The Hating Game (16 page)

I'm about to lose something that I never had to begin with.

I
GO HOME
early as per Helene's suggestion, and look for something to occupy myself.

Everything is tidy, thanks to Josh. I check online for any new Smurf auctions, and do a little stock take of my current collection. I count the Papa Smurfs.

I look in my empty fridge, and think of his rainbow of fruit and vegetables. I decide to make a cup of tea and have none. I could go out to the store, but instead I drink a glass of water. I feel cold and bundle myself in a cardigan.

Now that I've seen his apartment, I can't stop looking at my own with new eyes. It's so drab. White walls, beige carpet, the
couch a nondescript color in between. No patterned rugs or framed paintings.

I shower and put on makeup, which is ridiculous. Why would I spray perfume into my cleavage? Or put on my nice jeans? There's no one here to see me, or smell me. I've got nowhere to go. It's been so long since I've had someone in the city I could call.

I sit down and my knee is bouncing. My insides are crawling. I feel like a magnet, shaking with the need to move. Is this how addicts feel? I am beginning to realize what's happening, but I can't admit it to myself, not yet.

Has holding a phone and looking at a contact name ever been this terrifying?

Joshua Templeman

I should be sitting here looking at

Danny Fletcher

I should be giving Danny a call, asking him to meet me for a movie or a bite to eat. We could plot and plan my project. He's my new friend. He'd meet me wherever I asked in twenty minutes. I bet he would. I'm dressed. I'm ready.

But I don't. Instead, I do something I don't think I've ever done.

I hit the Call button.

Immediately I hang up and throw my phone onto the bed like a grenade. I wipe my damp palms on my thighs and let out a wheezing breath.

My phone begins to ring.

Incoming: Joshua Templeman

“Oh, hi,” I manage to say lightly when I answer. I grind the heel of my hand into my temple. I have no dignity.

“I had a missed call. It rang once.”

There's loud pulsing music in the background. He's probably swilling liquor in a bar, surrounded by tall models in stretchy white dresses.

“You're busy. I'll talk to you about it tomorrow.”

“I'm at the gym.”

“Cardio?”

“Weights. I do weights at night.”

The response implies he does cardio another time. He makes a faint grunt, and then I hear a heavy metal clang.

“So what's up? Don't tell me you pocket-dialed me.”

“No.” There's no point in pretending.

“Interesting.” There's a muffled clothing sound, maybe a towel, and then a door closes. The obnoxious pulsing music gets quieter.

“I'm outside now. I don't know if I've ever seen your name on my caller ID. Something happen at work?”

“I know. I was thinking that too.” There is a loaded pause. “No, it's not work related.”

“That's a shame. I was hoping Bexley had a fatal embolism.”

I make an amused honk. Then I fidget. “I was calling because . . .”

I haven't seen you today. I've been feeling mixed up and desperately sad, and for some reason seeing you might help the weird pain in my chest. I don't have friends. Except for you. Except you're not.

“Yes . . .” He is not helping me out at ALL.

“I'm hungry and I have no food. And I haven't got any tea, and my apartment is cold. And I'm bored.”

“What a very sad little life.”

“You've got lots of food and tea. And your heating is better than mine, and I . . .”

There is nothing but silence.

“I'm not bored when I'm with you.” I'm mortified. “But I'd better just—”

He cuts me off. “Better come over then.”

Relief floods through me. “Should I bring something?”

“What would you bring?”

“I could grab some food on the way.”

“No, it's okay, I've got something to cook. Do you want me to pick you up?”

“I'd better drive myself.”

“Probably safer.” We both know why. It'd be too easy for me to stay the night otherwise.

I'm already holding my purse, coat, and keys. My feet are in shoes. I'm locking my door and jogging down the hall to the elevator.

“Will you show me the muscles you worked on?”

“I thought you wanted me for more than that.” I can hear a car start. At least I'm not the only impatient one.

“Race you there. I want to see you all sweaty. We need to get even.”

“Give me half an hour. No, an hour.” He's alarmed.

“I'll wait for you in the lobby.”

“Do not leave now.”

“See you soon,” I reply and hang up.

I start laughing when I start my car and pull out into traffic. It's a new game, the Racing Game, with two cars at different
points on a city grid, speeding toward a central location. It's scary how I want to be in his apartment on his couch so badly I'm jiggling my knee impatiently at red lights. I'd bet anything he's doing the same.

When I'm jogging up the sidewalk to the entrance to his building, I've basically exhausted all of my weak excuses, caveats, reasoning, and we're down to this. I run into the lobby.

I haven't seen Josh all day, and I miss him.

The elevator has an up arrow above it. I hold my breath. It bings.

He couldn't imagine you with anyone but himself.

The doors snap open and there he is.

H
e's ruffled and sweaty, weighed down by gym gear. His brow creases when he spots me, his eyes unsure. He puts a hand out to hold the elevator door.

My. Heart. Bursts.

“I won!” I scream as I run at him. He has enough time to put out his arms as I jump. He hits the back wall with a grunt as I manage to get my arms and legs around him. The doors slide closed and he manages to hit the button for his floor.

“I think technically I won. I was in the building first.” I hear him say over my head.

“I won, I won,” I repeat until he laughs and concedes.

“Okay. You won.”

His sweat smells like rainwater and cedar, leaving a faint rosemary-pine tingle in my nostrils. I press my face against his neck and breathe in, again and again until the elevator bings, and we're on the fourth floor. I try to muster up the strength to let him go, but the addictive press of our bodies together is stronger than my willpower.

“Okay then.” He begins to walk down the hallway. I'm clinging like a koala to his front, coat flapping, my bag bumping against his gym bag. I hope he doesn't bump into any neighbors.
I lean back enough to see his face and see amusement shining in his eyes as he puts down his bag beside his door and begins sorting through his keys.

“Every man should get a welcome home like that.”

“Don't mind me. Go about your business.”

I hug harder. His collarbone fits nicely under my cheekbone. He's wearing a hoodie and his body feels humid and damp.

I hear him drop his gym gear into the basket. He toes off his sneakers, which seems a little bit more difficult, and he takes my bag. He presses a button on the heating control.

“Seriously, just pretend I'm not here.”

He walks us into the kitchen and bends to look in the refrigerator, making me grip tighter. He fills a glass and I press my ear to his neck to listen to him swallow.

I tighten my legs around him, and he slides a hand to my butt and squeezes it once in a friendly way. Then he gives it a slap. “Ow, what's in your pocket?”

“Oh.” I remember now and feel like a nerd. I slither down to my feet. “It's nothing.”

“It hurt my hand.” He pulls the lumpy shape out of my pocket and cranes to see what he's found “It's a Smurf. Of course. What else would you fill your pockets with? Why does it have a bow on it?”

“I have, like, ten of him. It's Grouchy Smurf.”

“If I didn't know how much you adore Smurfs, I'd be insulted.” His mouth quirks and I know I've pleased him. “So what's with the Smurfs, anyway?”

“My dad had a regular delivery over the state line. He'd leave before dawn and be back after I went to bed. He always bought me a Smurf at the gas station on the way home.”

“So they remind you of your dad. That's nice.”

“It meant that he was thinking of me.” I shuffle on the spot.

“Well, thank you for thinking of me.”

“Well, you gave me something of yours, so. We're even.”

“Is that so important? Being even?”

“Of course.” I notice he has a little whiteboard with a weekly meal plan. He's such a
freak
.

“Okay, well you're clean, and I'm not. I need a shower.”

“How do you smell so good after the gym?” I go into the living room and throw myself down onto the couch with a groan. I sink into it like it's made of memory foam.
Hello, Lucy,
the couch tells me.
I knew you'd be back.

“I didn't think I did,” he replies from the kitchen. I'm hearing water boiling and the fridge opening and teaspoon clinking.

“You do.” I pat around for the ribbon cushion. “Like a muscly pinecone.”

“I think it's my soap. Mom gives it to me in bulk. She likes making care packages.”

He appears, upside down, and I see a slice of heavy bare shoulder revealed by his hoodie sliding off. He's wearing a tank under there. My mouth puddles with drool. He puts a mug near me and hands me the cushion.

“Take the hoodie off. Please. I'll only look with my eyes.”

He puts his finger on the zip, and I bite my lip. Then he zips it up to his neck as high as it will go, and I howl.

“Drink your tea, you little pervert.” He tosses something on my stomach. He shuts his bedroom door and after a minute I hear the shower. I hold up a box. It's a packaged Matchbox car. I can't help feeling like it's a reproach. Isn't being wanted for his body a man's dream?

I put the ribbon pillow under my neck. It's a little black car this time, quite similar to his. Is this what he did on his day off?
Go and buy me a toy? I open the pack and drive the tiny car on my stomach for a while. I imagine him in the shower with his bar of soap like the little perv I am.

As predictably as night follows day, I begin to fret as the minutes pass. I don't know why I'm here again. All I know is this couch is my new favorite place on earth. I should put my shoes on and leave. I touch the side of my mug. Not cool enough to drink.

I need to start behaving normally. I got a little overexcited. I think about what kind of girls he probably dates. Tall, cool blondes. I feel it in my tiny undersized brunette bones. I remember once going to a club with Val, back in the day when I actually did things, before the merger, before the loneliness.

We saw these bored, beautiful icy girls. They were standing beside the bar, ignoring all the men who approached them. Val and I spent the rest of the night imitating them on the dance floor, striking aloof poses and making each other laugh with fierce, steely glances. I might try it now.

When his bedroom door opens and he appears again, I am a mature young woman, legs elegantly crossed, flipping through a medical textbook, sipping my tea. He's got on some soft black sweats, a black T-shirt, and nice bare feet. Can't he have a flaw?

He sits on the edge of the couch, his hair damp and ruffled in every direction. I turn the page and unfortunately a lurid diagram of an erect penis glares up at me.

“I am trying to be a bit more normal.”

He looks at the page. “How's it working out so far?”

“I'm glad this isn't a pop-up book.”

He huffs in amusement. I follow him to the kitchen and watch him cut vegetables into ridiculously neat little sticks.

“Omelet okay?”

I nod and glance at his whiteboard. Tuesday: OMELET. I
look at what's for dinner for the rest of the week. I wonder how I can score an invitation back.

“Can I do anything?”

He shakes his head and I watch him crack six eggs into a metal bowl.

“So, how was work? You clearly missed me.”

I put my hands on my face in embarrassment and he just laughs a bit to himself.

“It was boring.” It's the truth.

“No one to antagonize, huh?”

“I tried abusing some of the gentle folk in payroll but they got all teary.”

“The trick is to find that one person who can give it back as good as they can take it.” He takes out a pan and begins to fry the vegetables in a single, stingy drop of oil.

“Sonja Rutherford, probably. That scary lady in the mailroom that looks like an albino Morticia Addams.”

“Don't line my replacement up too quick. You'll hurt my feelings.”

The reminder of the likely outcome of this entire scenario makes me decide to lean against him. The middle of his back is the most perfectly ergonomic place to hide my face.

When it all comes to an end, I'm going to remember this.

“You gotta tell me why you're here.”

“I got a bit . . . sad today, thinking about everything changing?”

“Doctor Josh diagnoses you with Stockholm syndrome.”

“I know, right.” I snuggle my cheek into the muscle.

“Maybe you fear change, rather than the prospect of sitting alone in there.”

I appreciate he hasn't automatically said I'd be out job hunting.

“I kept thinking about your blue bedroom. I feel like this is something we need to discuss. Before time runs out.”

I hear the deep sizzle of the egg being added to the vegetables. He covers the pan and turns.

“You're the sort of person who needs to be eased into things slowly.”

I open my mouth to protest, but he silences me.

“I know you, Luce, and you do. Your freak-outs are pretty impressive. Imagine we have sex right now. Right here, on the counter.” He slaps his hand down firmly on it.

“You'd be so awkward afterward, you'd never speak to me again. You'd quit ahead of the interviews and go and live in the forest.”

“Why would you care? I'd like to live in a forest.”

“I need you to compete with me. And maybe we can find a scenario that doesn't involve running out of time.” He sighs and checks the omelet. “Do you have one-night stands? Like, do you go to clubs and pick out some hot guy and take him home with you?”

Even as he asks the question, his face grimaces. Maybe I'm not the only one who can imagine faceless suitors.

“Of course not. Unless you count. And I can't even get one night.”

He lightly rubs his palm across my shoulders, as kindly as a friend, and all the wiring holding my muscles together gets an inch looser. I step closer and lean all my weight against him. When I press my cheek on his chest, his heat glows against me.

“I'm trying to make sure that when we do, you don't have any regrets.”

“I doubt I would.”

“I'm flattered.” He peeks in at the omelet. “Go back to the couch, put the TV on.”

I drop myself into the plush perfection of his couch. I'm going to transform my igloo into a safe, warm little stronghold too. I need lamps, rugs, more shelves, and a painting of Tuscany. I need buckets of paint and a pale blue bedroom. White linen and a fern.

“Where'd you get this couch? I want to get the same one.”

“It's the only one on earth.” His dry voice floats out from the kitchen.

“Can I buy it from you?”

“No.”

“What about this ribbon cushion?”

“One of a kind.”

“I think I see your strategy.” I watch TV for a bit and Josh hands me a plate and a fork.

“I'm like a little duchess when I'm here. You don't have to wait on me.” I kick my shoes off under his coffee table.

“Some horrible monsters secretly enjoy spoiling little duchesses. Should we aim for a two-hour cease-fire? Starting now?”

“Sure, let's do it. Yum, this looks good.” I can smell fresh basil. How is he still single?

We watch the news and he takes my empty plate. Then he gives me a bowl of vanilla ice cream. He doesn't have one for himself.

“Why even bother keeping any in your freezer?”

“In case I have unexpected sweet-tooth visitors.”

I can't help but grin at the thought. “It wouldn't destroy those abs to have one little spoonful. It's protein, right?”

He looks at the bowl, and sighs. He takes my spoon from me and steals a huge mouthful. “Oh, lord.” His eyelids flutter.

“You should treat yourself to something small each night. No point in being cruel to yourself.”

“Something small, huh?” He looks at me pointedly. “Okay.”

I take another mouthful of ice cream. The spoon slides against my tongue and the intimacy of it is obscene. His tongue, my tongue. I lick it and he watches me, chest expanding, breath leaving him in a rush.

He unfolds a fluffy gray blanket over me and I lie there like a spoiled child. He sits at the far end, near my feet, and I stare at his side profile as he leans forward on the edge of the couch and picks up the medical text book.

“You look sad.”

“I'm . . . happy.” His expression changes to faint surprise. “Weird.”

“Why do you still have those textbooks? This one has so many dicks in it.”

“I was originally going to go into the family trade. I haven't managed to part with them, I guess. And a lot of them are my mother's. They're pretty old, but she wanted me to have them.”

He flips to the flyleaf and traces his finger across her handwritten name. I want to ask about his parents, but if I know Josh, he's on the verge of shutting down.

“Doctor Josh, MD. You would have been a sexy doctor.”

“Oh, definitely.” He discards the book and clicks around with the remote.

“All your lady patients would have had pounding heart rates.”

He takes my empty bowl. He kisses the little hinge of my jaw until I gasp, and then finds the pulse point in my wrist expertly.

“Let's see. Think about me in a white coat, sliding a stethoscope into the neck of your blouse.”

I can almost feel the freezing cold disc pressed against me. I shiver and I feel my nipples begin to pinch.

“You're giving me a brand-new kink.” I say it like a smartass, but he smiles.

“I could probably work with that.”

My mind leaps to what our theoretical sex life would be like. We're playing games with each other all day; it stands to reason they'd carry on in bed. The image hits me so powerfully I feel my body squeeze, empty and wanting.

His voice against the back of my ear as we stand in the doorway to his beautiful bedroom.

What shall we play now?

“I'd pretend to be sick every single night.”

“Every night?” He's still checking my pulse, staring at his watch, his lips moving as he counts. It's so sexy I know it beats faster. Eventually, he releases me.

“Quite a pounding little heart you got there. And a raging case of Horny-Eye. I think it's quite serious.”

“Will I die?”

“I prescribe complete couch-rest under my supervision. But it's touch and go.”

“I'd make a sleazy joke about your bedside manner but it would be a little redundant at this point.” I snuggle back down under my blanket.

“Can you even imagine my bedside manner? I'd be the worst. I'd scare people into health.”