The Hating Game (7 page)

“We'll never, ever be friends.” He says
friends
like he'd say the word
pathetic.

When he slows the car at the front of the bar I'm out and running before he's even come to a complete stop. I hear him shout my name, annoyed. I register that he calls me Lucy.

I see Danny at the bar, bottle of beer dangling from his fingertips, and I pinwheel through the crowd and fall into his arms. Poor old Danny, who has turned up early like a gentleman, with no idea what kind of crazy woman he's agreed to spend an evening with.

“Hi.” Danny is pleased. “You made it.”

“'Course!” I manage a shaky laugh. “I need a drink after the day I've had.”

I hoist myself like a jockey onto the barstool. Danny signals to the bartender. Identical baseball bats swing on huge screens positioned above the bar. I feel the memory of Joshua's mouth on mine, and I press my shaking fingertips to my lips.

“A big gin and tonic. As big as you can, please.”

The bartender obliges and I empty half of the contents into my mouth and maybe a little down my chin. I lick the corners of my mouth and I still taste Joshua. Danny catches my eye as I lower the glass.

“Is everything okay? I think you need to tell me about your day.”

I take a good look at him. He's changed into some dark jeans and a nice button-down check shirt. I like that he's made an effort to go home and change for me.

“You look nice,” I tell him honestly, and his eyes spark.

“And you look beautiful.” His tone is confidential. He leans his elbow on the bar and his face is open and without malice. I feel a weird bubble of emotion inside my chest.

“What?” I wipe my chin. This man is looking at me like he does not hate me. It's bizarre.

“I couldn't exactly tell you at work. But I've always thought you were the most beautiful girl.”

“Oh. Well.” I probably turn bright red and I feel a tightness in my throat.

“You don't take compliments well.”

“I don't get many.” It's the honest truth. He just laughs.

“Oh, sure.”

“It's true. Unless it's my mom and dad on Skype.”

“Well, I'll have to change that. So. Tell me all about you.”

“I work for Helene, as you know,” I start uncertainly.

He nods, his mouth quirking.

“And that's about it.”

Danny smiles, and I nearly reel backward off my barstool. I'm so badly socialized I can barely converse with normal human beings. I want to be at home on my couch with all of the pillows piled on my head.

“Yes, but I want to know about
you.
What do you do for fun? Where's your family from?”

His face is so open and guileless. I think of children before the world ruins them.

“May I go and freshen up first? I came straight from the office.” I swallow the other half of my glass. The faint mint on my tongue deadens the flavor.

He nods and I make a beeline in the direction of the bathrooms. I lean against the wall outside them and take a tissue from the front of my bra and press it to the corners of my eyes.
Beautiful.

A shadow darkens the hall, and I know it's Joshua. Even in the furthest corners of my peripheral vision, his shape is more familiar than my own shadow. He's holding the coat I left in his backseat.

I burst out laughing, and I keep laughing until the tears stripe down my face, almost certainly ruining my makeup.

“Fuck off,” I tell him, but he only comes closer. He takes my chin and studies my face.

The memory of the kiss floats up between us, and I can't look him in the eye. I remember the groan I made into his mouth. Humiliation kicks in.

“Don't.” I slap him away.

“You're crying.”

I hug myself. “No I'm not. Why are you even here?”

“Parking is a nightmare around here. Your coat.”

“Oh, my coat. Sure. Whatever. I'm too tired to fight with you tonight. You win.”

He looks confused so I clarify. “You've seen me laugh, and cry. You made me kiss you when I should have slapped your smug face. You've had a good day. Go and watch the game and eat pretzels.”

“Is that the prize you think I'm playing for? To see you cry?” He shakes his head. “It's really not.”

“Sure it is. Now go away,” I tell him more forcefully. He backs away and leans against the opposite wall.

“Why are you hiding here? Shouldn't you be out there charming the shit out of him?” He looks in the direction of the bar and rubs his hand over his face.

“I needed a minute. And it's not always that easy, trust me.”

“I'm sure you won't have any trouble.”

He doesn't sound sarcastic. I wipe my tears and look at the tissue. Quite a bit of mascara on it. I heave a shuddery sigh.

“You look fine.” It's the nicest thing he's ever said to me.

I begin patting my hand along the wall, trying to find the portal to another dimension, or at least the door to the ladies room. Anything to get away from him. He puts his hand into his hair, his face twisting with agitation.

“I shouldn't have kissed you, okay. It was a fucking stupid move on my part. If you want to report me to HR—”

“That's your problem? You're scared I'm going to report you?” My voice is raising loud enough that bar patrons turn. I take a deep breath and when I speak again I am quieter.

“You've broken me down so completely, I can't even handle it when a guy tells me I'm beautiful.”

Dismay spreads across his face.

“That's why I'm crying. Because Danny told me I'm a beautiful girl, and I nearly fell off the barstool. You've
ruined
me.”

“I . . .” he begins to say, but he's got nothing. “Lucy, I—”

“There's nothing left you can do to me. You win today.”

From the look on his face, I think I've landed a punch. His shadow recedes along the floor, and then he's gone.

I
call Helene in the morning to say I'm not hungover but I'm having a few personal issues and I'll be in a little late. She is kind and tells me to rest and take the day off.

Rest, and finish up your job application because, darling, it's due tomorrow
.

I'm missing out on a pale yellow shirt today. It's the color of nursery walls when the unborn baby's gender is a surprise. It's the color of my cowardly soul.

Last night after Joshua slid away from me, his face twisted with guilt and regret, I tidied myself up and sat back down with Danny and salvaged the evening. Danny and I have some things in common. His parents have a hobby farm, so my revelation that I grew up in a strawberry patch didn't garner the usual amount of amused, patronizing scorn.

It gave me the courage to talk more about it than I usually would. We swapped stories of life on a farm. I watched the expressions slide across his face like clouds. We hung out for hours, laughing like old friends, as comfortable as a pair of slippers.

I should be happy and excited. I'm should be polishing my job application. I should be thinking about a second date. I end up
doing the one thing I shouldn't. I lie in bed with my eyes closed, replaying the kiss.

Shortcake, if we were flirting, you'd know about it.

Maybe he forgot I was Lucinda Hutton, people-pleasing Strawberry Shortcake, and I morphed into something different for him. An enclosed space, different makeup, my dress short and my perfume fresh. In a moment ruled by insanity, I was the object of his lust from the time it took us to travel from tenth floor to basement. And he was definitely mine.

I needed to test a theory I've had for a while.
What theory? How long is a while? If I were some kind of human experiment, he could have had the decency to give me his conclusion.

When I think about his teeth biting softly down on my bottom lip, I get a clenching flutter between my legs. When I think of his hand on the back of my thigh, I have to reach down and feel where his fingers spread. The hardness of his body? I can skip breathing for a bit. I wonder how I tasted to him. How I felt.

I'm loafing around in my pajamas at three
P.M.
, paralyzed by the looming application deadline, when my door buzzer startles me. My first thought is it's Joshua, come to drag me back to work. Instead, it's a deliveryman with flowers. A huge bouquet of lipstick-red roses. I pinch open the little envelope and the card says three whole words.

You're always beautiful.

There's no signature but it doesn't need one. I can imagine Jeanette's expression softening as she hands Danny a Post-it note detailing my address with a muttered,
You didn't get this from me.
Even HR ladies break the rules for love.

I text him:
Thank you so much!!

He replies almost instantly:
I had a great time. I'd love to see you again.

I reply:
Definitely!

I stand, hands on hips, looking at the flowers. The ego boost couldn't have been timed better. I turn back to my computer. That job will be
mine
. And Joshua will be gone.

“Let's get this finished.”

H
E'S A BIG
blur of mustard out of the corner of my eye when I walk in on Friday. I hang my coat and walk straight into Helene's office. For once she's in early. I could enfold her in my arms and squeeze.

“I'm here,” I tell her. She waves me in and I close the door behind me.

“Is it in?” I nod.

“Joshua's is too. And two external applicants so far. How was your date? Are you all right?”

She's always the picture of composure. Today she's wearing a blazer over what is probably a pure silk T-shirt, tucked into a wool skirt. Nothing as common as cotton for Helene. I hope when she dies she bequeaths her wardrobe to me.

I ease into a chair. “It was fine. Danny Fletcher in design. I hope that's okay; he's finishing up next week to freelance.”

“Shame. He does good work. Seeing him won't be a problem.”

My mind flashes to kissing Joshua in the elevator. That's a problem, all right.

“But something happened,” Helene surmises.

“I had a huge argument with Joshua before the date, and it rattled me. I woke up feeling unstable. Like if I came in here we'd both be wheeled out by paramedics, drenched in blood.”

Helene is eyeing me speculatively. “What was the argument about?”

Maybe it isn't such a good idea to vent about my personal
issues with Helene. I'm terminally unprofessional. My cheeks heat and when I can't think of a lie, I abbreviate.

“He thought I was lying about having a date. I'm so lame.”

“Interesting,” she says slowly. “Have you thought about this very hard?”

I shrug. Only obsessively, to the point where I couldn't sleep.

“I'm upset with myself for letting him push my buttons. You have no idea how hard it is, sitting opposite him, trying to resist his constant attacks.”

“I've got some idea. It's called brinkmanship, darling.” She gestures at the wall with her thumb.

She's the perfect person to confide in. Mr. Bexley is on the other side of her wall right now, plotting ways to assassinate her. She follows my eyeline. We hear a faint honking sneeze, a fart sound, and some grumbling.

“Why would he assume you were lying? And why did it upset you so much that he did?” Helene is drawing spirals on her notepad and I feel a little hypnotized. She's turned into my therapist.

“He thinks I'm such a joke. He's always laughing about what my parents do. I'm sure he laughs at where I went to school. My clothes. My height. My face.”

She nods patiently, watching me try to untangle these complicated thoughts.

“It bothers me to know he thinks that of me. That's the bit that trips me up. All I want is his respect.”

“You prize your reputation of being likable and approachable,” she supplies. “Everyone likes you. He is the only one who resists.”

“He lives to destroy me.” Maybe I'm getting a little overdramatic.

“And you, him,” she points out.

“Yes. And this isn't the person I want to be.”

“Don't interact with him today. You could take the vacant office down on the third floor for a few days. We could divert the phones.”

I shake my head. “Tempting, but no, I can deal with it. I'll draft the quarterly report and keep to myself. I'll forget he exists.”

I can still remember the taste of his mouth. I breathed his hot exhalations until my lungs were filled with him. His air was inside my body. He taught me things in the space of two minutes that the span of my lifetime did not. Forgetting his existence is going to be a challenge, but this job is nothing but challenges.

I gently close Helene's office door and gather myself. I turn and there he is, slouched at his desk.

“Hey.” I get a flatter version of How You Doing?

“Hello,” I respond stiffly and walk on tiny stilts to my desk.

What he says next astonishes me. “I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry, Lucy.”

I believe him. The memory of his raw expression as he stumbled away from me at the bar has made it near impossible to sleep for two nights in a row. Now is the moment. I could take us back to our normal status quo. I could snap at him; he'd snap back. But that's not the person I want to be.

“I know you are.” We both nearly smile and we look at each other's mouth, the ghost of the kiss jangling between us.

He's not his immaculate self today. He's a little rough around the edges, probably from a few bad nights' sleep. His mustard shirt is the ugliest color I have ever seen. His tie is badly knotted, his jaw is shadowed with stubble. His hair is a mess and has a devil's horn on one side. He's practically a Gamin today. He looks divine and he's looking at me with a memory in his eyes.

I want to run until my legs give out. I want to sweep every
thing off his desk with my arm. I can feel my clothes touching my bare skin. That's how Joshua's eyes make me feel when he looks at me.

“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.

“You're deeply weird, Shortcake.” His voice is not unkind. I force my eyes open and the Staring Game almost kills me. His eyes are the blue of a peacock's chest. Everything is changing.

“Are you going to report me to HR?”

Something in my chest folds painfully. So
that's
why he looks like shit. He's had a hellish day yesterday, anticipating being marched out of the building by security upon my return. My empty desk would have been terrifying. He sat there, visualizing the moment he is locked in jail for being a molester of tiny women. I understand now. Stupid me.

“No. But can we please never mention . . .
it
. . . again?” It comes out of me a little hoarse. I'm letting him off the hook, instead of taunting him with the prospect. Another step toward being the person I'd like to be. Regardless, he frowns like he's been deeply insulted.

“That's what you want?”

I nod, but I'm such a little liar.
All I
want to do is kiss you until
I fall asleep. I want to slide in between your sheets, and find out what goes on inside your head, and underneath your clothes. I want to make a fool of myself over you.

Mr. Bexley's door is ajar so I speak as quietly as I can. “It's freaking me out.”

He can see that it's the truth. I've got desperate, crazy eyes. He nods and just like that: Control, A; Delete. The kiss never happened.

I pray for a diversion. A fire drill. Julie calling me to say she would never meet a deadline ever again. I'm not the only one praying for the floor to cave in.

“How was your . . . date?” His voice is faint, his knuckles white. Being nice to me is a lot of effort.

“Fine. We've got a lot in common.” I try in vain to wake my computer.

“You're both extremely small.” He's frowning at his own computer as if this is the worst conversation he's ever been party to. Being friends with me does not come naturally.

“He didn't even tease me about the strawberries. Danny is . . . nice. He's my type.” It's all I can think of to say.

“Nice is what you want, then.”

“It's all anybody wants. My parents have been begging me for ages to find myself a nice guy.” I keep my voice light, but inside, a little bubble of hope is rising. We're talking like friends.

“And did Mr. Nice Guy drive you home?”

I know what he's asking me. “No. I got a cab. By myself.”

He breathes out heavily. He rubs his face in exhaustion, then looks at me through his fingers. “What shall we play now?”

“What about Normal Colleagues? Or the Friendship Game? I've been dying to try either of those.” I look up and hold my breath.

He sits up straight and glowers at me. “Both would be a waste of time, don't you think?”

“Well, ouch.” If I say it sarcastically, he won't know I'm serious. He opens his planner, pencil in hand, and begins making so many annotations that I blink and turn to my computer. I can't care about his stupid planner anymore. His pencil, my spying experiment. It all ends right now. It's all been a waste of time.

I tell myself to be glad.

T
ODAY IS A
magnificent black T-shirt day. Write today in your diaries. Tell your grandchildren stories about it. I tear my eyes away, but they slide back moments later. Underneath that T-shirt is a body that could fog an elderly librarian's glasses. I think my underwear is curling off me like burning paper.

It's a week after the kiss that I never think about. Bexley & Gamin's Alphabet Branch is being herded onto a bus like cattle.

“Waivers,” Joshua is saying over and over as people slap them into his hand. “Waivers to me. Cash to Lucinda. Hey, this isn't signed. Sign it. Waivers.”

“Who's Lucinda?” someone farther back in the line asks.

“Cash to
Lucy
. This ridiculously small person right here. Hair. Lipstick. Lucy.”

I know someone who is going to be riddled with paint shortly. The line surges forward and I'm nearly flattened against the bus.

“Hey, I didn't tell you to trample her.”

Joshua whips them all back and rebalances me beside him like a bowling pin, the warmth of his hand searing through my sleeve. Julie then touches my other elbow and I nearly jump out of my skin.

“Sorry for missing the deadline the other day. I can't wait to have a proper night's sleep. I'm like a zombie.”

She hands me her twenty and her nails have French tips. I curl my slightly chipped nails into my palms.

“I was hoping for a favor,” she says, and over her shoulder I can see Joshua tense, ear tilted to our conversation like a satellite. Eavesdropping is unbecoming. I draw Julie away a little, my hand outstretched as people continue to slap twenties into it.

“Okay, what is it?” Already my stomach is sinking.

“My niece is sixteen, and she needs to do an internship. Her school counselor thinks it would help her to gain some perspective. She can't skip classes and sleep all day, you know? Teenagers have no idea of the concept of work.”

“You could talk to Jeanette, she could arrange something.” I take someone else's cash. “They always want to work with the design team.”