The Hating Game

“I’m a one-night stand. This is everything I’ve been trying to avoid. I’ve been trying to build something, not give you some sense of closure.”

“No! Hey. How have I made you feel this way?” I tug on his elbow until he faces me.

“You’re constantly talking like it’s already over. A lipstick kiss to remember you by? Why am I going to need reminding, exactly?”

“We’re not working together much longer.”

“I haven’t wanted you this long, and gone through so much, and given up so much, to have you for one night. It’s not enough.”

He’s right, of course. The interview result hangs over us like a scythe. A flash of impatience hits me.

“Can I stay at your place tonight?” It’s all I can think of to say. “Can I sleep in your bed?”

“I guess,” he says sulkily, and I tug him by the loops on his jeans over to his suitcase.

I look back at the bed. How so much could have changed in one space? Maybe he’s thinking the same thing. He kisses my eyebrow so gently I feel tears begin to prick behind my eyes.

I catch a glimpse of the receipt when we check out. It was roughly a week’s rent for this magical hotel room. He slashes his signature like Zorro onto it, and hugs me close. My cheek presses against his perfect pectoral.

“And did you have a nice stay?”

The elegantly groomed receptionist is smiling a little too widely at Josh as she processes the checkout. She seems to be willfully ignoring my presence, or maybe she’s just dazzled. I look at her slicked-back blond-coil hairdo. Her chalky pink lipstick is too bright against her tan. Hotel Barbie.

“Yes, thanks,” he replies absently. “Great water pressure in the shower.”

I look up at his face and watch the corner of his mouth quirk, the little smile line deepening.

The receptionist is definitely imagining him in the shower. Her eyes stray from bicep to computer screen. Screen to his face. She staples and folds and searches for the perfect little envelope for his receipt, even though the customer at the next counter didn’t get one.

She fiddles and does a dozen other little things so she can look at little segments of him. She tells him about their loyalty program and how his next check-in will be with a free bottle of wine, and probably her, draped across his bed. She reconfirms his address and phone number.

I’m gimlet-eyed with annoyance. He doesn’t notice, and begins kissing my temple. Who can blame her, though?

A man built like this, with a face like this, being so ridiculously sweet and tender? I’d die a little too, watching this, and I’m the one on the receiving end. It’s like seeing a bruised nightclub bouncer cuddling a tutu-clad toddler, or a cage fighter blowing a kiss to his sweetheart in the front row. Brute, raw masculinity contrasted with gentleness is the most attractive thing on earth.

Josh is the most attractive thing on earth.

I watch her eyes harden speculatively as she glances at me. I spread my hand across his chest. It says, mine. The tiny jealous cavewoman in me can’t resist.

“Shall we bring your car?”

“Yes,” Josh says at the same moment I say, “No.”

“No, we’re having breakfast. Can we leave our bags here?”

“Of course.” She checks Josh’s bare left hand. My bare left hand.

“Thank you, Mr. Templeman.”

“I need a fake wedding band on you if we ever came back,” I grumble as we walk through the lobby to the restaurant.

Josh nearly trips over his own foot. “Why on earth would you say that?”

We walk past the ballroom and I can see cleaners taking down the huge bunches of Mindy-pink balloons.

“The receptionist wanted to jump on you. I can’t blame her, but sheesh. I was standing right there. What am I, invisible?”

Josh looks at me sideways. “How primal.”