The Hating Game

“Yes, that’s obvious.” His little brow-crease is deepening. “I am too. You look exhausted.”

“I couldn’t sleep. Why are you freaking out?”

He ignores me. “You can sleep in the car.” He opens the door for me. He tries to fold me in but I dig my heels in.

“The interview. The job.”

“Fuck it. The interview will happen. We will deal with the outcome.” He takes my shoulders in his hands.

“It’s not that easy. I lost someone important to me in the merger, my friend Val. I kept my job, she lost her job, and now we’re no longer friends. Just as an example,” I hastily tack on. I nearly told Joshua Templeman that he is important. I just hinted that we’re friends. He narrows his eyes.

“She sounds like an asshole.”

“It’s why I’m a lonely loser. Look, I’m meeting your family tomorrow. Let’s face it, we’re almost certainly seeing each other naked sometime soon. Tiny bit of pressure.”

He ignores me again. “This is our last chance to sort our shit out.”

I still hesitate, stubborn as a mule.

“This weekend is going to be hard for me. But with you there, maybe it won’t be so bad.”

Maybe it’s the surprise of that little admission, but my knees weaken enough to allow me to get into the car and momentarily relinquish control to the last person I ever thought I would.

I feel weak with defeat. Even when packing my bag and buying a dress, I’d felt sure I’d find some last-minute way to escape or get out of it. Only in my worst-case-scenario imaginings did I think I’d be in his car, exiting the B&G underground parking lot.

The sun drops lower in the sky as he drives us through the heavy afternoon traffic. It seems like everyone in the city has had the same idea: It’s time to escape into the pale, pretty hills.

I have to break this awkward silence. “So how long is this drive?”

“Four hours.”

“Google Maps says five,” I say without thinking.

“Yeah, if you drive like a grandmother. Glad I’m not the only one who’s done some hometown cyber-stalking.”

He sighs as a car cuts us off, braking. “Asshole.”

“How are we going to pass four hours?” I know what I want to do. Lie here in this warm leather seat and stare at him. I want to lean across and press my face against the firm pad of his shoulder. I want to breathe, and imprint it all into my memory, for when I need it one day.

“We manage it all the time.”

“So, where are we staying? Please don’t say your parents’ house.”

“My parents’ house.”

“Oh holy fuck. Why? Why?” I scrabble upright in my seat.

“I’m kidding. The wedding reception’s at a hotel. Patrick has made a booking of a bunch of rooms. We mention the wedding when we check in.”

“Is it seedy?”

“Sorry, no, not remotely. I’ll make sure you get your own room.”

Seems he’s dead serious about his promise to not lay a finger on me. It’s a bucket of cold water on the fire burning in my chest, and I’m left with the charred remains, unsure if I’m relieved.

“Why don’t you stay with your parents then?”

He nods. “I don’t want to.” His mouth turns down unhappily and I impulsively pat his knee.