The Hating Game(57)

I have a text. My stomach freefalls. My heart soars.

Joshua Templeman: Glad to hear it.

He got the roses then. I hug the phone to my chest.

This interview is the worst kind of limbo. So many people have wished me good luck in the hallways. Imagining their sympathetic awkwardness if I fail is unbearable.

If Josh gets this job, I have to walk away.

I look at the cross in my planner that symbolizes next week’s interview. As much as my mock presentation boosted my confidence, I also need to plan out the worst-case scenario. It’s good business planning to have an exit strategy. I’ve got some money saved in a sacred account that I never touch. I’d wanted to take a vacation this year, but I guess it’s going to be my safety net. Maybe I’d have to go and sit under the umbrella at the front gates of Sky Diamond Strawberries. My parents would probably hug and jump and scream in delight. They wouldn’t even have the decency to be disappointed in me.

If Josh gets this job, and I resign, will my bitterness outweigh those little flickers inside my chest when he looks at me? Could our weird, fragile little game survive outside these walls? My friendship with Val didn’t survive.

Could we see each other while I hear about his successes at B&G and I’m in the job queue? On the other hand, would he be happy for my success while he’s papering this city with his CV? His pride is something I can’t imagine he’d lay down lightly.

I’m not completely out of options. I’ve got some contacts at some smaller boutique publishers that I could possibly approach, but I’d feel disloyal to Helene. I could ask Helene for a transfer into another B&G team. Maybe it is time to start at the bottom of the editorial team. But if I remain at B&G, that would almost certainly mean that Josh was the new COO.

Needless to say, any chance of ever sitting on his couch again would be completely gone.

Life would be easier if I could just hate Joshua Templeman. I look at his empty chair, and then close my eyes, the blue of his bedroom washing through me.

I’m about to lose something that I never had to begin with.

I GO HOME early as per Helene’s suggestion, and look for something to occupy myself.

Everything is tidy, thanks to Josh. I check online for any new Smurf auctions, and do a little stock take of my current collection. I count the Papa Smurfs.

I look in my empty fridge, and think of his rainbow of fruit and vegetables. I decide to make a cup of tea and have none. I could go out to the store, but instead I drink a glass of water. I feel cold and bundle myself in a cardigan.

Now that I’ve seen his apartment, I can’t stop looking at my own with new eyes. It’s so drab. White walls, beige carpet, the couch a nondescript color in between. No patterned rugs or framed paintings.

I shower and put on makeup, which is ridiculous. Why would I spray perfume into my cleavage? Or put on my nice jeans? There’s no one here to see me, or smell me. I’ve got nowhere to go. It’s been so long since I’ve had someone in the city I could call.

I sit down and my knee is bouncing. My insides are crawling. I feel like a magnet, shaking with the need to move. Is this how addicts feel? I am beginning to realize what’s happening, but I can’t admit it to myself, not yet.

Has holding a phone and looking at a contact name ever been this terrifying?

Joshua Templeman

I should be sitting here looking at

Danny Fletcher

I should be giving Danny a call, asking him to meet me for a movie or a bite to eat. We could plot and plan my project. He’s my new friend. He’d meet me wherever I asked in twenty minutes. I bet he would. I’m dressed. I’m ready.

But I don’t. Instead, I do something I don’t think I’ve ever done.

I hit the Call button.

Immediately I hang up and throw my phone onto the bed like a grenade. I wipe my damp palms on my thighs and let out a wheezing breath.

My phone begins to ring.

Incoming: Joshua Templeman

“Oh, hi,” I manage to say lightly when I answer. I grind the heel of my hand into my temple. I have no dignity.

“I had a missed call. It rang once.”

There’s loud pulsing music in the background. He’s probably swilling liquor in a bar, surrounded by tall models in stretchy white dresses.

“You’re busy. I’ll talk to you about it tomorrow.”

“I’m at the gym.”

“Cardio?”

“Weights. I do weights at night.”

The response implies he does cardio another time. He makes a faint grunt, and then I hear a heavy metal clang.

“So what’s up? Don’t tell me you pocket-dialed me.”

“No.” There’s no point in pretending.

“Interesting.” There’s a muffled clothing sound, maybe a towel, and then a door closes. The obnoxious pulsing music gets quieter.

“I’m outside now. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen your name on my caller ID. Something happen at work?”

“I know. I was thinking that too.” There is a loaded pause. “No, it’s not work related.”

“That’s a shame. I was hoping Bexley had a fatal embolism.”

I make an amused honk. Then I fidget. “I was calling because . . .”

I haven’t seen you today. I’ve been feeling mixed up and desperately sad, and for some reason seeing you might help the weird pain in my chest. I don’t have friends. Except for you. Except you’re not.