The Hating Game(44)

I’m not the only one looking a little crazy. “Just say it. You look like you’re about to explode.”

“Do yourself a favor and stay home tonight. You look terrible.”

“Thank you, Doctor Josh. Why does Fat Little Dick call you that, anyway?”

“Because my parents and brother are doctors. It’s his way of reminding me I’ve failed to reach my potential.” His tone indicates I am the town simpleton, and he gets to his feet. I trail after him down the hall toward the copy room. He doesn’t slow so I grab him by the arm.

“Wait a minute. I’m trying to fix this. You’re right, you know. I did come in here today hoping these last days together might be different.”

He opens his mouth, but I steamroll ahead. He’s letting me hold him against the wall, but we both know he could pick me up like a chess piece if he wanted to.

Some heeled shoes are clopping toward us sedately as a Clydesdale and my frustration mounts. I need to clear this up, now, or I am going to have an aneurism.

The cleaner’s closet will have to do. It’s thankfully unlocked, and I walk in and stand among the chemicals and vacuum cleaners.

“Get in here.”

He obeys reluctantly and I pull the door shut and lean on it. We remain silent as the heels round the corner and continue past.

“This is cozy.” Josh kicks his toe against a bulk quantity of toilet paper. “Well? What?”

“I’ve screwed up. I know I have.”

“There’s nothing to screw up. You’ve pissed me off. The status quo is maintained.”

He leans an elbow on a shelf to drag his hand tiredly through his hair, and his shirt slides up an inch or so out of his trouser waistband. We’re so close I can hear the fabric stretch and slide over his skin.

“I thought maybe the war might be over. I thought we might be friends.”

His eyes flash with disgust, so I might as well put it all out there. “Josh, I want to be friends with you. Or something. I have no idea why, because you’re awful.”

He holds up a finger. “There’s an interesting couple of words in among what you just said.”

“I say a lot of interesting words. And you never hear any of them.” I ball my hands until the knuckles crack, and the realization hits me across the head.

The reason for my rising distress is this: I will never see his hidden softness again. I think of his hands braced on either side of my pillow, talking me through the fever. His hands passing easily over my skin.

Right now he looks like he’d burn me at the stake. He was my friend once, for one delirious night, and it’s all I’ll ever get.

“Or something,” he uses his fingers to add quotations. “You said you wanted to be friends, or something. What exactly does or something entail? I want to know my options.”

“It probably entails not completely hating each other. I don’t know.” I try to sit on a stack of boxes and they crush underneath me so I stand back up.

“So, what is he, your boyfriend?” He has hands on hips and the small room shrinks to microscopic.

He’s close to me now. Whatever divine soap Josh uses, I need some. I’ll keep a bar of it in my top drawer to scent my lingerie. I feel my cheeks beginning to heat.

“You couldn’t care less if I date Danny. You can’t believe any guy would want to be with me.”

Instead of replying, he holds out his hand, palm up. His shirt sleeves are still rolled, and I look at the strong tendons and cords in his wrists. I notice for the first time he has those muscly-guy raised veins in his inner arms.

“Touching at work is against HR policy.” My throat is bone dry. Not touching me should be illegal.

He stares expectantly at me until I slide my hand into his. It’s hard to resist someone holding out his hand this way, and it’s completely impossible if it’s Joshua. I register the heat and size of his fingers before he turns over my hand to inspect the scratch on my palm, handling my hand like an injured dove.

“Seriously though, did you clean this? Rose thorns can have fungus on them. The scratch can get infected.” He presses around the wound, fussing and frowning. How can he be these two different men? A second realization hits me. Perhaps I am a determining factor. The concept is scary. The only way I can get him to drop his guard is to drop mine. Maybe I can change everything.

“Josh.”

When he hears me shorten his name, he folds up my fingers and gives me my hand back. It’s time to try this. I pray I’m not wrong.

“I wanted you there on Friday night. You, and only you. And if you don’t want to be friends with me, I’ll try to play the Or Something Game with you.”

There’s a long pause and he doesn’t react. If I’ve misjudged this, I will never live it down. My heart is pulsing uncomfortably fast.

“Really?” He is skeptical.

I push him against the door and feel a thrill when I hear the thud of his weight against it.

“Kiss me.” I whisper it and the air gets warmer.

“So the Or Something Game involves kissing. How interesting, Lucinda.” He passes his fingers through my hair, raking it gently away from my face.

“I don’t know the rules yet. It’s a pretty new game.”

“Are you sure about that?” He looks down to watch my hand spread out over his stomach.