The Hating Game(39)

“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.”





Chapter 11




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.