The Hating Game (28 page)

“If you can come up to the city soon, we could meet you for lunch. We could go see a movie after. Anthony, you're invited too.”

His jaw, which has been hinging loosely, sways in the breeze.

“But only if you're prepared to be civil and start to get to know your son again. I think you know there's going to be no more ragging on Josh. Except by me, because he loves it.”

“You and I are going to have a discussion. Outside. Now.” Elaine gets to her feet and points to a French door leading to the side gardens. Anthony looks like a man walking to the gallows. I know a fellow rabid lioness when I see her.

I take Josh's hand and we weave through our spellbound audience.

“No charge,” the cashier tells me. “Lady, that was better than theater.”

I retrieve our bags from the receptionist, thankfully not the lustful blonde this time. I probably would have roundhouse-
kicked her head off. Walking together, matching our footfalls, we exit the lobby like two television district attorneys gunning for justice.

I ask the valet for our car, and turn.

“Okay, let me have it.” I just made an incredibly embarrassing scene. I can see people talking about me as they wait for their taxis. I'm going to star in twenty different retellings of That Restaurant Incident.

Josh picks me up off the ground. “Thank you,” he tells me. “Thank you so much.”

When we kiss, I hear some applause.

“You're not mad I rescued you? Boys don't need rescuing.”

“This one did. And I'll even let you choose which you wanna be. Thelma, or Louise,” he tells me, setting me on my feet as the car arrives.

“You're the good-looking one, I guess you're Thelma.”

He slides the driver's seat back. We drive about half a block before Josh bursts out laughing.

“You told my dad it had ‘been real.'”

“Like I was a bad TV scriptwriter who thought that's how kids talk.”

“Exactly. It was so priceless.” He wipes a tear away with his thumb.

“I feel bad about your mom, though. She looked so completely stricken.”

“Don't you worry, she is going to kick the shit out of him for that.”

“I have no doubt. It's why she and I get along so well.”

He thinks for a few moments while driving. “I don't know how I can move on from this, with my dad.”

“Nothing's insurmountable.” I try to believe my own words.

I roll down the window a little so the breeze is on my face. The sun is warming my legs and Josh is smiling again.

I do not even let myself think about how it is all going to end.

I
F THE DRIVE
normally takes five hours, I swear Josh cuts it down to three. But the hours mean nothing to us as we wind through the countryside, leaving the sea-salt wind behind us.

The memory is lit by the sun through the trees we drive through, nothing but lemons and copper tones scattering across our arms, lighting our eyes up blue; his sapphire, mine turquoise. I see my face in the car's side mirror and I barely recognize myself.

I've changed. I'm someone new today. Today is a momentous day.

I'll always remember the drive home as a movie montage, and I knew I was in one. Each detail was vividly bright. I knew I'd need the memories one day.

This montage is directed by someone French. A convertible would have been their preference, but the windows are down, so that's something. The air is unseasonably warm and scented like honeysuckle and cut grass.

The montage stars this pretty girl, Flamethrower-red mouth smiling over at a beautiful man. He's looking so achingly cool in his sunglasses you immediately buy a pair for yourself.

He lifts her hand to his mouth and kisses it. Tells her something charming and makes her laugh. It's the sort of moment you want to hit pause on and buy whatever it is they're selling.

Happiness. A better life. Red lipstick and those sunglasses.

The soundtrack should be a lilting indie affair; equal parts hopeful and with a broken, bittersweet lyric hook that makes
your heart hurt for some unknown reason. But instead it's scored by the 1980s hair metal I found in an incriminating iPod playlist titled
Gym
.

“You seriously got those abs while listening to Poison and Bon Jovi,” I crow, and he can't deny it. It's just us, windows down, stereo cranked, the road curling in front of us like a tongue.

We sing along. The lyrics for songs I haven't heard in years fall out of my mouth. His fingers drum the steering wheel. Life right now is easier than breathing.

We never stop the car. It's like if we stop, even for a rest break, reality will catch us. We're bank robbers. Kids running away from boarding school. Eloping teenage sweethearts.

There's a bottle of water in my bag, and Josh's tin of mints. We share, and it's better than a banquet.

I will eventually confess to myself why this montage means so much. I could try to believe it was because of Monday morning looming, and the one prize dangling above two worthy recipients. Maybe it was because of how alive I felt. So completely young and filled to bursting with the scary, thrilling certainty my life was about to change in a big way.

Possibly it was the thrill of sticking it to the man and the heady rush of standing up to someone terrifying. The thrill of rescuing someone. Being the strong one. Carrying someone; coddling and protecting, defending like a lioness.

Maybe it was the smell of spring in the air; the field of four-leaf clovers we pass. Red roses against a fence. Leather seats and Josh's skin.

No, it was something else; the new knowledge of something irreversible, permanent. It cycled through my head with each revolution of the car's wheels, each pulse of blood in my frail whisper-thin veins. At any moment a tiny valve could buckle
under the pressure of the cholesterol from my croissants. At any moment I could die.

But I don't. I fall asleep, my cheek against the warm seat, my face turned toward him, like it always has been. Like it always will.

I open my eyes a tiny crack. We're in a parking garage.

“We're home,” he says.

I think the unthinkable. I should have been thinking it all along. My eyes slide closed and I feign sleep.

“You need to wake up,” he whispers. A kiss on my cheek. A miracle.

I love Joshua Templeman.

W
e walk into his apartment and he puts my overnight bag with his in the bedroom, like I am returning home. I use the bathroom and when I come out, he's making me a cup of tea with the concentration of a scientist.

He takes one look at my face. “Oh, no. Don't tell me.”

My stomach drops out of my body and I grip the edge of the counter. He knows. He's a mind reader. My eyes are love-hearts.

“You're completely freaking out,” he states flatly. I can't do anything but make awkward eye-slides and lip-nibbles. I look at his front door. I can't get past him, he'll be too quick.

“No chance. Get on the couch,” he scolds. “Get. Go on.”

I slip my shoes off and go and scrunch myself in a ball on his couch, hugging the ribbon-cushion.

He's right, I am completely freaking out. It's the mother of all freak-outs. I've completely lost my voice.

I talk to myself in the privacy of my head.

You love him. You love him. You always have. More than you've ever hated him. Every day, staring at this man, knowing every color and expression and nuance.

Every game you've ever played has been to engage with him. Talk to him. Feel his eyes on you. To try to make him notice you.

“I'm such an idiot,” I breathe.

I open my eyes and nearly scream. He's standing over me with a mug and a plate.

“I simply can't condone this level of freak-out,” he says, and gives me a sandwich. He puts the mug on the coffee table. He disappears for a minute then comes back with my gray fleecy blanket.

It's like he
knows
I've had some kind of shock. He tucks me in on all sides, brings me an extra pillow. Who knows what my face looks like. I avoided looking at myself in the bathroom.

My teeth begin to chatter and I reach for what is quite a good-looking sandwich. No shoddy workmanship here. It's even cut in half diagonally; my favorite.

I chew like a chipmunk, using my tiny prehensile paws to rip off the crust. I've got bright, shifty button eyes and puffed-up cheeks.

“You have not said a word to me since I woke you up. You look shell-shocked. Your hands are shaking. Low blood sugar? Bad dreams? Carsick?”

He discards his plate, his sandwich untouched.

“You're still tired. You have stomach pains.” Josh begins to rub my feet through the blanket. When he speaks again, it's so low I can barely hear.

“You've realized what a mistake you've made, being with me.”

“No,” I blurt through my mouthful. I close my eyes. The worried line on his brow is killing me.

“No?”

I feel terrible. I'm ruining what was the beautiful bubble of energy from our drive home.

“Today is Sunday,” I respond after a lot of deliberation.

“Tomorrow is Monday,” he returns. We both sip from our
mugs. The Staring Game has commenced, and I am welling up with questions I am dying to ask, but I have no idea how to go about it.

“Truth or Dare,” he says. He always knows the exact right thing to say.

“Dare.”

“Coward. Okay, I dare you to eat the entire jar of hot mustard I have in my fridge.”

“I was hoping for a sexy dare.”

“I'll get you a spoon.”

“Truth.”

“Why are you freaking out?” He takes a bite of sandwich.

I sigh so deeply my lungs hurt. “I wasn't ready for this, and I am having some scary feelings and thoughts.”

He studies me, looking for any trace of lie. He can't find any. It's abbreviated, but it's the truth.

“Truth or Dare?”

“Truth,” he says, unblinking. There is some low afternoon light coming through the windows and I can see the cobalt facets of his eyes. I have to close mine a moment until the pain of his beauty eases.

“What are the marks in your planner?” It pops into my head. He didn't answer last time; I doubt he will now.

He smiles and looks at his plate. “It's a bit juvenile.”

“I'd expect nothing less of you.”

“I record whether you're wearing a dress or skirt.
D
, or
S
. I make a mark when we argue, and I make a mark when I see you smile at someone else. Also, when I wish I could kiss you. The dots are just my lunch break.”

“Oh. Why?” My stomach trills.

He considers. “When you get so little of someone, you take what you can get.”

“How long have you done it?”

“Since the second day of B and G. The first day was a bit of a blur. I've always meant to compile some stats. Sorry. Saying it aloud sounds insane.”

“I wish I'd thought of doing it, if it makes you feel better. I'm equally insane.”

“You cracked the shirt code pretty quick.”

“Why do you even wear them in sequence?”

“I wanted to see if you noticed. And once you did notice, it pissed you off.”

“I've always noticed.”

“Yeah, I know.” He smiles, and I smile too. I feel him take my foot in his hands and he begins to rub.

“Those days-of-the-week shirts have been oddly comforting.” I lie back and look at the ceiling. “No matter what's going on, I know I'm going to walk in and see white. Off-white. Cream. Pale yellow. Mustard. Baby blue. Bedroom blue. Dove. Navy. Black.” I'm ticking them off on my fingers.

“You forgot, poor old mustard has been replaced. Anyway, you won't be seeing my stupid shirts soon. Mr. Bexley has told the interview panel to have a decision by Friday.”

“But that's only a day after the interview.” I'd thought maybe there would be a week or two of deliberation. I'm going to either be victorious or unemployed next Friday? “I feel sick.”

“He's told them if they haven't worked out who's the right candidate five minutes into the interview, they're morons.”

“He better not try to sway the interview panel. We need this to be fair. Ugh, I hadn't thought about reporting to Mr. Bexley
directly, without you as the buffer. I tell you, Josh, the man has x-ray eyes.”

“I want to blind him with acid.”

“You keep a vial of acid in your drawer?”

“You should know. You've been snooping in my desk and planner.”

There is censure in his tone but his eyes remain friendly as he slides his thumb into my arch and makes me purr.

“You'd resign, if I got the job?” He says it gently.

“Yes. I'm sorry, but I'd have to. At first it was my pride making me say it. But now it's clearly the only option. I want you to know, that if they decide you're a better fit for the role, I'll resign happily. I'll be happy for you, Josh, I swear. I know more than anyone how hard you've worked for it.”

I arch a little and sigh. “You'd be my boss. It'd be hot as hell, making out with the COO every chance I got, but we'd get caught for sure.”

“But if you get it?”

“I can't expect you to resign, but I can't be your boss. I'd give you inappropriate tasks and Jeanette would have a stroke.”

“And if I were your boss, I'd work you so fucking hard.
So
fucking hard.”

“Mmmm. I'd have dirty dreams all night.”

“You told my parents I was probably about to be chief operating officer. Did you mean it, or were you just adding to your long list of brags about me? It's okay if you didn't mean it.”

“If I were the recruiting panel, I'd look at our CVs side by side and you'd probably edge me out. You're so good at what you do. I've always admired how well you work.”

I rub my hand on my chest to try to relieve the ache.

“Not necessarily. It's not just the CVs. There's the interviews.
You're charming. There's not a person alive who doesn't adore you instantly.”

“Says you. I've seen you in action, when you're making an effort. You're like a 1950s politician. Smoother than smooth.”

He laughs. “But you love B and G. And everyone there hates me. That's your advantage over me. Plus you have your top-secret weapon Danny is spending his weekends on.”

“Yeah.” I dart my eyes away.

“It's got to do with ebooks, I'm not an idiot,” Josh says.

“Why can't you be an idiot for once? Just once, I want to keep a secret from you.”

“You're keeping a secret from me right now. We haven't gotten to the root cause of your freak-out.”

“And we're not going to.” I pull the blanket over my head altogether.

“Very mature,” he comments and swaps my feet, squeezing my toes and circling his thumbs. “You can't keep secrets from me for long. I know you too well. I'll get it out of you.”

“Well apparently I'm a complete open ebook.” I groan in the dark. “Did Mr. Bexley tell you about my digitalization project? Please don't screw me on this, Josh. Please. My entire presentation is based on it.”

“Do you seriously think I'd do that to you?”

“No. Well, maybe.”

I expect a whip-crack response. He says nothing, but continues to massage my foot.

I flip the blanket off my face. “Why didn't you smile at me when we first met, and say,
Pleased to meet you
? We could have been friends all this time.” It feels like a tragedy. I've lost so much, and we have no time left.

“We could never have been friends.”

I try to pull my foot back but he holds on to it.

“So that's a sore point.” He squeezes the arch.

“I've always wanted to be friends with you. But you didn't smile back. You've been one-up ever since.”

“I couldn't. If I'd let myself smile back, and be friends with you, I probably would have fallen in love with you.”

It's all the past tense of that statement that kills the leap of joy inside. Because he didn't, and he isn't. I try to brush over it.

“You said that to me after the elevator kiss. We'd never be friends.”

“I was angry at the time. I was delivering you to Danny, and you were looking hotter than hell.”

“Poor Danny. He's so nice. You'll have to apologize for how you hung up on him. He's been nothing but nice to me and all I've done is give him two shitty dates and made him lose a Saturday.”

“He got to kiss you.” When he says that, Josh looks like he wants to destroy planets. “And he's not doing the freelance work completely out of the goodness of his heart.”

“Under different circumstances he'd be a great boyfriend.”

Josh is making black scary serial killer eyes at me. “Different circumstances.”

“Well, I'm assuming you're going to chain me in your basement and keep me as your sex slave.”

This conversation is like a tightrope. One misstep and he'll know. He'll know I'm in love, and then I'll wobble and fall. No safety net.

“I don't have a basement.”

“Too bad for me.”

“I'll buy us a house with a basement.”

“Okay. Can I come with you when you house hunt?”

I smile despite the doomed sensation dripping into my blood. I love the energy we create between us when we banter like this. It's the most intense sensation of pleasure, knowing he'll always have the perfect response ready. I've never known anyone like him; as addictive to talk to as he is to kiss.

“Truth or Dare,” he says after a bit.

“It's not my turn.”

“Yes, it really is.”

“Truth.” I have no choice. He'll dare me to eat the mustard again.

“Do you trust me?”

“I don't know. I want to. Truth or Dare?”

He blinks. “Truth. It's all truth from this point forward.”

“Have you ever lived here with a girlfriend?”

“No. I've never lived with anyone. Why do you ask?”

“Your bedroom is girly.”

Josh smiles to himself. “You're such a moron sometimes.”

“Thanks. Hey, should I go home? I don't have anything to wear tomorrow.”

“Would you believe, I own my own washer and dryer.”

“How newfangled.” I go into his bedroom and kneel on the floor to unzip my bag. “I hope Helene doesn't notice I'm in the same outfit.”

“I'd say the only person at B and G who notices that much about you will be the same one who laundered those walk-of-shame clothes.”

I sit up on my heels and look at his bedroom. He's put the Smurf I gave him beside his bed. There's also white roses, petals unfurled and loose. He didn't have a vase, so he used a jar. I close my eyes. I can't move for a bit.

I love him so much it's like a thread piercing me. Punching
holes. Dragging through. Stitching love into me. I'll never be able to untangle myself from this feeling. The color of love is surely this robin's-egg blue.

When his feet appear in the doorway I take my dirty clothes and hug them to my chest. “No looking at my underwear.”

“That would be rude,” he agrees. “I will close my eyes.”

I sit on his bed. I smooth my hands over the covers, twiddling the silky thread count. I push one fist into his pillow. He dreams. He lives. And he will do it all without me. He finds me sitting there with my head in my hands.

“Shortcake,” he says, and I know he is genuinely regretful.

It's the strangest sensation. I need to confide in him. He's the one person I should not trust, but I'm nearly bursting with the secret that I love him and it is hurting me.

“Talk to me. I want to know why you're upset. Let me work this out.”

“I'm scared of you.” I'm scared of him finding out my biggest, newest secret.

He doesn't look offended. “I'm scared of you too.”

When our mouths touch, it's like it's for the first time. Now that I have this pale blue love running through me, the intensity is too much. I try to pull back but he smoothly lays me back.

“Be brave,” he tells me. “Come on, Luce.”

My mouth is filled with my heart and his breath when we kiss again. I can feel myself trembling as he tastes my fear.