The Hating Game(82)

“Be down in, like, fifteen minutes okay?”

Once he’s gone and the silence fills the hotel room like a swelling balloon I sit on the end of the bed and look at myself. My hair falls around my shoulders, and my mouth is a little red heart. I look like I’m losing my mind. I strip down, put on my support underwear to smooth out any lumps, hook my stockings up and look at my dress.

I was going to buy something in a muted navy, something I could wear again, but when I saw the robin’s-egg-blue dress I knew I had to have it. I couldn’t have color matched it better to his bedroom walls if I tried.

The sales assistant had assured me it suited me perfectly, but the way Josh rubbed his hand over his face was like he’d realized he’s dealing with a total psycho. It’s undeniably true. I’m practically painting myself in his bedroom blue. I manage to zip myself up with some contortionist movements.

I decide to take the huge sweeping spiral staircase down instead of the elevator. How many opportunities will I ever have? Life has started to feel like one big chance to make each new little memory. I walk in downward circles toward the gorgeous man in the suit and pale blue shirt at the bar.

He raises his eyes, and the look in his eyes makes me so shy I can barely put one foot in front of the other. Psycho, psycho, I whisper to myself as I plant myself in front of him and rest my elbow on the bar.

“How You Doing?” I manage, but he only stares at me.

“I know, what a psycho, dressed in the same color as your bedroom walls.” I self-consciously smooth down the dress. It’s a retro prom-dress style, the neckline dipping and the waist pulled tight. I catch a whiff of lunch being served in the hotel restaurant and my stomach makes a pitiful little whimper.

He shakes his head like I’m an idiot. “You’re beautiful. You’re always beautiful.”

As the pleasure of those three words light up inside my chest, I remember my manners.

“Thank you for the roses. I never did say thank you, did I? I loved them. I’ve never had flowers sent to me before.”

“Lipstick red. Flamethrower red. I have never felt like such a piece of shit as I did then.”

“I forgave you, remember?” I step in between his knees and pick up his glass. I sniff.

“Wow, that’s one strong Kool-Aid.”

“I need it.” He swallows it without a blink. “I’ve never gotten flowers either.”

“All these stupid women who don’t know how to treat a man right.”

I’m still agitated about his earlier revelation. Sure, he’s an argumentative, calculating, territorial asshole 40 percent of the time, but the other 60 percent is so filled with humor and sweetness and vulnerability.

It seems I’ve drunk all the Kool-Aid.

“Ready?”

“Let’s go.” We wait for the valet to bring the car. I look up at the sky.

“Well, they say rain on your wedding day is good luck.”

I press my hand on his jiggling knee after we drive a few minutes.

“Please relax. I don’t get why this is a big deal.” He won’t reply.

The little church is about ten minutes from the hotel. The parking lot is filled with cold-looking women in pastels, hugging themselves and trying to wrangle male companions and children.

I’m about to start hugging myself against the cold as well when he gathers me to his side and swoops inside, saying, Hello, talk to you later to several relatives who greet him in tones of surprise before flicking their eyes to me.

“You’re being so rude.” I smile at everyone we pass and try to dig my heels in a little.

His fingers smooth down the inside of my arm and he sighs. “Front row.”

He tows me up the aisle. I’m a little cloud in the slipstream of a fighter jet. The organist is making some tentative practice chords and it’s probably Josh’s expression that causes her to press several keys in a foghorn of fright. We approach the front pew. Josh’s hand is now a vise on mine.

“Hi.” He sounds so bored I think he’s worthy of an Oscar. “We’re here.”

“Josh!” His mother, presumably, springs to her feet for a hug. His hand falls away from mine and I watch his forearms link behind her. You’ve got to hand it to Josh. For a prickly pear, he commits completely to a hug.

“Hi,” he tells her, kissing her cheek. “You look nice.”

“Cutting it a bit close,” the seated man on the pew comments, but I don’t think Josh notices.

Josh’s mom is a little lady, fair hair, with a soft cheek-dimple that I’ve always wished for. Her pale gray eyes are misty when she pulls back to look up at her huge, gorgeous son.

“Oh! Well!” She beams at his compliment and she glances to me. “Is this . . . ?”

“Yes. This is Lucy Hutton. Lucy, this is my mother, Dr. Elaine Templeman.”

“Pleased to meet you, Dr. Templeman.” She’s roping me in for a hug before I can blink.

“Elaine, please. It’s Lucy at last!” she says into my hair. She pulls back and studies me. “Josh, she’s gorgeous!”

“Very gorgeous.”

“Well, I’m going to keep you forever,” she tells me, and I can’t help but break into a dorky grin. The look Josh shoots me is like, see. He wipes his palms on his suit pants and almost has a crazy look in his eye. Maybe he has Churchphobia.