The Hating Game

“I was hoping to—” Danny begins, but Joshua shoots him his own look: Whatever you’re trying? Don’t. The last person in the line gives me their cash, and we are left standing in a fog of weird tension.

Chapter 8

I’ll talk to you in a bit,” Danny promises me and boards the bus. I don’t blame him. Joshua has his arms crossed like a nightclub bouncer.

“What the hell was that about?” I ask Joshua. He shakes his head.

Helene and Mr. Bexley swerve out in their respective Porsche and Rolls to meet us there. Of course, they’re not going to participate in the team building.

They’re going to sit on the balcony overlooking the paintball park and drink coffee and hate each other’s guts.

“Let’s go,” Joshua says and pushes me onto the bus. There are only two seats left, and they’re right up front. Joshua has reserved them with stacks of clipboards. Danny leans into the aisle and shrugs regretfully.

Joshua sent the branch an email instructing us to change into old casual clothes at lunch. Things we won’t mind ruining. I’m wearing skintight jeans and a stretched-out vintage Elvis T-shirt. It used to belong to my dad. Fat, jumpsuit Elvis, microphone raised to his lips. It slides loosely off my shoulder. The look I was trying to emulate was Kate Moss at a music festival. Judging by Joshua’s face when he saw me, I’m a tragic loser. He did, however, look at the emerald-green strap of my sports bra. I know that for a fact.

Joshua also got changed into casual clothes. While he folded his black business shirt neatly on his desk like a retail assistant, I caught my reflection on the wall diagonal to him; a slack-jawed mask of idiotic lust. Firstly, Joshua is wearing jeans. They’re all beaten-up and worn, with ice-blue paint flecks, and they pull taut across his thighs as he sits. I can’t fault those jeans.

Next, he’s wearing a T-shirt. The soft, threadbare cotton melts all over his torso as he slouches. The shapes going on under that T-shirt are . . . The sleeves are cutting gently into biceps that are making me . . . But it’s his flat stomach that I’m . . . The skin is all gold like—

“May I help you with something?” He smoothes down the T-shirt. My eyes slither along behind his hand. I want to scrunch up that T-shirt into a bowl and eat it with a dessert spoon.

“I never thought you’d wear . . .” I gesture vaguely at his fabulous torso.

“You thought I’d be paintballing in Hugo Boss?”

“Hugo Boss, eh? Didn’t they design the Nazi uniforms?”

“Lucinda, I swear.” He closes his eyes for nearly a full minute. He pinches the bridge of his nose. I’d swear he’s trying to not laugh, or scream.

I cross my eyes at him, poke my tongue out, and say, “Derrrr.” He doesn’t crack. Defeated, I twist up and look over the seats until I see Danny’s ruffled hair. We wave to each other and pull identical faces to indicate how unhappy we are with our seatmates. Then it occurs to me my boobs are probably a couple of inches from Joshua’s head and I slide back down.

“You and him? It’s getting a little pathetic.” Joshua is testy.

The word cuts me deep. Pathetic. He’s called me that before. We’ve circuited back neatly to the same place we’re most comfortable. I had wondered how things would play out after the kiss, after the tears, the wounded sadness in his eyes. The apology. The silence that has stretched through each day since.

According to Joshua, we’re back to hate, and I can’t do it much longer. I can’t keep it going. It’s taking too much out of me. What was once as easy as breathing is now an uphill battle. I’m so tired I’m aching.

“Sure. I’m pathetic.” I watch the road ahead, and the Staring Game is going on, one-sided. I ignore him. No one can see us except the driver, if she chose to look, but she’s got traffic to contend with.

“Shortcake.”

I ignore him.

“Shortcake.”

“I do not know anyone by that name.”

“Play with me for a minute,” he says it softly, right in my ear. I turn my face to his and try to regulate my breathing.

“HR,” I manage. His face is so close to mine I can taste his breath, hot mint sweetness. I can see the tiny stripes in his irises, tiny unexpected sparks of yellow and green. There are so many blues I think of galaxies. Little stars.

“Are your roses still alive?”

Is there anything this man does not know? I try to not notice that our elbows are touching a little. Elbows are not erogenous. At least, I didn’t think they were.

“Who’d you hear about them from?”

“Well, everyone knows Danny Fletcher is your dream man. Roses and whatnot. Candlelit lunches for two in the work kitchen.” He looks at my lips, and I lick them. He looks at my bra strap, and my knees press together.