The Hating Game

“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.

“I’m going to keep her in my pocket. What a doll! Come and sit up front with us here. This is Josh’s father. Anthony, look at this little thing. Anthony, this is Lucy.”

“Nice to meet you,” he replies gravely, and I blink in shock. It’s Joshua on time delay. Still ridiculously handsome, he’s a stately silver fox, gravely upholstered in heavy tailoring. We’re the same height and he’s seated, so he must be an absolute giant when standing. Elaine puts her hand on the side of his neck, and when he looks up at her the faintest smile catches at his lips.

Then he swings his terrifying laser-eyes to me. Genetics never cease to astonish me.

“Nice to meet you,” I return. We stare at each other. Perhaps I should try to charm him. It’s an ancient reflex and I press pause on it. I examine it. Then I decide against it.

“Hello, Joshua,” he says, redirecting his lasers. “Been a while.”

“Hi,” Josh says, and snags me by my wrist, pulling me in to sit between himself and his mother. A buffer. I remind myself to admonish him for it later.