The Hating Game(34)

He hits the button and we stand at opposite sides of the elevator car, and the Staring Game is overlaid with hot, sweaty memories of the last time we did this together.

“Your eyes were like a serial killer that day.” I must have vomited out my filter.

“So were yours.”

“I like your T-shirt. So much. It’s magnificent on you.”

He’s mystified as he looks down at himself. “It’s nothing special. I . . . like yours too. It’s as big as a dress.”

The elevator doors opens. I lurch out. Unfortunately, he follows.

“I’m here,” I lean on my door. He digs my keys from my bag and unlocks the door.

I’ve never seen anyone so desperate to be invited inside. His head pokes in farther. His hands are hanging on to the doorframe like he’s about to fall in.

“It’s not what I expected. It’s not very . . . colorful.”

“Thank you, good-bye.” I push into the kitchen and seize a glass. Then I drink straight from the faucet.

“I think we could find an after-hours clinic,” Joshua says behind me, and takes the glass before I can drop it. He pushes my toaster straight against the wall and to fill in the awkward silence he folds a dishcloth. His fingernail picks at a crumb glued to the countertop. Oh man, he’s one of those people who love to clean. He wants to roll up his sleeves and bleach and scrub.

“It’s so messy, isn’t it?” I point at a mug with a lipstick mark. He looks at it longingly and we simultaneously begin to try to get past each other in the tiny space.

“Let me take you to a doctor.”

“I need to lie down. That’s all.”

“Is there anyone you want me to call?”

“I don’t need anyone,” I announce proudly. I hold my hand out for my key. He holds it out of reach. I don’t need anyone to look after me. I can get through this. I’m alone in this world.

“Alone in this world? So dramatic. I’ll go to the drugstore and see what I can get you.”

“Sure, sure. Have a nice weekend.”

As the door snicks shut, I reconfirm that my apartment is a bit of a disaster zone, cluttered, and yes, a little colorless. My dad calls it the Igloo. I haven’t had enough time yet to put my stamp on the place. I’ve been too busy. The Smurf cabinet takes up a large part of the living room wall, dark without the special lights switched on. Thank goodness Joshua left.

My bed looks like I’ve been having disturbing, sexual dreams, which is accurate. The sheets are all rumpled and twisted, and on the side where a man should be is strewn with books. Lingerie straps and Smurf-patterned underwear peek out of drawers like lettuce from a burger. I take the copy of Joshua’s planner from my nightstand and hide it.

My shower is wonderful, torturous, endless. I turn it cold and freeze. I turn it hot and burn inside my skin. I drink the spray. I goop a big pile of shampoo on the top of my head and let it rinse away. An indication I must be near death is I can’t be bothered to condition.

My head spins with nonsensical images, and I lean against the tiles and remember what it was like to lean against a tree with Joshua Templeman shielding me with his body.

In the privacy of my mind I can imagine whatever I want, and they aren’t progressive, twenty-first-century thoughts.

They’re depraved, brutal cavewoman thoughts. In my mind, he’s electric with the animal instinct to protect me, his heavy muscle braced over my body. He absorbs each impact and it is his privilege. He’s injected sharp and hard with nature’s superdrug, testosterone.

I’m wrapped in him, safe from anything the world wants to throw at me. Anything painful or cruel will have to get through him before it has any chance of touching me. And it will never happen.

“Alive?”

I scream when I realize that resonating voice isn’t in my imagination and cling to the tiles.

“Don’t come in!” I did close the door. Thank you, guardian angels. I cross my arms over all of my X-rated zones.

“Of course I won’t,” he snaps.

“I am completely naked. Bruises . . .” I’m a Monet watercolor; purple water lilies floating in green. He says nothing.

“Well, go out. Into the living room.”

My skin hurts when I towel myself. I crack the bathroom door open and hear silence. I scurry out and find underwear, a heinous beige bra, shorts, and an old crappy pajama top with a picture of a cute dinosaur on it, his drowsy eyes half closed. Underneath him reads: SLEEPYSAURUS.

I’m naked and putting on clothes, separated from Joshua by only by a wall. I love you, wall. What a good wall. I toss myself so hard into bed the mattress squeaks, and it’s the last thing I hear.

I WAKE UP in a volcano. “No! No!”

“I’m not poisoning you. Quit squirming.” Joshua’s hand is behind my neck as he presses two pills onto my tongue. I swallow water and then he lowers me flat.

“My mother always gave me lemonade. And she’d sit with me. Whenever I woke up, she’d still be there. Did yours?” I sound like I’m five years old.

“My parents were too busy on shift looking after other sick people to do that stuff for me.”

“Doctors.”

“Yep, except me.” An edge in his voice denotes a sore topic.

I feel his hand on my forehead, fingers light and stiff. “Let’s do a temperature check.”