The Hating Game

by Sally Thorne

  “My place is like a Calcutta slum in comparison to this. I need a basket for my gym gear too. Where’s all your junk? Where’s your too-hard pile?”

  “You’ve confirmed your worst fears. I’m a neat freak.”

  I’m the freak as I spend at least twenty minutes looking at practically everything he owns. I violate his privacy so badly I make myself feel a bit ill, but he stands there and lets me.

  It’s a two-bedroom place and I stand in the middle of what is set up as a study, hands on hips. Huge computer monitor, some huge dumbbells. A closet filled with heavy winter sportswear and a sleeping bag. More books. I look lustfully at his filing cabinet. If he wasn’t here I’d read his electricity bills.

  “Are you done?”

  I look down at my hand. I’m holding an old matchbox car I found in one of the narrow drawers of a bureau. I’m clutching it in my hands like a crazy old pickpocket.

  “Not yet.” I’m so scared I can barely say it.

  Josh points, and I walk over to the remaining darkened doorway. He snaps on the light switch near my ear and I make a strangled gasp of delight.

  His room is painted the blue of my favorite shirt of his. Robin’s-egg blue. Pale turquoise mixed with milk. I feel a strange unfurling in my chest, like a sense of deep déjà vu. Like I’ve been here before, and I will be again. I hug the doorframe.

  “Is this your favorite color?”

  “Yes.” There’s tension in his tone. Maybe he’s been teased before.

  “I love it.” I sound reverent. It’s such an unexpected pop of bright against the dark chocolates and taupes, and I think how Josh it is. Something unexpected. Pale pretty blue. The dark brown headboard, plushly upholstered in leather, saves the room from femininity. He’s behind me, close enough to lean against, but I resist. The scent of his skin is fogging my brain. His bed is made and the linen is white, and I seem to find that little detail pretty sexy. His bathroom is polished to a high shine. Red towels and a red toothbrush. It looks like an Ikea catalog.

  “I would never have picked you as someone who owns a fern. I had one but it went brown and crunchy.”

  I go back to Joshua Templeman’s bed. I touch my finger to the edge of his pillowcase.

  “Okay, you’re getting beyond weird now.”

  I try to rattle the headboard but it’s solid.

  “Stop it. Sit on the couch. I made you tea.”

  I scuttle sideways like a crab into the living room. “How could you stand there and watch me snoop?”

  I take the fancy cushion and stuff it in the small of my back. He gives me a mug and I hold it like a weapon.

  “I snooped through your apartment. It’s your turn.”

  I’m flustered, but try to hide it with a joke. “Did you find all the pictures I have of you with your eyes scratched out?”

  “No, I never did find your scrapbook. I do know you’ve got twenty-six Papa Smurfs, and you don’t fold your bed sheets properly.”

  He’s at the other end of the couch, head rolled gently to the side, lounging comfortably. He lolls in his office chair a lot but I’ve never seen his body make such stretched-out, loose shapes. I can’t stop looking at him.

  “Sheets are too hard. My arms aren’t long enough.”

  He sighs and shakes his head. “It’s no excuse.”

  “Did you look in my underwear drawer?”

  “Of course not. I’ve got to save something for next time.”

  “Can I look in yours now?” I’m losing my wits. The threshold to his apartment is where I left my sanity. I sip the tea. It is like nectar.

  “Now, Shortcake. We’re going to do something a bit unusual.”

  He unmutes the TV and takes a sip from his mug and starts watching an old rerun of ER like we do this every night. I sit with a pounding heart and try to concentrate. Hey, this is no big deal. I’m sitting on Joshua Templeman’s couch.

  I roll my head to the side and stare at him for the entire episode, watching the tense surgery scenes and ward conflicts reflected in his eyes.

  “Am I bothering you?”

  “No,” he replies absently. “I’m used to it.”

  We are not normal. The minutes tick past and he drinks his coffee and I continue to stare. He’s got a shading of stubble I don’t see during working hours. My chest is tight with anxiety. My body and brain are conditioned for combat whenever I’m in his immediate radius. When he looks over, I jerk back. He puts his hand between us on the couch, palm up, and then looks back at the TV.

  It’s like he’s put out a dish of seed and is now sitting very still, waiting for the cowardly little chicken to make a move. And it does take me a while. I tentatively pick up his hand and lace his fingers into mine. For a scary moment he doesn’t react, but as the warmth of his hand begins to glow into my palm, he gives me a deep, delicious squeeze. He lays our joined hands back down, picks up his mug with his other hand, and nods at the screen.

  “I watch medical dramas to spite my dad. They drive him insane. You could never have this on in their house.”

  “Why? Are they inaccurate?” I’m glad to be able to focus my attention on something other than this strange hand-related development.

  “Oh, yeah. They’re complete fiction.”

  “I prefer Law and Order. I love when a restaurant worker finds a body in a Dumpster.”

  “Or a dog walker in Central Park.” He gestures at the screen with his coffee. “That so-called doctor isn’t even wearing gloves.” He scowls at the screen like he is offended to his core.

  The art of holding hands is underrated and it’s embarrassing how much this simple act has me nearly breathless. The pads of each of his fingertips reach across the backs of my hands to my wrist.

  Large men have always intimidated me. When I mentally line up my ex-boyfriends, they’ve all been definitely on the jockey end of the scale. Easier to deal with. More of an even match. There’s never been any of the astounding masculine architecture I’m sitting next to now.

  The rounded caps of muscle on his shoulders balance on smoothly curving biceps. His elbow and wrist joints are like something from a hardware store. How would it feel to lie underneath a man as big as this? It would be staggering.

  Josh watches ER and yawns, not at all suspecting I’m trying to estimate how big his rib cage is like a meat-eating predator.

  It’s possible our size mismatch has added a friction to our interactions during our working hours. I’ve always tried to make myself stronger in the only way I can: my mind and my mouth. I think he’s converted me. I think I’m into muscles now. I’ve started to breathe a little hard, and he looks at me.

  “What’s with the weird eyes? Relax.”

  “I was thinking how big you are.”

  I look at our joined hands. He carefully strokes the length of my palm with his thumb. When we look at each other again, his eyes are a little darker.

  “I’ll fit you just right.”

  Goose bumps scatter my skin. I press my thighs together and accidentally make a little pony-snort. I’m sexy as hell. I can’t resist; I look over my shoulder at his bedroom. It’s so close it would take maybe five big strides to be pushed backward down onto his mattress. His tongue could be on my skin in under thirty seconds.

  “If you’re going to fit me so well, show me.”

  “I will.”

  Our palms are slick. The back of my neck feels hot under my hair. I need to be kissed again. This time, I’m going to slide my tongue against his until he groans. Until he presses something hard against me. Until he takes me into his bedroom and takes off his clothes.

  The end credits of history’s longest episode of ER begin to roll. My heart is threatening to pop like a balloon.

  He mutes the TV ominously and turns his head until we’re playing the Staring Game. I watch his eyes tip into black, breathless for whatever is about to happen. I can feel a pulse point in all the sensitive parts of my body. Between my legs is heavy and warm. I look at his mouth. He looks
at mine. Then he looks at our joined hands.

  “What happens now?”

  He slants me a look. The next word out of his mouth is like the lash of a whip. “Strip.”

  I flinch and he laughs to himself and turns the TV off. “I’m kidding. Come on, I’ll walk you down to your car.”

  I am getting dangerously high off his smiles. This is my third one now? I’m stuffing them in my pockets. I’m cramming them into my mouth.

  “But . . .” My voice is plaintive. “I thought . . .”

  His eyebrows pinch together in a fake display of incomprehension.

  “You know . . .”

  “It’s rather hurtful to only be wanted for my body. I didn’t even get the date beforehand.” He looks down at our hands again.

  “From what I can see, you’ve got a fabulous set of bones. What else should I want you for?” I start holding and squeezing some of his arm joints. It’s the worst seduction routine imaginable, but he doesn’t seem to mind. His elbow is too big to fit in my hand. My dress helpfully slips down a little when I reach for him, and his eyes trail down to the revealed cleavage.

  When we make eye contact again, I realize that I’ve said the wrong thing.

  He swiftly conceals it by frowning. “We’re not doing this tonight.”

  I nearly snap back but as I watch his eyelids close and he takes a deep breath, I realize how badly I don’t want this evening to end. “If I ask you a question about yourself, will you answer?”

  “Will you do the same?” He’s regaining composure, like I am.

  “Sure.” Everything we do is tit for tat.

  “Okay.” He opens his eyes and for a moment I can’t think of anything to ask that won’t be revealing too much of myself in the process.

  What do you really think of me? Is this all some elaborate plan to mess me up? How badly hurt will I be?

  I try to sound light. “Let’s make it a game, like everything else we do. It’s easier. Truth or Dare.”

  “Truth. Because you’re dying for me to say dare.”

  “What are the pencil codes in your planner? Is it for HR?”

  He scowls. “What’s the dare?”

  His scent is fogging spicily around me. The plush, warm couch conspires to tip me closer to his lap.

  “You even need to ask?”

  He stands up, and stands me up too. My hands curl into the waistband of his jeans and I feel nothing but firm male against the backs of my knuckles. My mouth is nearly watering.

  “We can’t start this tonight.” He takes my fingers out of his jeans.

  “Why not?” I think I’m begging.

  “I’m going to need a little more time.”

  “It’s only ten thirty.” I follow him to the front door.

  “You’ve told me we’ll only do this once. I’m going to need a long time.” I feel a fluttery pinch between my legs.

  “How long?”

  “A long time. Days. Probably longer.”

  My knees knock together. His eyes crinkle.

  “Let’s call in sick tomorrow.” I am infatigable in my quest to get his clothes off. He looks at the ceiling and swallows hard.

  “Like I’m going to waste my one big chance on a generic Monday night.”

  “It won’t be a waste.”

  “How can I explain it? When we were kids, Patrick would always eat his Easter egg straightaway. I could make mine last until my birthday.”

  “When’s your birthday?”

  “June twentieth.”

  “What star sign are you? Cancer?”

  “Gemini.”

  “And why wouldn’t you eat it straightaway, exactly?” Wow, I sure know how to make things sound filthy.

  He strokes my hair away from my shoulder. “It made Patrick sweat. He’d go into my room and obsess over it. He’d ask me every day if I’d eaten it. It drove him insane. It drove my parents goddamn insane. Even they’d beg me to eat it. When I finally did, it tasted better, knowing how bad someone else wanted it.”

  He slides the shoulder of my red dress a half inch to the right and looks down at the skin, before leaning down and breathing me in. I feel the tickling suck of his inhale and feel a deep stab of empathy for the heavenly torture his Easter eggs suffered.

  “It’s perverted to be turned on by a childhood story about two brothers, isn’t it?”

  He presses his mouth to my shoulder and laughs. It vibrates through my entire body. I look over at his beautiful bedroom, all lit up with the light still burning. Blue and white, like a gorgeous Tiffany box. A gift with a ribbon. A room I want to spend days in. A room I’ll probably never want to come out of.

  “Did you eat it a bite at a time, or did you snap one day and gorge on it?”

  “I guess you’ll find out. Eventually.”

  He picks up his keys and stands jingling them while I put my coat on. We don’t touch in the elevator. He walks me outside in silence, over to my car.

  “Bye. Thanks for the tea.” Embarrassment has caught up with me. I’ve acted like a total nut tonight. Why is it I can act like a normal human with a guy like Danny, but with Josh I end up dorking out? Something is sharp in my hand and I look down. Oh shit, I’m still holding the matchbox car.

  “I’m a freak.” I put my face in my hands and tiny wheels roll across my cheek.

  “Yes.” He is gently amused.

  “Sorry.”

  “Keep it, it’s a present.”

  The first thing he’s ever given me aside from the roses. I’m honored beyond words and study it afresh. It has the initials JT scratched onto the bottom.

  “Is it a childhood treasure? It looks old.” I don’t think I’d give it back, even if he changed his mind.

  “Maybe it’s the start of your new collection. I think we’ve done something kind of monumental for us. We had a ceasefire. For the full length of a TV episode.”

  “You sure are good at holding hands.”

  “I’m probably not good at a lot of things, but I will try to be,” he tells me. It’s the strangest thing to say and I feel another crack forming in the wall between us.

  “Well, thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “No you won’t. I’ve got a day off.” He never, ever takes a day off.

  “Doing anything special?” I look up at the apartments above and a wave of loneliness hits me.

  “I have an appointment.”

  Just when I think I’ve got a handle on this kaleidoscope of weird feelings, it twists and something new surprises me. I feel like I’ve been told Christmas is canceled. No Josh, sitting across from me like always? I have to bite my lip to silence myself.

  Please, I beg myself. Please hate Josh again. This is too hard.

  “You’re not going to miss me, are you? You can manage one little Tuesday on your own.” He touches the little toy car in my hand and spins the wheels a little.

  I try to be nonchalant, but he probably sees through it.

  “Miss you? I’ll miss looking at your pretty face, but that’s about it.”

  I hope it landed somewhere in the vicinity of faint sarcasm. I haul my quivering body into my car. He taps the window to make me lock the door. It takes me several attempts to get the key into the ignition.

  Josh stands motionless in my rearview mirror until he’s a speck, one person among billions, but I cannot tear my eyes away until he disappears altogether.

  When I get home, I still have the Matchbox car in my hand.

  Chapter 15

  I’m sitting at my desk, eyelids dry and tight, and I’m staring at Josh’s empty seat. The office is cold. Quiet. A professional haven. Any of the cubicle inmates downstairs would kill for this kind of silence.

  Josh is supposed to be sitting across from me in an off-white striped shirt. He should be holding a calculator, tapping, frowning, tapping again.

  If he were here, he’d look at me, and when our eyes connected a flashbulb of energy would pop inside me. I’d label it annoyance, or dislike. I’d take th
e little flash and call it something I don’t think it is.

  I look at the clock. I wait for a small eternity, and a minute ticks by. To amuse myself, I roll my new Matchbox car back and forth across my mouse pad, then take out the florist card from underneath.

  You’re always beautiful.

  I look at my reflection in the ridiculous prism of glass surrounding me. I look at the wall, the ceiling, analyzing my appearance from different angles. Those three words now aren’t enough to sate me. He’s created a monster.

  I turn the florist’s card over and notice the address. I have the best idea and cackle out loud. Grabbing my purse, I walk down to the corner to the exact same florist. Before I lose my nerve, I arrange to have a bunch of off-white roses sent to him with a card. I barely know what I’m going to write, until my hand writes out the following for me:

  I want you for more than your body. I want you for your Matchbox cars. —Shortcake

  Instantly I have a wave of self-doubt, but the florist has already taken the card and carried the bouquet out to their back room.

  It’s a joke, that’s all, these flowers. He did it for me and we hate being uneven. I slide my credit card back into my purse and imagine him opening his door, and the look on his face. I’m basically cannonballing into something I shouldn’t.

  On the walk back I buy takeout coffee and knock gently on Helene’s door.

  “Hi. Am I interrupting?”

  “Yes, thank God,” she exclaims, throwing her glasses down so vigorously they bounce onto the floor. “Coffee. You’re a saint. Saint Lucy of Caffeine.”

  “And that’s not all.” I take out a flat box of fancy macarons from under my arm, labeled Made in France. I’ve had them in my drawer for a while for an emergency. I’m such a kiss-ass.

  “Did I say saint? I meant goddess.” She reaches into the cabinet behind her and finds a plate; it is delicate, painted with flowers and edged in gold. Of course.

  “It’s so quiet out there today. I can hear a pin drop. It feels strange to not be glared at.”

  “Get used to it. He does stare a lot at you, doesn’t he, darling? I’ve noticed in the last few all-staff meetings. Those dark blue eyes of his are actually rather lovely. How’s the interview preparation coming along?”