The Hating Game (19 page)

“Stupid thing,” she mutters, and then brightens. “Smurfette! How are you?”

“Fine, how are you?” Before she replies the screen fills with the fly of her jeans as she stands up and calls out repeatedly to my dad for one very long minute.
Nigel! Nigel!
Even the familiar tone and cadence her voice takes has me shriveling in homesickness. Finally, she gives up.

“He must still be out in the field,” she tells me, sitting back down. “He'll wander in soon.”

We look at each other for a long moment. It's so rare to have her to myself, without my dad's gale-force personality propelling the conversation, that I hardly know where to start. I can't seem to talk about the weather, or how busy I've been. As her shrewd blue eyes narrow as I choose my words, I realize I'd better ask the question I've been torturing myself with for these last few weeks,
and perhaps all of my life. It's something I should have asked her years ago.

“Before I was born, and when you met Dad . . . how could you give up your dream?”

The question clangs in the dead static air between her and me. She doesn't speak for a long moment, and I think maybe I've said something I really shouldn't. When she locks eyes again with me, her gaze is steady and resolute.

“If you're asking me if I regret my choice? No.” She sits back into her chair, I sit up properly on the couch, and suddenly it's like there's no screen between us. No frame surrounding her face, or mine, and no strangely intrusive preview screen distracting us with our own faces. I feel like I could reach out and take her hand. It's the closest we've been since I saw her last, when I hugged her at the airport and breathed her shampoo and sunshine smell. I watch her thinking, and the clock is ticking before my dad walks in and interrupts.

“How can I regret it for a second? I have your father, and I have you.” It's the answer and the smile I knew she'd give me. How can she say anything differently?

“But don't you wonder where you'd be now if you chose your career instead of him?”

She avoids answering again. “Is this about your job interview? Are you worried about what happens if you miss your big chance?”

“Something like that. I've just started thinking that even if I get it, I could lose out on other . . . opportunities.”

“I don't think you need to give up your dream for anything. You want this, I can see it. I can hear it in your voice. Times have moved on, honey. You don't have to give up anything. You don't have to make a choice like mine. You just need to give it your all.”

A door bangs in the background on her end of the conversation, and her eyes flick offscreen. “That's your dad.”

I'm starting to feel frantic. I can't tell her about the change in my relationship with Josh, our competition, and what I will lose no matter what the outcome is. There's no time. There's only time for this.

“If I were in the same position, walking through an orchard, possibly about to derail myself somehow, what would you tell me to do?”

She looks offscreen and I can hear heavy boots clomping up the stairs to the office. Her answer convinces me of the cherry seed of
what if
that has always been lodged in her heart. “For you? I'd tell you to keep walking. I want things for you. Keep your eye on the prize and whatever you do, just keep walking.”

“What's going on?” Dad appears, kissing the top of my mom's head, and he sees me on the screen. “You should have come got me! How's my girl? Ready to beat Jimmy at the interview? Imagine his face when you get it. I can just see it now.” He drops into the seat beside Mom and then beams at the ceiling, relishing my fictional victory and his own cleverness.

I can see it on the tiny preview screen; my face falls. It could be seen from space and Mom definitely sees it. “Oh. I see now. Lucy, why didn't you say?”

Dad forges onward without a response from me. Next topic. “When are you coming home?”

I admit I pause for a second longer, for greater effect.

“The long weekend.” It's the answer that my heart has been aching to give, and when I watch my dad's face break into his chipped-tooth grin I'm glad I've said it. Mom continues to hold my gaze, steady.

“Just keep walking, unless what's up that tree is as special as this.”

“What on earth are you talking about? Did you hear her? She's coming home!” Dad's seat squeaks under the rhythm of his chair dancing, and just like my mom, I'm at the gates of a frighteningly momentous orchard, and I need to focus my gaze forward on the far exit, laser strong, never looking up.

I
T'S
F
RIDAY.
I
T
should be a terrible mustard shirt today, but it's not. I have my bag packed in the trunk of my car, and over the past two days I've been so nervous about this weekend I haven't been able to stomach solids. I've subsisted entirely on smoothies and tea. I slept two hours last night.

It's a relief that we're at this point. The sooner we leave here, the sooner we can get it over with. My mind has run every scenario possible, in my dreams, in my every waking moment. And the only certainty I have is, whatever happens, it will all be over soon.

Josh has been in Mr. Bexley's office for over an hour. There's been raised voices, Mr. Bexley shouting, and silence. It hasn't helped my anxiety level.

Helene went in earlier to intervene. More chillingly, Jeanette hustled past me about forty-five minutes ago and stepped into the fray. Maybe Josh's strategy involves major workforce cuts and she was called in to consult.

When she left, she paused by my desk, and looked at me, and laughed. It was the kind of laugh tinged by hysteria, like she's just heard the funniest thing.

“Good luck,” she tells me. “You're going to need it. This is beyond HR.”

We've been found out. Someone has seen me and Josh together, and we're busted. Danny has told someone. It's out. This scenario wasn't in the mix. I lean down and press my cheekbone against my knee.
Breathe in, breathe out.

“Darling!” Helene is alarmed when she walks to my desk. My vision is gray. I try to stand and weave on the spot. She makes me sit back down and hands me my water bottle.

“Are you all right?”

“I'm going to faint. What's going on in there?”

“They're talking about the interviews. Josh's idea for the future doesn't quite align with Bexley's.”

She pulls over a chair and sits beside me. I'm about to be fired. I begin wheezing.

“Am I in trouble? Is he doing some kind of pre-interview? Why aren't I doing one? And why was HR involved? I kept hearing shouting. And Jeanette said something spooky. About how I was going to need luck. Am I in trouble?” I end on the same pitiful note I began.

“Of course not. It's a bad argument they're having in there, darling. They have disagreements all the time. I thought it best to bring Jeanette up to remind them of professional etiquette. Nothing worse than two men barking at each other like dogs.”

Helene is looking at me strangely. I must look terrible.

“Is he . . .” I bite off the words, but she won't let me get away with it.

“Is he what?”

“Is he okay? Is . . . Josh okay?” She nods, but the thing is, I know he's not. The last two days have been exhausting. Josh has been nothing but grave civility, but I can now read the nuances of his face better than ever. He's worn out. Sad. Stressed. He can't decide what's worse; eye contact, or none.

And I understand. I really do.

I find if I keep my eyes off him, and fixed on my computer screen, there's less chance of feeling my stomach flip. I can keep the butterflies out of my system if I can avoid seeing the blue of his eyes or the shape of his mouth. The mouth I have kissed, over and over. No one can kiss me like he does, and it's more proof the world is unfair.

The hurt over his comment,
I'm not going to need any help beating her,
has dulled into a callus I can't stop pressing. What a shitty thing he said. But if the roles had been reversed, and it was Helene out there tormenting us, who's to say I wouldn't have said the exact same thing? I'm not the blameless little victim in our private war.

We're like this because we've found someone who can take it as good as they can dish it out. And I'll guarantee one thing. I'm going to dish it out at the interview. Even in my dreams, I know the answer I'll give to any question they ask. He sure will need help beating me. Helene is watching me, her eyes soft with empathy.

“It's sweet you're concerned for him, darling, but Josh is a big boy. You should be more concerned about Bexley. I know who I'd put my money on.”

“But why is Mr. Bexley—”

“I can't say. It's their confidential business. Let's talk about
your
interview. How did the meeting with Danny go?”

“It's going well. He's going to do that old thriller
Bloodsummer
in ebook for me. It was my dad's favorite book. He's doing it over the weekend, and gave me an incredible rate.”

“Well, that's good of him. If the presentation impresses the panel, maybe he'll end up getting some consulting work out of us. How is your dad? When are you going to go home, darling? Your parents must be missing you.”

“The long weekend that's coming up. That's when I need to go. Actually, I'd like to take a week.” In the pause that follows, I realize that my usual caveat of
if that's okay
didn't attach itself to that statement. The old me is shaking her head in disbelief.

I look at my lovely, generous friend and like I knew she would, she nods. “That's fine. Take a break before the new job begins.” Her faith in me has never wavered.

My newfound assertiveness doesn't help me shake the feeling something bad is going on. I look at Mr. Bexley's closed door again.

“Go home, darling. No one should ring this late on a Friday anyway. It should be illegal. What are you up to this weekend?” I have the weirdest feeling that she's testing me.

Unless it's to Josh, I can't lie properly. “I think I'm going on a road trip with a . . . friend. Actually, not a friend. But I can't quite decide if I should.”

The word
friend
feels like a foreign word I've mispronounced.
Frand
. She catches the pause, and smiles.

“You should go. I hope you have a wonderful time with your friend. You need one. I know you've been lonely since the merger, when you lost your Valerie.”

Unexpectedly, she takes my shoulders in her hands, and kisses both of my cheeks. “I can see your brain working. I think just for this weekend you need to put it all aside. Forget the interview. One day, this interview will be a faint memory.”

“Hopefully a good memory. A triumphant memory.”

“It's up to the recruitment gods now. I know you've done all you can.”

I have to admit it's true. “As long as the ebook formatting doesn't screw up, I'd be ready to be interviewed now.”

“I'm your boss, and I am
ordering
you to live a little this weekend. You're fading away these last few days. Look at your eyes. All red. You look as bad as Josh does. We've driven you both to a nervous breakdown, announcing the promotion.” She purses her mouth unhappily.

“There are moments when I wish this had never happened. None of it. The merger. This office. This promotion. It's ending something, and I'm not ready yet.”

“I'm sorry.” She pats my hand. “So sorry.”

“I've been getting my filing up to date, in case I have to leave. I've emailed my CV to five or six recruitment firms. I've cleaned out my drawers. I'm pretty much packed. Just in case.”

Helene looks at Josh's desk, which seems even more sanitized than usual. He's been doing the same. You could perform surgery on his desk.

“I can't lose you. We'd find you somewhere else in another team. Somewhere you'd be happy. I don't want you to be fretting all weekend, thinking you have no options.”

“But how could I bump into the new COO in the elevator? How humiliating.”

I can imagine it now. The heat would rise in my body, and the tiny hairs on my skin would rise in memory. He'd look down at me, eyes coolly professional. I'd greet him politely and remember how he pressed me against an elevator wall once in a total game changer. Then I'd reach my floor and leave him behind to continue his journey upward.

It's better to leave here completely than have to look at him across boardroom tables and glimpse him in the basement parking lot. He'll find a new woman to torment and fascinate. One day I might see a gold ring on his hand.

“Why would I keep torturing myself like that?”

I think my expression must be stark, because Helene makes an attempt to cheer me.

“Live a little, this weekend. Trust me. It will work out for the best.”

“I'll put the phones through to my cell and let you know if anything urgent comes in.”

I need to go downstairs to my car. I want to open the trunk, look at my packed bag, and try to dodge the big question a little longer. The
how do I feel about Josh
question. My car keys glow in my bag. I could get in my car, and drive.

I pat my pockets and realize I've got a major problem. My cell phone is gone. I look under my desk, in my bag, in folders, and paperwork. I can't even remember the last time I saw it.

I find it beside the sink in the ladies room. When I return to my desk, Josh is emerging from his meeting with Mr. Bexley without a hair out of place.

W
hat was all that about?” I hug the back of my chair.

“Professional disagreement.” He lifts a shoulder carelessly, reminding me of what he's wearing. When he walked in today, he was wearing a pale green shirt I've never seen before. I've spent today trying to decide if it's a harbinger of doom, or if I love it.

“What's with the green shirt?”

“Green seemed appropriate, given my little scene in Starbucks.”

Mr. Bexley puts his head out of his office, looks at us both, and shakes his head. “Hell in a handbasket. I tell you, hell in a handbasket.”

A witchy Shakespearean crone has nothing on him right now.

Josh laughs. “Richard, please.”

“Shut your mouth, Bexley,” I hear Helene call faintly. He harrumphs and slams his office door. Josh looks at his desk and picks up his tin of mints, pocketing them. He flicks his phone to voice mail and pushes his chair in. It looks exactly like his desk on the first day I met him. Sterile. Impersonal. He walks to the window and looks outside.

It's that first moment all over again. I'm standing by my desk,
nerves shredding me from the inside out. There's a huge man by the window with glossy dark hair, his hands in pockets. As he turns, I pray he's not as gorgeous as I think he is. The light catches his jaw and I'm pretty sure.

When those eyes hit me, I know.

He looks at me. Top of my head to the tips of my shoes.
Say the words,
I think desperately.
You're beautiful. Please, let's be friends.

“Tell me what the hell is going on.”

“I'm sworn to confidentiality.”

In a clever strategy, he has utilized the one thing he knows I won't argue against.

“Tell me they just didn't informally offer you the job.”

“No, they didn't.”

I lower my voice to a whisper. “Do they know about . . . us?”

“No.”

My two big fears seem unfounded.

“So . . . how are we getting out of here? Do I still have to?”

“Yes. That thing over there”—he points as he unhooks my coat from the hanger—“is an elevator. You've been in it before. With me, in fact. I'll step you through the process.”

“What if someone sees us?”

“You say that
now
? Lucinda, you're priceless.”

I slap my keyboard to lock my computer, snatch my handbag and clatter after him. I try to tug my coat from his arm but he shakes his head and tuts. The elevator doors open and he tugs me in, his hand at my waist.

I turn and see Helene, leaning on her doorframe, her posture one of casual amusement. She then throws her head back and laughs in delight, clapping her hands together. He waves to Helene as the doors close.

I use both hands to push him to the other side of the eleva
tor. “Get over there. We look so obvious. She heard us. She saw us. You're carrying my coat. She knows you'd never do that.” I'm almost hoarse with embarrassment.

“Newsflash, I
am
doing that.” He circles his finger over the emergency stop button. I grab his hand in a steely grip. I think he suppresses a laugh.

When we get to the basement I creep out ahead. “We're clear.”

I go to my car and unlock the trunk. My suitcase is lying crooked and upside down and it feels like a sign. I want to leap into my car, screech out, and lose him in a high-speed chase. As quickly as the image forms, his hand materializes, reaches, takes my suitcase, and walks off to his car. I snatch up my garment bag, lock my car, and then realize something.

“If we leave my car here, Helene will know. She'll see it.”

“Should we hide it under some branches in a forest?”

What an excellent idea. I rub my stomach. “I don't . . .”

“Don't even say you don't want to do this. It's all over your face. I don't want to do this either. But we're going.”

He's getting a little terse. My belongings are in his trunk, my handbag is on the passenger seat.

“Can I take my car home?”

“Yeah, right. You'll escape. If anyone asks on Monday, say it broke down again. It's the perfect alibi, because your car is shit.”

“Josh . . . I'm freaking out.” I have to put my hands on the door of his car to steady myself. If I thought things were going too fast before, it's all hitting warp speed. He pulls off his tie and undoes two buttons. He's beautiful, even in this dreadful basement.

“Yes, that's obvious.” His little brow-crease is deepening. “I am too. You look exhausted.”

“I couldn't sleep. Why are you freaking out?”

He ignores me. “You can sleep in the car.” He opens the door for me. He tries to fold me in but I dig my heels in.

“The interview. The job.”

“Fuck it. The interview will happen. We will deal with the outcome.” He takes my shoulders in his hands.

“It's not that easy. I lost someone important to me in the merger, my friend Val. I kept my job, she lost her job, and now we're no longer friends. Just as an example,” I hastily tack on. I nearly told Joshua Templeman that he is important. I just hinted that we're friends. He narrows his eyes.

“She sounds like an asshole.”

“It's why I'm a lonely loser. Look, I'm meeting your family tomorrow. Let's face it, we're almost certainly seeing each other naked sometime soon. Tiny bit of pressure.”

He ignores me again. “This is our last chance to sort our shit out.”

I still hesitate, stubborn as a mule.

“This weekend is going to be hard for me. But with you there, maybe it won't be so bad.”

Maybe it's the surprise of that little admission, but my knees weaken enough to allow me to get into the car and momentarily relinquish control to the last person I ever thought I would.

I feel weak with defeat. Even when packing my bag and buying a dress, I'd felt sure I'd find some last-minute way to escape or get out of it. Only in my worst-case-scenario imaginings did I think I'd be in his car, exiting the B&G underground parking lot.

The sun drops lower in the sky as he drives us through the heavy afternoon traffic. It seems like everyone in the city has had the same idea: It's time to escape into the pale, pretty hills.

I have to break this awkward silence. “So how long is this drive?”

“Four hours.”

“Google Maps says five,” I say without thinking.

“Yeah, if you drive like a grandmother. Glad I'm not the only one who's done some hometown cyber-stalking.”

He sighs as a car cuts us off, braking. “Asshole.”

“How are we going to pass four hours?” I know what I want to do. Lie here in this warm leather seat and stare at him. I want to lean across and press my face against the firm pad of his shoulder. I want to breathe, and imprint it all into my memory, for when I need it one day.

“We manage it all the time.”

“So, where
are
we staying? Please don't say your parents' house.”

“My parents' house.”

“Oh holy fuck. Why? Why?” I scrabble upright in my seat.

“I'm kidding. The wedding reception's at a hotel. Patrick has made a booking of a bunch of rooms. We mention the wedding when we check in.”

“Is it seedy?”

“Sorry, no, not remotely. I'll make sure you get your own room.”

Seems he's dead serious about his promise to not lay a finger on me. It's a bucket of cold water on the fire burning in my chest, and I'm left with the charred remains, unsure if I'm relieved.

“Why don't you stay with your parents then?”

He nods. “I don't want to.” His mouth turns down unhappily and I impulsively pat his knee.

“I've got your back this weekend, okay? Like at paintball. But the offer stands for this weekend only.”

“Thanks for covering for me. You took a lot of hits. I still don't know why you did it, though.”

He squints against the sun, and I find a pair of sunglasses in the glove compartment. I huff on them and polish them with my sleeve.

“Well, you'd made me the last person to go for the flag. The most expendable.”

“I did it because you looked like you were about to keel over. Thanks.” He takes the glasses.

“Oh. I thought it was another one of your little tricks. No one covering for me. Lucy Hutton, human shield.”

“I was always covering for you.” He checks his mirror and changes lanes.

There's a little candlelight flicker in the vicinity of my heart. “You should see my bruises, though.”

“I saw a few of them.”

“Oh, right. When you took off my Sleepysaurus top.” I rest my cheek on the seat and open my eyes. We're stopped at a traffic light, and I see the little smile line near the corner of his mouth.

“You have no idea how much I regret you seeing my pajama top. My mom gave it to me a few Christmases back.”

“Oh, don't be self-conscious about it. It looks great on you.”

I laugh and a little of the stress leaves me. The city bleeds into suburbs, and the sun begins to set as we wind through vast tracks of green. I've never been out this far. I need to start living my life, rather than walking the same path, in and out of B&G, like a little highland sheep.

“So you've said I'm coming along for moral support. Will you tell me why? I feel like I need to be forewarned and forearmed.”

“I have . . .” he begins, and sighs.

“Baggage?” I hazard. “Who's this about?”

“It's largely just about me. I made some mistakes and didn't
try hard enough on something important. Now I have to go and have it rubbed in my face a little. It's just going to sting a bit.”

“Medicine.” Without thinking I reduce it down to one word. “I'm sorry. That was insensitive.”

“You're talking to the king of insensitive, remember?” He rolls his shoulders, desperate to change the subject. I take pity.

“I should come out here on the weekend and do some exploring. I could buy some stuff to decorate my apartment.” I look at him sideways.
Fishing for an antiquing pal? Seriously, Lucy, get it together.

“Well, I'm sure your new good friend Danny would love to drive you.”

I cross my arms and we don't talk for twenty-three minutes, according to his perfectly accurate digital display.

I break under the silence first. “Before this weekend is over, I am going to crack open your head. I am going to work out what is going on in your evil brain.”

“That's fine.”

“I'm serious, Josh. You are destroying my sanity.” I lean forward and put my elbows on my knees and rub my face.

“My evil brain is thinking about grabbing some dinner soon.”

“Mine is thinking about strangling you.”

“I'm thinking if we plunge off a bridge I won't have to go to this wedding.” He looks at me, perhaps only half joking.

“Oh, great. Watch the road or your wish will come true.” When we do cross a bridge, I supervise him with suspicion.

“I'm thinking about . . . my car's fuel consumption.”

“Thank you for sharing these valuable insights into what makes you tick.”

He glances at me, considering. “I'm thinking about kissing
you, on my couch. I think about it disturbingly often. I keep thinking about how weird it will be to spend my days not sitting across from you.”

The thing about the truth is, it's addictive.

“More of your brain contents.”

Josh smiles at my demand. “I've never had someone try to do this before.”

“What, break your skull open? I'll use a hammer if I have to.”

“Get to know me. And I never thought it would be you.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

I almost can't hear his reply, it's so quiet. “No.”

I swing my head away, pretending to look at the scenery. We park in front of a truck stop diner and he touches my hand. What he says next makes my heart crackle bright with stupid hope, even though I know he's kidding.

“Come on. It's time for a romantic dinner date.”

On my first fake date with Joshua Templeman, the booths are taken so we sit side by side at the counter. My feet dangle like I'm five years old as I perch on the stool, which he helped me up onto. We order and I immediately forget what I'm going to have. He rests his chin on his palm and we play the Staring Game to pass the time.

I could get through this weekend if he didn't have such beautiful hands. Or such a lovely scent to his skin. My eyes go on a little walking tour. The tube lights turn anybody else sallow, me included, but somehow he glows with vitality. I notice the faintest smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. I must have had my hate-goggles on during most of our working relationship, because in all honesty, I've never seen a man this good-looking in person.

Everything about him is pleasurable. He drips with quality,
luxury, everything so exactly right. Every part of him is engineered and maintained perfectly. I can't believe I wasted all this time not admiring him.

“You're like a beautiful racehorse.” I sigh, a little garbled. I should have tried to get some sleep last night.

He blinks. “Thank you. Your blood sugar is bottoming out. You're all white.”

It's probably true. My stomach makes a goblin noise. A bunch of laughing college guys walk past too close and Josh puts his hand on the small of my back. Just like a real date would; protective, telling them,
Mine.
Then he orders me an orange juice and makes me drink it. I hear a trucker repress a belch and then let it out slowly with a groan. The fryers sizzle in the background like radio static.

“Lacks a certain ambience,” Josh says to me. “I'm sorry. Crappy date.”

The waitress looks at him sidelong for the fifth time, her tongue licking idly at the corner of her mouth. I touch his wrist and end up holding it.