenever Joshua wasn't looking.

I stare at the card and wonder how I could have ever thought it was from Danny. It's Josh's handwriting; but I didn't notice the way the letters slashed and swooped.

You're always beautiful.

There's one red petal on my desk and I press it onto the pad of my thumb and breathe it in deep while the daisies blur at the corner of my eye. My palm stings and itches. Josh is absolutely right. I've somehow injured myself due to my own carelessness.

I sit and breathe in the scent of roses and strawberries until I can trust myself not to cry.

I
feel childish as I look at his rolled-up white cuffs, one of which now contains my DNA. He's glowering at his computer screen and has not spoken a word to me in hours. I've royally fucked up.

“I'll dry clean your shirt,” I offer, but he doesn't acknowledge me. “I'll buy you a new one. I'm so sorry, Josh—”

He cuts me off. “Did you think it'd all be different today?”

I feel a lump begin to squeeze in my throat. “I'd hoped so. Don't be mad.”

“I'm not mad.” His neck is red against his white collar.

“I'm trying to tell you I'm sorry. And I wanted to say thank you, for everything you did for me.”

“And are those pretty daisies for me, then?”

I remember. This might fix everything. “Wait, I did get you a present.”

I pull the little plastic cube topped with the red bow from my purse. I present it to him like a boxed Rolex. His eyes spark with an unidentified emotion before he reassumes his frown.

“Strawberries.”

“You said how much you love them.” The word
love
has prob
ably never been said in this office, and it gives my voice a weird little tremor. He looks at me sharply.

“I'm surprised you remember anything at all.” He puts the strawberries into his out-tray and logs back onto his computer.

After several more minutes of silence I try again.

“How can I pay you back for . . . everything?” The balance has shifted dramatically between us. I'm in his debt now. I owe him.

“Tell me what I can do. I will do anything.”

What I want to say is,
Speak to me. Engage with me. I can't fix anything if you ignore me.

I watch him continue to type, his face expressionless as a crash test dummy. Stacks of sales figures are to his right and he slashes a green highlighter across them. Meanwhile, I am at complete loose ends with no Helene.

“I'll clean your apartment for you. I'll be your slave for the day. I'll . . . bake you a cake.”

It's like a soundproof pane has dropped in between us. Or maybe I've been erased. I should let him do his work in silence, but I can't stop talking. He can't hear me anyway, so it won't matter if I say this next thing out loud.

“I'll go with you to the wedding.”

“Be quiet, Lucinda.” So he
can
hear me.

“I'll be your designated driver. You can get drunk. You can get so drunk and you'll have the best time. I'll be your chauffeur.”

He picks up his calculator and begins to tap. I persevere.

“I'll drive you home and put you to bed, like you did for me. You can vomit into Tupperware and I'll rinse it. Then we'll be even.”

He rests his fingertips on his keyboard and closes his eyes. He seems to be reciting a string of obscenities in his mind. “You don't even know where the wedding is.”

“Unless it's in North Korea, I'll go. When is it?”

“This Saturday.”

“I'm free. It's settled. Give me your address and I'll pick you up and everything. Name the time.”

“Pretty presumptuous of you to assume I won't have a date.”

I nearly open my mouth to retort that I know for a fact I'm his plus-one. Just in time, my cell phone rings. Danny. I swivel my chair a full one hundred eighty degrees. Hasn't he ever heard of texting?

“Hi, Lucy. Feeling any better? Are we still on for dinner?”

I drop my voice to a whisper. “I'm not sure. I have to go pick up my car and I've been feeling pretty shitty.”

“I've heard so much about this car of yours.”

“I think it's silver . . . that's as much as I can remember of it.”

“I've booked a table for seven tonight. Bonito Brothers. You said you like it?”

There's not much choice left then. It's hard to get a reservation there. I try not to sigh.

“Bonito Brothers is good. Thanks. I won't have a huge appetite but I'll do my best. I'll meet you there.”

“See you tonight.”

I hang up and sit facing the wall for a bit.

“Danny Fletcher has a clichéd evening in store for you. Italian restaurant, checkered tablecloth. Probably a candle. He'll push the last meatball to you with his nose. Second date, right?”

“Let's change the subject.” I pretend to start typing. My screen fills with error messages.

“Most guys would try for a kiss on the second date.”

That stops me in my tracks, and the look in my eye is probably crazy. The idea of Joshua making an effort on a second date is inconceivable. Joshua on a date, period.

I imagine Josh, seated across from a beautiful woman, laughing and smiling. The same smile he once gave me. His eyes lit up, anticipating a good-night kiss. I've got a dark ball of pressure burning in my chest. I try to clear my throat but it doesn't work.

I'm not the only one looking a little crazy. “Just say it. You look like you're about to explode.”

“Do yourself a favor and stay home tonight. You look
terrible
.”

“Thank you, Doctor Josh. Why does Fat Little Dick call you that, anyway?”

“Because my parents and brother are doctors. It's his way of reminding me I've failed to reach my potential.” His tone indicates I am the town simpleton, and he gets to his feet. I trail after him down the hall toward the copy room. He doesn't slow so I grab him by the arm.

“Wait a minute. I'm trying to fix this. You're right, you know. I did come in here today hoping these last days together might be different.”

He opens his mouth, but I steamroll ahead. He's letting me hold him against the wall, but we both know he could pick me up like a chess piece if he wanted to.

Some heeled shoes are clopping toward us sedately as a Clydesdale and my frustration mounts. I need to clear this up,
now
, or I am going to have an aneurism
.

The cleaner's closet will have to do. It's thankfully unlocked, and I walk in and stand among the chemicals and vacuum cleaners.

“Get in here.”

He obeys reluctantly and I pull the door shut and lean on it. We remain silent as the heels round the corner and continue past.

“This is cozy.” Josh kicks his toe against a bulk quantity of toilet paper. “Well? What?”

“I've screwed up. I know I have.”

“There's nothing to screw up. You've pissed me off. The status quo is maintained.”

He leans an elbow on a shelf to drag his hand tiredly through his hair, and his shirt slides up an inch or so out of his trouser waistband. We're so close I can hear the fabric stretch and slide over his skin.

“I thought maybe the war might be over. I thought we might be friends.”

His eyes flash with disgust, so I might as well put it all out there. “Josh, I want to be
friends
with you. Or something. I have no idea why, because you're awful.”

He holds up a finger. “There's an interesting couple of words in among what you just said.”

“I say a lot of interesting words. And you never hear any of them.” I ball my hands until the knuckles crack, and the realization hits me across the head.

The reason for my rising distress is this: I will never see his hidden softness again. I think of his hands braced on either side of my pillow, talking me through the fever. His hands passing easily over my skin.

Right now he looks like he'd burn me at the stake. He was my friend once, for one delirious night, and it's all I'll ever get.

“Or something,” he uses his fingers to add quotations. “You said you wanted to be friends, or something. What exactly does
or something
entail? I want to know my options.”

“It probably entails not completely hating each other. I don't know.” I try to sit on a stack of boxes and they crush underneath me so I stand back up.

“So, what is he, your boyfriend?” He has hands on hips and the small room shrinks to microscopic.

He's close to me now. Whatever divine soap Josh uses, I need some. I'll keep a bar of it in my top drawer to scent my lingerie. I feel my cheeks beginning to heat.

“You couldn't care less if I date Danny. You can't believe any guy would want to be with me.”

Instead of replying, he holds out his hand, palm up. His shirt sleeves are still rolled, and I look at the strong tendons and cords in his wrists. I notice for the first time he has those muscly-guy raised veins in his inner arms.

“Touching at work is against HR policy.” My throat is bone dry.
Not touching me should be illegal.

He stares expectantly at me until I slide my hand into his. It's hard to resist someone holding out his hand this way, and it's completely impossible if it's Joshua. I register the heat and size of his fingers before he turns over my hand to inspect the scratch on my palm, handling my hand like an injured dove.

“Seriously though, did you clean this? Rose thorns can have fungus on them. The scratch can get infected.” He presses around the wound, fussing and frowning. How can he be these two different men? A second realization hits me. Perhaps I am a determining factor. The concept is scary. The only way I can get him to drop his guard is to drop mine. Maybe I can change everything.

“Josh.”

When he hears me shorten his name, he folds up my fingers and gives me my hand back. It's time to try this. I pray I'm not wrong.

“I wanted you there on Friday night. You, and only you. And if you don't want to be friends with me, I'll try to play the Or Something Game with you.”

There's a long pause and he doesn't react. If I've misjudged this, I will never live it down. My heart is pulsing uncomfortably fast.

“Really?” He is skeptical.

I push him against the door and feel a thrill when I hear the thud of his weight against it.

“Kiss me.” I whisper it and the air gets warmer.

“So the Or Something Game involves kissing. How interesting, Lucinda.” He passes his fingers through my hair, raking it gently away from my face.

“I don't know the rules yet. It's a pretty new game.”

“Are you sure about that?” He looks down to watch my hand spread out over his stomach.

I push at the hard flesh. It doesn't remotely give. “Are you wearing a bullet-proof vest?”

“I've got to in this office.”

“I really am sorry for hurting your feelings, and for throwing you out of my apartment. Josh.” When I use his shortened name, it's a little peace offering. It's an apology.

Frankly, it's a pleasure. It lets me imagine he's my friend. My friend, who lets me run my palms up his torso in a cleaner's closet. I wish he'd run his hands up mine.

“Apology accepted. But you can't expect me to be a nice guy when another man walks you into the office, and kisses you and gives you flowers. It's not the way this game works between you and me.”

“I have never had the faintest clue on how it works.” I swallow heavily. He touches his fingers underneath my chin, raising my face to his.

“I thought you were so clever, Lucinda. I must be wrong.”

I rise on tiptoes and when my hands slide onto his shoulders and grip. When I press my fingernails into him, his throat constricts in a swallow and I manage to land one glancing, openmouthed kiss across it. I can feel the effect it has; his hands
flex, his hips tilt toward me. Something heavy presses into my stomach.

This is the best game I've ever played in my entire life.

His hand settles on my lower back and I arch against him and manage to get one hand on the nape of his neck.

“Is there any reason we're not kissing yet?”

“The height difference, mainly.” He's trying to conceal the fact he's got an erection hard enough to dent a tin can. It's an impossible task. I smile and try to tug him down to my mouth.

“Well, don't make me climb up there.”

His mouth belongs on mine, but he doesn't move down farther. His face tightens with indecision and restrained lust. I imagine he's mulling over the work implications.

“We're barely working together for another two weeks. So what does it matter?” I congratulate myself on my casual tone.

“What a romantic proposition.” His tongue emerges and licks the corner of his mouth. He wants to. It's obvious he does. But yet he still resists.

“Put your hands on me.”

Instead of grabbing me, he puts out his hands, offering them to me like I just did to him. Then he just stands there. His chest rises and falls.

“Put them on yourself.”

Nothing ever goes the way I expect it will. I take one of his hands and lay it on my side. The other, I decide to slide around to my butt. Both squeeze me, but they don't move. Basically, I'm feeling myself up, hardly aided by him at all.

“Is this to get around the HR rules? No more HR threats. It's a complete waste of breath at this point.” Saying it was a waste of
my
breath. I need all the oxygen I can get. The heat of his hands on me burns through my clothes.

I push his hand down to where my butt meets thigh. He has to bend down a lot and it gets his mouth much closer. Now, I pull his other hand up from my ribs to the side of my breast. He looks like he's about to pass out. My ego is nearly too big to fit in this room.

“So this is what sex with you would be like.” I can't resist teasing him. “I was hoping you'd participate a little more.”

He finally says something. “I'd participate. So well, you wouldn't walk straight the next day.”

More footsteps pass. I'm in a room smaller than a jail cell and Josh has his hands on me. Too bold for my own good, I lift his hand and press his fingertips into my cleavage, just to see what happens.

“That's okay, walking is overrated.”

Whatever control he has on himself slips significantly and his hand regains its autonomy. He puts a hand under my knee to lift my leg. His fingertips stroke up under the hem of my dress, making a smooth line up my outer thigh to the side of my underwear. His fingertip touches the elastic and I shiver. Between my breasts, his fingers dip and stroke. Then he puts my foot back on the ground, and both his hands in his pockets.