The Hating Game(43)
There’s one red petal on my desk and I press it onto the pad of my thumb and breathe it in deep while the daisies blur at the corner of my eye. My palm stings and itches. Josh is absolutely right. I’ve somehow injured myself due to my own carelessness.
I sit and breathe in the scent of roses and strawberries until I can trust myself not to cry.
Chapter 12
I feel childish as I look at his rolled-up white cuffs, one of which now contains my DNA. He’s glowering at his computer screen and has not spoken a word to me in hours. I’ve royally fucked up.
“I’ll dry clean your shirt,” I offer, but he doesn’t acknowledge me. “I’ll buy you a new one. I’m so sorry, Josh—”
He cuts me off. “Did you think it’d all be different today?”
I feel a lump begin to squeeze in my throat. “I’d hoped so. Don’t be mad.”
“I’m not mad.” His neck is red against his white collar.
“I’m trying to tell you I’m sorry. And I wanted to say thank you, for everything you did for me.”
“And are those pretty daisies for me, then?”
I remember. This might fix everything. “Wait, I did get you a present.”
I pull the little plastic cube topped with the red bow from my purse. I present it to him like a boxed Rolex. His eyes spark with an unidentified emotion before he reassumes his frown.
“Strawberries.”
“You said how much you love them.” The word love has probably never been said in this office, and it gives my voice a weird little tremor. He looks at me sharply.
“I’m surprised you remember anything at all.” He puts the strawberries into his out-tray and logs back onto his computer.
After several more minutes of silence I try again.
“How can I pay you back for . . . everything?” The balance has shifted dramatically between us. I’m in his debt now. I owe him.
“Tell me what I can do. I will do anything.”
What I want to say is, Speak to me. Engage with me. I can’t fix anything if you ignore me.
I watch him continue to type, his face expressionless as a crash test dummy. Stacks of sales figures are to his right and he slashes a green highlighter across them. Meanwhile, I am at complete loose ends with no Helene.
“I’ll clean your apartment for you. I’ll be your slave for the day. I’ll . . . bake you a cake.”
It’s like a soundproof pane has dropped in between us. Or maybe I’ve been erased. I should let him do his work in silence, but I can’t stop talking. He can’t hear me anyway, so it won’t matter if I say this next thing out loud.
“I’ll go with you to the wedding.”
“Be quiet, Lucinda.” So he can hear me.
“I’ll be your designated driver. You can get drunk. You can get so drunk and you’ll have the best time. I’ll be your chauffeur.”
He picks up his calculator and begins to tap. I persevere.
“I’ll drive you home and put you to bed, like you did for me. You can vomit into Tupperware and I’ll rinse it. Then we’ll be even.”
He rests his fingertips on his keyboard and closes his eyes. He seems to be reciting a string of obscenities in his mind. “You don’t even know where the wedding is.”
“Unless it’s in North Korea, I’ll go. When is it?”
“This Saturday.”
“I’m free. It’s settled. Give me your address and I’ll pick you up and everything. Name the time.”
“Pretty presumptuous of you to assume I won’t have a date.”
I nearly open my mouth to retort that I know for a fact I’m his plus-one. Just in time, my cell phone rings. Danny. I swivel my chair a full one hundred eighty degrees. Hasn’t he ever heard of texting?
“Hi, Lucy. Feeling any better? Are we still on for dinner?”
I drop my voice to a whisper. “I’m not sure. I have to go pick up my car and I’ve been feeling pretty shitty.”
“I’ve heard so much about this car of yours.”
“I think it’s silver . . . that’s as much as I can remember of it.”
“I’ve booked a table for seven tonight. Bonito Brothers. You said you like it?”
There’s not much choice left then. It’s hard to get a reservation there. I try not to sigh.
“Bonito Brothers is good. Thanks. I won’t have a huge appetite but I’ll do my best. I’ll meet you there.”
“See you tonight.”
I hang up and sit facing the wall for a bit.
“Danny Fletcher has a clichéd evening in store for you. Italian restaurant, checkered tablecloth. Probably a candle. He’ll push the last meatball to you with his nose. Second date, right?”
“Let’s change the subject.” I pretend to start typing. My screen fills with error messages.
“Most guys would try for a kiss on the second date.”
That stops me in my tracks, and the look in my eye is probably crazy. The idea of Joshua making an effort on a second date is inconceivable. Joshua on a date, period.
I imagine Josh, seated across from a beautiful woman, laughing and smiling. The same smile he once gave me. His eyes lit up, anticipating a good-night kiss. I’ve got a dark ball of pressure burning in my chest. I try to clear my throat but it doesn’t work.