The Hating Game

He’s seen me sweating, vomiting, feverish, and asleep. He’s seen me angry, frustrated, scared. Horny, lonely, heartsick. No matter how I look, it never seems to faze him. He always looks at me exactly the same way. Knowing this gives me the confidence to walk out in my SLEEPYSAURUS T-shirt and sleep shorts. It seemed like a funny idea at the time, but I catch a glimpse of myself in the dresser. I look about ten years old. Oh, well. Negligee Lucy would be a fake.
Silence stretches on. I check my phone. Nothing. I push back the comforter and slide into the bed. I can’t hold in the groan of relief. After the stress and tension of the last few days, this isn’t as scary as I imagined it would be. The sheets quickly grow warm and I paddle my tired feet in pleasure.
I lean back against the pile of pillows and turn the TV on. I find a channel playing ER and it is strangely comforting. Josh has probably seen this one. I try to watch for medical inaccuracies, but when my eyes become dry and tired I close them. To calm my nerves, I hit Play on my memory and bite back a yawn.
I’m there again. The night I swallowed my goddamn pride and went to his apartment. My own personal happy place in my mind. I’m curled on his couch, the soft deep cushions cradling my back. I feel the dipping weight of him sitting down beside me, and I know as long as he’s there, I will be okay. I don’t know how long we do this. I sit here holding hands with the most intensely fascinating man I’ve ever known. He’s looking at me with fierce tenderness in his eyes. Eyes like he loves me.
Now I know I must be dreaming.
I WAKE WHEN the sun slices through the center of my pillow through a gap in the hotel drapes. My first thought is, No. I’m too comfortable.
My second thought is: I finally get to see Josh asleep.
Lying face-to-face with our pillows touching, we’ve been playing the Staring Game all night with our eyes closed. Each eyelash curves against his cheek, glossed and dark. I’d kill for lashes like those, but they always seem to be lavished upon the most masculine of men. He’s hugging my arm like a teddy bear. I don’t hate him. Not even a bit. It’s a disaster that I don’t. I smooth my fingers over his brow and he frowns. I press away the crease.
I prop up onto my elbow and see the bedside clock reads 12:42 P.M. I have to check several times. How did we sleep past noon? Our mutual exhaustion from the last few days has resulted in a pretty impressive sleep-in.
“Josh.” No point sticking with the formality of his full name when we’re asleep in the same bed. “What time’s the wedding?”
He jolts and opens his eyes. “Hi.”
“Hi. What time’s the wedding?” I try to slither out of bed but he hugs my arm tighter.
“Two P.M. But we have to get there earlier.”
“It’s getting close to one. In the afternoon.”
He’s a little shocked. “I haven’t slept this late since high school. We’re going to be late.” Regardless of this, he nudges my elbow like the kickstand of a bike and I flop back down onto the mattress. I manage to glimpse some bare arm. He’s wearing a black tank.
“Nice arms.”
I slide my hands down one, watching them undulate along each taut, defined curve. Then I do it again. He watches, and the next time I use my fingernails. Goose bumps. Mmmm. I bend my head to kiss them.
“You are something else, Joshua Templeman.” I push his hair away from his forehead. It’s ruffled and messy. I spend a few minutes grooming him.
“Am I trying too hard to seduce you?”
He rolls me closer. I never imagined Josh would be a cuddler. “Well, you could always try harder.”
He’s so sweet. Lying in bed with him is pretty luscious. Without thinking I ask something I’ve always wanted to know. “When was your last girlfriend?”
The question clangs like I’ve struck a gong. Well done, Lucy. Bring up other women while lying in bed with him.
“Um.” There’s a long pause. So long I think he’s either asleep or about to explain he was married. He’s too young. Surely. He tries again. “Well. Um.”
“Don’t tell me you’re waiting for your divorce to come through or something.”
His arm slides up the middle of my back, and my head rolls slowly onto his shoulder. I can barely keep my eyes open, I’m so comfortable. So warm. Surrounded by his scent, and cotton sheets.
“No one would be masochistic enough to marry me.”
I’m a little indignant for him. “Someone would. You’re completely gorgeous. And you’re neat. Tall and muscly. And employed. And have a nice car. And perfect teeth. You’re basically the opposite of most guys I’ve dated.”
“So they’ve all been . . . hideous messy trolls . . . unemployed . . . and smaller than you? How could that even be possible?”
“You’ve been reading my diary. The last guy I dated was so small he could wear my jeans.”
But he must have been nice. To be my opposite, he must have been so darn nice.” He looks at the wall.
“He was, I guess. But you can be nice. You’re being nice right now.”
I feel teeth on my collarbone, and I snort with amusement.
“Okay, you’re never nice.” The teeth are gone and a soft kiss is pressed against the same spot.
“So when did you break up with this miniature man?” He begins kissing my throat, lazily, with care and gentleness. When I tilt my head to let him have better access I see the clock radio again. Real-world o’clock is fast approaching. I wonder if I have a granola bar in my purse.
“It was in the couple of months prior to the B and G merger. It hadn’t been working for a while. It was such a stressful time at work, and I didn’t see him as much, and we agreed to take a break. The break never ended.”
“That’s a long time.”
“Hence me dry-humping you constantly. But you never answered me. Wait, don’t tell me, I don’t want to know.” The thought of him pleasuring another woman is too much.
“Why not?”
“Jealous,” I groan and he begins to laugh softly, but then sobers. He’s painfully awkward when he finally explains.
“I was seeing someone, but we broke up in the first week of moving to the new B and G building. She ended it.”
“B and G ruins another relationship.” I want to bite my tongue but the words won’t stop. “I bet she was tall.”
“Yeah, pretty tall.” He reaches to the side table and retrieves his watch.
“Blonde.”
He buckles it and doesn’t look at me. “Yes.”
“Goddamn it, why are they always Tall Blondies? I bet she has brown eyes and a tan, and her dad is a plastic surgeon.”
“You’ve been reading my diary.” He looks faintly disturbed.
I press my face into his shoulder. “I was guessing she’s my polar opposite too.”
“She was . . .” He lets out a wistful sigh and my heart twists. The territorial little cavewoman inside me appears at the entrance to her cave and scowls.
“She was just so nice.”
“Ugh, nice. Gross.”
“And her eyes were brown.” He watches me mull this over.
“Sounds like a legit reason to break it off. You know what? Your eyes are too blue. This just isn’t going to work.” I was hoping for a clever retort, but instead, his tone is withering.
“You’ve actually thought that this would work?”
Now it’s my turn to say um. I’m halfway recoiled into my own shell when he blows out a breath.
“Sorry. It came out wrong. I can’t help being such a cynical asshole.”
“This is not news to me.”
“It’s why I don’t have a girlfriend. They all trade me in for nice guys.”
He looks at the ceiling with such deep regret in his eyes I have an awful thought. He’s pining for someone. Tall Blondie broke his heart when she moved on to someone less complicated. It would certainly explain his bias against nice guys. I try to think of how to ask him, but he looks at the clock.
“We’d better hurry.”
Chapter 22
Please give me a crash course on the key players in your family. Any taboo topics of conversation? I don’t want to be asking your uncle where his wife is, only to find out she was murdered.” I rummage around in my bag.
“Well, before last night when I carried forty-five individual flower displays into the hotel because they couldn’t find her a fucking cart, I hadn’t seen my mom in a few months. She calls me most Sundays to keep me up to date with the news of neighbors and friends I never cared about. She was a surgeon, mainly hearts and transplants. Little kids and saintly types. She’s going to love you. Absolutely love you.”
I realize I’m pressing my hands over my own heart. I want her to love me. Oh, jeepers.
“She’ll say she wants to keep you forever. Anyway. My dad is a cutter.”
I flinch.
“It’s the nickname for surgeons. When you meet my dad, you’ll understand why. He was mainly on call for emergency room surgeries. I’d hear all sorts of things over breakfast. Some idiot got a pool cue through the throat. Car crashes, fights, murders gone wrong. He was forever dealing with drunks with gravel rash, women with black eyes and broken ribs. Whatever it was, he fixed it.”
“It’s a hard job.”
“Mom was a surgeon too, but she was never a cutter. She cared about the person on her table. My dad . . . dealt with the meat.”