The Hating Game (11 page)

“Is my bed everything you imagined?”

“I wasn't expecting so many books. And it's a little bigger than I pictured.”

“What about my apartment?”

“It's a tiny little pigsty.” He's not being mean about it. It's true.

“Do you think Mr. Bexley and Helene make out in the elevator?” As long as he keeps answering my questions, I'll keep asking them.

“Guaranteed. I'm sure they have vicious hate-sex after each quarterly review.” His eyes are tipping into black and he unravels his T-shirt from my hands as I catch a glimpse of half an inch of stomach—
hard
and
hair.
Now I'm sweating more.

“I bet when you shower, water pools right up . . . here.” I put my finger into his collarbone. “I'm thirsty. I'll dehydrate.” He lets out a breath and it blows right through me.

“Let's be just like them when we grow up, Josh. We could start a new game. Imagine. We could play games forever.”

“Let's talk about it when you're not crazy with fever.”

“Yeah, right. When I'm not sick you'll hate me again, but for now we're good.” I take his hand and put it on my forehead to hide my sudden despair.

“I won't,” he tells me. He smoothes his hand away, over my hair.

“You hate me so much, and I can't take it much longer.” I'm pathetic. I hear it in my voice.

“Shortcake.”

“Stop calling me Shortcake.” I try to roll onto my side but he presses the heels of his palms lightly against my shoulders. I stop breathing.

“Watching you pretend to hate that nickname is the best part of my day.”

When I don't reply, he almost smiles and releases me. “It's time to tell me about the strawberry farm.”

It's a sore point—and it's also not the first time he's asked. I might be about to give him fodder to tease me with for a long time.

“Why?”

“I've always wanted to know. Tell me everything about strawberries.” His soft, cajoling whisper will be the death of me.

In my mind I'm almost back there, under the big canvas umbrella with the torn corner, talking to tourists while their kids run on ahead, buckets clanking. The alien hum of cicadas fill the air. There's never silence.

“Well. Alpines are also called ‘Mignonette,' and they grow
wild in France on the hillsides and they're as big as your thumbnail. They have amazing flavor intensity for their size.”

“Tell me another.”

I open my eyes to slits. “Strawberries are not a joke. I've gotten shit from almost everyone I've ever met about it.”

“It's such a cute thing about you.”

The word
cute
lights up like neon in my dim bedroom and I'm so rattled I begin babbling.

“Fine. Okay, Earliglows. They grow so quickly. One day you're walking along at sunset next to nothing but green . . . the next morning they're all there. Little red buds, getting brighter. By dinnertime they're done, like red Christmas lights.”

When Josh sighs, his eyes close for a second. He's exhausted. “Which are your favorites?”

“Red Gauntlets. They were in the rows closest to the kitchen and I was too lazy to go much farther. I had a big pink smoothie every morning.”

He sits in silence, and his eyes are definitely not the man I know. They're wistful, lonely, and so beautiful I have to close mine.

“I swear, I can still feel the seeds between my teeth. Chandlers are my dad's favorite. He says he paid for my college tuition with them.”

“What's your dad like? He's Nigel, right?”

“You and that blog. He worked so hard to send me to school. I can't begin to tell you. He cried on the back porch the day I left for college. He said . . .”

I trail off. The squeeze in my throat makes it impossible to go on.

“What did he say?”

I sidestep. “I haven't thought about this for so long. I haven't
been home in eighteen months now. I missed Christmas, because Helene went back to France to see her family, and I wanted to cover for her.”

“I didn't go home either.”

“Oh, yeah. My parents mailed me a big care package, and I ate shortbread and opened presents on the floor of my living room watching infomercials. What did you do?”

“Pretty much the same. What did he say to you, then? Your dad, on the back porch?” He's a dog with a bone.

I can't relay that entire conversation; I'll start crying. I might never stop. My dad, his elbows on knees, the tears making clean lines down his tanned, dusty face. I abbreviate the conversation into a sanitized nutshell.

“That his loss was the world's gain. And my mom, she couldn't stop bragging, telling everyone about her daughter going off to college . . . She's making a new variety of strawberry, and they're all called Lucies.”

“According to the blog, Lucy Twelve was quite good. Tell me more.”

“I don't understand your fascination with that blog. Mom was a newspaper writer, but she had to give it all up.”

“For what?”

“For my dad. She was doing a piece on the effects of some heavy rain on agriculture, so she went out to a local orchard. She found my dad in a tree. His dream was to own a strawberry farm, and he couldn't do it alone.”

“Do you think she made the wrong decision?”

“Dad always says,
She picked me.
Like an apple, right out of the tree. I love them, but I think it's a sad story sometimes.”

“You could ask her sometime. She probably doesn't regret a thing. They're still together, and it means you're here.”

“Dad calls you other names starting with J, but never your real name.”

“What?” He looks alarmed. “You've told your dad about me?”

“He's mad at you for being so mean. Julian and Jasper and John. One time, he called you Jebediah and I nearly peed myself. You'd have to grovel to my dad, that's for sure.”

Josh looks so disturbed I decide to cut him a break and change the subject.

“When I'm homesick I can smell warm strawberries. Which is pretty much all the time.” I watch him scrambling to try to unscramble these nonsensical statements.

“Did you play out there in the fields? When you were a kid?”

“You've seen the blog picture. It's pretty clear I did.” I turn my face away. Me, knees stained pink from berry juice, tangled mane of hair, eyes bluer than the sky. Wild little farm girl.

“Don't be embarrassed.” He gently puts his fingertips on my jaw and turns me back. “You in your little overall shorts. You look like you've been outside for days. All dirty and wild. Your smile hasn't changed.”

“You never see my smile.”

“I bet you had a tree house.”

“I did, actually. I practically lived up there.”

His eyes are bright with an expression I've never seen. I close my eyes for a second to rest them. He checks my temperature and when his hand lifts away from my forehead I complain. He touches my hand.

“I've never thought where you come from is inferior.”

“Oh, sure. Ha-ha. Strawberry Shortcake.”

“I think where you came from—Sky Diamond Strawberries—is the best place I can imagine. I've always wanted to go there.
I've Google mapped directions. I've even looked up the flight and hire car.”

“Do you like strawberries?” I don't know what else to say.

“I love strawberries. So much, you have no idea.” He sounds so kind that I feel a wave of emotion. I can't open my eyes. He'll see I have tears in them.

“Well, it's out there, waiting for you. Pay the lady under the umbrella and take a bucket. Mention me for a discount, but you'll get an interrogation on how I'm doing. How I'm
really
doing. If I'm lonely, if I'm eating properly. Why I won't take the time to come home.”

I think of the job applications, side by side in a beige folder. A wave of exhaustion and dizziness hits me. I want to be asleep, that lovely dark place where these anxieties and sadness can't follow me. I start to feel like I'm slowly spinning.

“What should I tell her?”

“I'm so scared. It's all going to end soon, one way or another. I'm hanging on by my fingernails. I have no idea if their investment in me will ever pay off. And I'm so lonely sometimes I could cry. I lost my best friend. I spend all my time with a huge frightening man who wants to kill me, and he's probably my only friend now, even though he doesn't want to be. And it breaks my heart.”

His mouth presses on my cheek. A kiss. A miracle. Josh's warm breath, fanning my cheek. His fingertips slide into my palms, and my fingers curl into his.

“Shortcake. No.”

I'm twirling through endless loops, and I tighten my grip on his hands.

“I'm so dizzy . . .” I am, but I also need this conversation to end.

“I need to ask you something.” Sometime later, his voice cuts through the hazy darkness.

“It's not fair to ask now, but I will. If I could think of a way to get us out of this mess, would you want me to do it?”

I'm still holding on to him like he's the only thing stopping me from falling off the planet. “Like how?”

“However I could. Would you want me to?” If he would be my friend for the days left, it would be enough. It would be wonderful enough to burn away the negativity.

That smile would be enough.

“This is the part of the dream where you smile, Josh.”

He sighs, frustrated. He holds me still, and as I orbit away into sleep, I whisper it through the fog of sleep.

“Of course I would.”

I
sit up cautiously in a bedroom lit bright by sun. Artifacts of illness are strewn everywhere. Towels, washcloths, my Tupperware container washed clean. Glasses and medication and a thermometer. My
SLEEPYSAURUS
pajama top is hanging from the hamper. So is the red tank. My paintball clothes lie in a puddle and need to be burned.

I suck the thermometer to confirm what I already know: The fever has broken.

I'm wearing a blue tank top now. I clutch the mattress as vulnerability makes a long overdue appearance. I feel my shoulder and realize I'm still wearing my bra. I thank all available gods. But still. Joshua Templeman has seen all the rest of my torso skin.

I peer out into the living room. He's still here, sprawled out on the couch, one big-socked foot dangling off the end of the couch.

I grab fresh clothes and stumble into the bathroom. Good gracious. My mascara didn't wash off properly in my shower and instead melted down my face into an Alice Cooper Halloween mask. I also have Alice Cooper hair, which I contain in a bun. I change, wash my face as fast as I can, and gargle mouthwash. At any moment I expect a knock on the door.

This feeling is worse than a hangover. It's worse than waking
up after a nude karaoke performance at the office Christmas party. I said too much last night. I told him about my childhood. He knows how lonely I am. He's seen everything I own. He's got so much knowledge the power will fog out of him in toxic clouds. I have to get him out of my apartment.

I approach the couch. It's a three-seat sofa but he can't remotely fit on it. He jolts before I can get a glimpse of him sleeping.

“I think I'm going to be okay.”

My magazines are stacked. There are no high heels under the coffee table. Joshua has tidied my apartment. He's lying a few feet from my huge wall cabinet filled with Smurfs, stacked four and five deep. He turned the lights on, and it's illuminated proof that I'm mental. He stands up and the room gets a lot smaller.

“Thank you for sacrificing your Friday night. I don't mind if you want to leave.”

“Are you sure?” He is fussily pressing the backs of his fingers on my forehead, cheek, throat. I am definitely feeling better, because when he touches my throat my nipples pinch in response. I cross my arms over my chest.

“Yes. I'll be okay now. Go home please.”

He looks down at me with those dark blue eyes and the memory of his smile is overlaid across his solemn face. He looks at me like I'm his patient. I'm no longer elevator-kiss worthy. Nothing like a little vomit to destroy chemistry.

“I can stay. If you can manage to stop freaking out.” There's a kind of pity on his face and I know why.

It's not all one-sided—I've seen a hidden part of him too during this endless night we've survived. There's patience and kindness beneath his asshole façade. Human decency. Humor. That smile.

His eyes have flecks of light in their depths and his eyelashes
look as if they'd curl against the pad of my little finger. His cheekbones would fit in the curve of my palm. His mouth, well. It'd fit me just about everywhere.

“Your horny eyes are back,” he tells me, and I feel my cheeks heat. “You must be feeling better if you can look at me like that.”

“I'm sick.” I say it primly and I hear his husky laugh as I turn away. He goes into my bedroom and I take several gulps of air.

“You're a little sicko all right.” When he reappears he's holding his jacket, and I realize he's spent the entire night dressed in his paintball clothes. And he doesn't even stink. How is it fair?

“I need to . . .” I'm getting frantic. I grab at his elbow when he toes on his shoes by the door.

“Yeah, yeah, I'm leaving. You don't need to pick me up and throw me out. See you at work,
Lucinda.
” He rattles a bottle of pills at me.

“Go back to bed. Two more next time you wake up.” He hesitates again, reluctance written all over his face. “Are you sure you'll be okay?” He touches my forehead again, rechecking my temperature though surely it couldn't have changed in thirty seconds.

“Don't you dare tease me about this on Monday.”

The word
Monday
rattles between us, and he takes his hand away. I think that's our new safe word.

“I'll pretend it never happened, if that's what you want,” he tells me stiffly and I feel a sinking in my gut. The last time I asked that of him it was about the kiss; he kept that promise pretty well.

“Don't try to use anything against me. The job interviews, I mean.”

The look on his face probably melts the paint off the wall behind me.

“Knowing the consistency of your vomit will give me the edge. For fuck's sake, Lucinda.”

When the door bangs behind him and silence expands to fill my apartment, I wish I had the courage to call him back. To say thank you, and to apologize for the fact that yes, he's right as always.

I am completely freaking out. To avoid thinking about it, I sleep.

When I open my eyes again I have a new perspective. It's Saturday evening and the sunset is making the wall at the foot of my bed a glorious honey-peach candle-glow. The color of his skin. My bedroom blazes with the force of my epiphany.

I stare at the ceiling and admit the astonishing truth to myself.

I don't hate Joshua Templeman.

I
T'S
W
HITE
S
HIRT
Monday, six thirty
A.M
. I'm so washed out I should call in sick, and Helene isn't in anyway, but I need to see Joshua.

Rest assured, I have microanalyzed every moment he was in my apartment, and I know I need to apologize for throwing him out like that. He was nothing but decent and kind to me. We were teetering on the edge of friendship, and I ruined everything with my sharp mouth. When I recall eavesdropping on Josh's conversation with Patrick I feel sick with guilt. I wasn't meant to hear any of that.

How do I properly thank a colleague for helping me vomit? My grandma's vintage etiquette handbooks won't help me with this. A thank-you note or a pound cake won't quite cut it in this instance.

I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror. The weekend's sickfest has bleached me of color. My eyes are puffy and bloodshot. My lips are pale and flaky. I look like I've been trapped down a mineshaft.

My kitchen is now as neat as a pin. He has sorted my mail into a tidy pile on the counter. I claw open the top envelope with one hand while I dunk a herbal tea bag with the other. It's a friendly little note to advise me that my rent is going up. I squint at the new monthly figure and my inhalation probably rattles the Smurfs on their shelves. My rash announcement to quit B&G now feels infinitely more terrifying.

How can I even attempt to face an interview panel at a different company and try to articulate what makes me so good at my job? I try to think of all the things I do well, but all I can think of is pranking Joshua. I'm childish and so unprofessional.

I sit down heavily and try to eat a mouthful of dry cereal from the box. Then I wallow in low spirits and self-doubt a little more.

I open an Internet browser and begin clicking my way through a depressingly barren recruitment website. I'm relieved to be interrupted by my phone buzzing with Danny's caller ID. Weird. Maybe he has a flat tire.

“Hello?”

“Hi. How are you feeling?” His tone is warm.

“I'm alive. Barely.”

“I tried to call you a few times on Friday night, but I kept getting Josh. Man, he's such an asshole!”

“He helped me out.” I hear how stiff my voice is and realize I'm beginning to prickle in defensiveness. What the hell is happening?

He held me while I threw up. And called his brother in the middle of the night. He washed my dishes. And I'm pretty sure he watched me sleep.

“Oh. Sorry, I thought we hated him. Are you going to work today?”

“Yeah, I'll go.”

“I'm downstairs in the lobby if you, um, want me to drive you.”

“Really? Isn't today your first day of freedom?”

“Well, yeah. But Mitchell's written me a letter of recommendation and I need to pick it up. It's no trouble to give you a ride.”

“I'll be down in five.” I check to make sure my gray wool dress is zipped up. Putting lipstick on my haggard face would look ridiculous.

“Hi,” Danny calls when I step out of the elevator. He's holding a bunch of white daisies. My emotions balance on a tightrope between delighted and embarrassed.

It seems he's on the tightrope right next to me. I'd have to be blind to not see the split-second pop of crestfallen surprise in his eyes. As sweaty and gross as I was on Friday, I still looked better than this.

He blinks away his reaction and offers me the flowers. “Are you sure you shouldn't stay home?”

“I look worse than I feel. Should I . . .” I gesture at the elevator. I take another look at him. He's wearing a Matchbox Twenty concert T-shirt, and the sunglasses on the top of his head have ugly white frames. We stand awkwardly and stare at each other.

“You could always put them on your desk at work.”

“
Okay, I will.” It seems like a bad idea but I'm all flustered. If I take the flowers upstairs, I'll have to invite him up. We walk out to the pavement and I breathe my first fresh air in days.

I need to snap out of it. Danny has been nothing but thoughtful this morning. I shade my eyes from the sun. Maybe I can try being thoughtful too. Maybe the convenience store sells olive branches?

“I need to grab something. I'll be right back.”

As I pay for Joshua's thank-you gift plus an overpriced red
adhesive bow, I can see Danny leaning patiently against his car. I stuff the present into my bag and scurry back across the street.

He opens the door to his red SUV and helps me in. I watch him round the hood. In casual clothes, he looks younger. Slimmer. Paler. As he straps himself in and starts the car, I realize I haven't properly thanked him for the red roses. I am a girl with no manners whatsoever.

“I loved the roses.” I look at the little bouquet on my lap.

“The daisies?” He pulls into traffic.

“Yes, these are daisies. A good choice for someone recovering from an epic vomit weekend.”

I wish I hadn't said something so gross, but he laughs.

“So. Josh Templeman. What's his deal?”

“The devil sent his only son to earth.” Weirdly, I feel guilty.

“He's got a big-brother protective vibe going on.” Danny is fishing and I know it.

I am noncommittal. “He does?”

“Oh, yeah. But don't worry. I'll tell him my intentions are honorable.” He throws me a sideways grin but a sense of deep disappointment is starting to echo through me. The sparky little flirtatious feeling in my chest has died.

Am I like a little sister to Joshua? It's not the first time a guy has said that to me. Ancient embarrassments echo through me. He'd kissed me in the elevator; that goes against this theory. But he'd never tried again, so maybe it's true. I remember telling him how
hot
the elevator kiss was and wince.

“He didn't tell me you'd tried to call. Thanks for checking on me.”

“I didn't think he'd pass on my messages. But it doesn't matter. I'd like to take you out again. Dinner this time. You look like you need a good meal.”

I have to appreciate his perseverance in the face of my weirdness and present appearance. Just because I have developed a fascination with Joshua, doesn't mean I should say no. I look at Danny. If I'd thrown a torn-up wish list into a fireplace, he's the guy Mary Poppins would have delivered. “Dinner sometime would be nice.”

He parks in a twenty-minute zone and I sign him in as a visitor. As the elevator doors open I realize too late he has delivered me all the way to the tenth floor.

“Thanks.”

He steps out with me and tugs me to a halt. “Take it easy today.”

He straightens the collar of my coat, his knuckles brushing my throat. I resist the urge to look to my left. Either Joshua is at his desk, witnessing this tableau, or he's not in yet. The tension of not knowing is excruciating.

“Dinner? What about a little dinner tonight? Couldn't hurt?”

“Sure,” I agree just to get him to leave. He gives me the daisies with a little flourish, and I manage a smile. I slowly pivot.

Once upon a time, this moment would have been a triumph. I've had daydreams like this. But when I see Joshua sitting at his desk, sharply tapping paperwork into straight stacks, I wish I could rewind time.

We're playing a new game. While I don't know the rules, I do know I've made a major misstep. I lay the daisies on the end of my desk, and shrug out of my coat.

“Hi, buddy,” Danny says to Josh, who slouches down into his chair. It's a boss-type power pose he has perfected.

“You don't work here anymore.” Josh isn't one for pleasantries.

“I gave Lucy a ride in and thought I'd come by and make sure I'm not treading on your toes.”

“What do you mean?” Josh's eyes grow knife-sharp.

“Well, I know you're pretty protective of Lucy. But I've been treating you right, haven't I?”

I'm floundering under their collective gaze. “Sure, of course.”

For a guy facing off against someone Joshua's size, Danny certainly does have a remarkable amount of courage. He tries again.

“I mean, you've clearly got some kind of problem. You were a real asshole on the phone on Friday.”

“She'd got vomit on her tank top. I had enough to deal with without being her secretary.”

“Your protective big-brother thing is something we need to talk about.”

“Voices down,” I hiss. Mr. Bexley's door is open.

“Well, no one is good enough for my kid sister.” Joshua's voice is heavy with sarcasm, but I still deflate. This morning is the absolute worst.