The Hating Game(105)
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.”