The Hating Game

It was like Joshua was sitting at a third chair at our romantic little table, watching, judging. Reminding me of all the things I was missing. When I looked at Danny’s mouth, I begged myself to feel something.

When the streets get too unfamiliar, I pull over and spend countless minutes battling with my GPS settings, my clumsy fingers pressing all the wrong buttons, a blue square of paper between my teeth.

I call the GPS woman the worst names I can think of. I beg her to stop. But she doesn’t. Like a total bitch, she directs me to Josh’s apartment building.

I’m definitely not going into his building. I’m not totally pathetic. I park on a side street and look up at the building, wondering which glowing square represents him.

Josh, why have you ruined me?

My phone buzzes. It’s a name I’ve barely ever seen on my screen.

Joshua Templeman: Well? Suspense, etc.

I lock my car and pull my coat tighter as I walk. I try to think of how to reply. I’ve got nothing, frankly. My pride is ridiculously wounded. I should have tried harder tonight. Convinced myself a little more. But I’m so tired of trying.

I compose a reply. It is an emoticon of a smiling poo. It sums everything up.

I decide to make one full lap of his apartment building, praying I’m not abducted in the meantime. I don’t need to worry too much. The rain has cleared the streets of all but the most dedicated of stalkers. My red heels echo loudly as I complete my reconnaissance.

It’s strange, walking along, trying to look at things through someone else’s eyes, let alone your sworn enemy’s. I look at the cracks on the pavement, and wonder if he treads on these when he takes a walk down to that little organic grocery store. I wish I lived near a store like that; maybe I wouldn’t eat so much macaroni and cheese.

I’ve always suspected people in our lives are here to teach us a lesson. I’ve been sure Josh’s purpose is to test me. Push me. Make me tougher. And to a certain degree it’s been true.

I pass a pane of glass, and pause, studying my reflection. This dress is as cute as a button. I’ve got color back in my cheeks and lips, most of it cosmetic. I think of the roses. I still can’t reconcile it. They were from Joshua Templeman. He walked into a florist, of his own volition, and wrote three words on a card that changed the state of play.

He could have written anything. Any of the following would have been perfect.

I’m sorry. I apologize. I messed up. I’m a horrible asshole. The war is over. I surrender.

We’re friends now.

But instead, those three little words. You’re always beautiful. The strangest admission from the last person on earth I’d expect. I let myself think the thought I’ve been blocking so admirably.

Maybe he’s never hated me. Maybe he’s always wanted me.

Another chirp from my pocket.

Joshua Templeman: Where are you?

Where, indeed. Never you mind, Templeman. I’m skulking behind your building, looking at Dumpsters, trying to decide if that’s your regular cafe across the street or if you ever walk in the tiny park with the little fountain. I’m looking at the way the light shines off the pavement and looking at everything with these brand-new eyes.

Where am I? I’m on another planet.

Another text.

Joshua Templeman: Lucinda. I’m getting annoyed.

I don’t reply. What’s the use? I need to chalk tonight up as another awkward life experience. I look down the street and can see my car at the end of the block, waiting patiently. A cab cruises past, slows, and when I shake my head it speeds off.

Is this how stalking begins? I look up and see a moth circling a streetlight. Tonight, I understand that creature completely.

One pass along the front of his building and I’m done. I’ll turn my head to look at where the mailboxes are. Perhaps I might want to leave him a death threat. Or an anonymous dirty note, wrapped in a pair of underpants the size of a naval flag.

I lengthen my stride to pass by the front doors, catching a glimpse of the tidy lobby, when I see someone walking ahead of me. A man, tall, beautifully proportioned, hands in pockets, temper and agitation in his stride. The same silhouette I saw on my first day at B&G. The shape I know better than my own shadow.

Of course, on this new planet I’ve traveled to, there is no one but Josh.

He glances over his shoulder, no doubt hearing my insanely loud shoes stop in their tracks. Then he looks again. It’s a double take for the record books.