The Hating Game(40)
“I think I’m going to be okay.”
My magazines are stacked. There are no high heels under the coffee table. Joshua has tidied my apartment. He’s lying a few feet from my huge wall cabinet filled with Smurfs, stacked four and five deep. He turned the lights on, and it’s illuminated proof that I’m mental. He stands up and the room gets a lot smaller.
“Thank you for sacrificing your Friday night. I don’t mind if you want to leave.”
“Are you sure?” He is fussily pressing the backs of his fingers on my forehead, cheek, throat. I am definitely feeling better, because when he touches my throat my nipples pinch in response. I cross my arms over my chest.
“Yes. I’ll be okay now. Go home please.”
He looks down at me with those dark blue eyes and the memory of his smile is overlaid across his solemn face. He looks at me like I’m his patient. I’m no longer elevator-kiss worthy. Nothing like a little vomit to destroy chemistry.
“I can stay. If you can manage to stop freaking out.” There’s a kind of pity on his face and I know why.
It’s not all one-sided—I’ve seen a hidden part of him too during this endless night we’ve survived. There’s patience and kindness beneath his asshole fa?ade. Human decency. Humor. That smile.
His eyes have flecks of light in their depths and his eyelashes look as if they’d curl against the pad of my little finger. His cheekbones would fit in the curve of my palm. His mouth, well. It’d fit me just about everywhere.
“Your horny eyes are back,” he tells me, and I feel my cheeks heat. “You must be feeling better if you can look at me like that.”
“I’m sick.” I say it primly and I hear his husky laugh as I turn away. He goes into my bedroom and I take several gulps of air.
“You’re a little sicko all right.” When he reappears he’s holding his jacket, and I realize he’s spent the entire night dressed in his paintball clothes. And he doesn’t even stink. How is it fair?
“I need to . . .” I’m getting frantic. I grab at his elbow when he toes on his shoes by the door.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m leaving. You don’t need to pick me up and throw me out. See you at work, Lucinda.” He rattles a bottle of pills at me.
“Go back to bed. Two more next time you wake up.” He hesitates again, reluctance written all over his face. “Are you sure you’ll be okay?” He touches my forehead again, rechecking my temperature though surely it couldn’t have changed in thirty seconds.
“Don’t you dare tease me about this on Monday.”
The word Monday rattles between us, and he takes his hand away. I think that’s our new safe word.
“I’ll pretend it never happened, if that’s what you want,” he tells me stiffly and I feel a sinking in my gut. The last time I asked that of him it was about the kiss; he kept that promise pretty well.
“Don’t try to use anything against me. The job interviews, I mean.”
The look on his face probably melts the paint off the wall behind me.
“Knowing the consistency of your vomit will give me the edge. For fuck’s sake, Lucinda.”
When the door bangs behind him and silence expands to fill my apartment, I wish I had the courage to call him back. To say thank you, and to apologize for the fact that yes, he’s right as always.
I am completely freaking out. To avoid thinking about it, I sleep.
When I open my eyes again I have a new perspective. It’s Saturday evening and the sunset is making the wall at the foot of my bed a glorious honey-peach candle-glow. The color of his skin. My bedroom blazes with the force of my epiphany.
I stare at the ceiling and admit the astonishing truth to myself.
I don’t hate Joshua Templeman.
IT’S WHITE SHIRT Monday, six thirty A.M. I’m so washed out I should call in sick, and Helene isn’t in anyway, but I need to see Joshua.
Rest assured, I have microanalyzed every moment he was in my apartment, and I know I need to apologize for throwing him out like that. He was nothing but decent and kind to me. We were teetering on the edge of friendship, and I ruined everything with my sharp mouth. When I recall eavesdropping on Josh’s conversation with Patrick I feel sick with guilt. I wasn’t meant to hear any of that.
How do I properly thank a colleague for helping me vomit? My grandma’s vintage etiquette handbooks won’t help me with this. A thank-you note or a pound cake won’t quite cut it in this instance.
I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror. The weekend’s sickfest has bleached me of color. My eyes are puffy and bloodshot. My lips are pale and flaky. I look like I’ve been trapped down a mineshaft.
My kitchen is now as neat as a pin. He has sorted my mail into a tidy pile on the counter. I claw open the top envelope with one hand while I dunk a herbal tea bag with the other. It’s a friendly little note to advise me that my rent is going up. I squint at the new monthly figure and my inhalation probably rattles the Smurfs on their shelves. My rash announcement to quit B&G now feels infinitely more terrifying.
How can I even attempt to face an interview panel at a different company and try to articulate what makes me so good at my job? I try to think of all the things I do well, but all I can think of is pranking Joshua. I’m childish and so unprofessional.
I sit down heavily and try to eat a mouthful of dry cereal from the box. Then I wallow in low spirits and self-doubt a little more.