The Hating Game: A Novel

No you don’t,” he tells me. He walks into the building lobby with me under his arm like a rolled-up newspaper. He even checks his mailbox.

“Relax. I’m just going to let you see my apartment, so that we’re even.”

“I always thought you’d live underground somewhere, near the earth’s core,” I manage to say as he hits the button for the fourth floor. Watching his finger gives me flashbacks. I look at the red emergency button and the handrail.

I try to discreetly smell him. I bypass discreet and press my nose against his T-shirt and suck in two brimming lungfuls. Shameful addict. If he notices he doesn’t comment.

“Uncle Satan didn’t have any apartments available in my price range.”

It’s a big elevator and there’s no reason for me to remain under his arm like this. But four floors is such a short distance, there’s hardly any point in removing my arms from his waist. He’s got his fingertips in my hair.

I spread my hands slowly, one across his back, the other across his abdomen. Muscle and heat and flesh. I’m pressing my nose back against his ribs, inhaling again.

“Creep,” he says mildly, and we are walking down the hall. He unlocks a door and I am teetering in the doorway of Joshua Templeman’s apartment. He strips off my coat like a banana peel. I brace myself.

He hangs my coat near the door. “Come in, then.”

I am not sure what to expect. Some kind of gray cement cell maybe, devoid of personality, a huge flat-screen TV, and a wooden stool. A voodoo doll with black hair and red lipstick. A Strawberry Shortcake doll with a knife through her heart.

“Where’s the dart board with my picture on it?” I lean in a little farther.

“It’s in the spare room.”

It’s masculine and dark, lusciously warm, all the walls painted in chocolates and sand. There’s a zingy scent of orange. A big squashy couch sits center stage in front of every male’s prerequisite giant flat screen, which he hadn’t even turned off. He was in a big hurry. I step out of my shoes, immediately shrinking a little more. He disappears into the kitchen and I peer around the corner.

“Have a snoop. I know you’re dying to.” He begins to fill a shiny silver kettle, setting it on the stovetop. I let out a shaky breath. I’m not about to be ravished. No one boils water beforehand, except maybe in the Middle Ages.

He’s right of course. I’m dying to look. It’s why I came here. The Joshua I know is no longer enough. Knowledge is power, and I can’t get enough at this point. A silent, exhilarated squeal is lodged in my throat. This is so much better than only seeing the sidewalk outside his building.

There’s a bookcase lining an entire wall. By the window there’s an armchair and another lamp, with a stack of books illuminated beneath it. Even more books on the coffee table. I’m intensely relieved by this. What would I have done if he turned out to be a beautiful illiterate?

I like his lampshades. I step into one of the big bottle-green circles of light they cast on the oriental rug. I look down and study the pattern; vines of ivy curving and twisting. On the wall in his living room is a framed painting of a hillside, likely Italian, maybe Tuscany. It’s an original, not a print; I can see the tiny dabs made by a paintbrush, and the gold frame is ornate. There are buildings clustered on the hill; church domes and spires, and a darkening purple-black sky overhead. A freckling of the faintest silver stars.

There are some business magazines on the coffee table. There is a fancy, pretty cushion on the couch made of rows and rows of blue ribbons. It’s all so . . . unexpected. Not in the least bit minimal. It’s like a real human lives here. I realize with a jolt that his place is far lovelier than mine. I look under his couch. Nothing. Not even dust.

I spot a little origami bird made of notepaper I once flicked at him during a meeting. It is balanced on the edge of the bookshelf. I look at his profile in the kitchen as he arranges two mugs on the counter in front of him. How strange to imagine him putting my tiny folded scrap in his pocket and bringing it home.

On the next shelf down is a single framed photograph of Josh and Patrick posed in between a couple who I assume are his parents. His father is big and handsome, with a grim edge to his smile, but his mother almost glows out of the picture. She’s clearly bursting at the seams to have two such big handsome sons.

“I like your mother,” I tell him as he approaches. He looks at the photograph, and his lips press together. I take the hint and move on.

He’s got a lot of medical textbooks on the bottom shelf, which look pretty dated. There’s also an articulated anatomy statue of a hand, showing all of the bones. I fold the fingers down until only the middle one remains raised, and smirk at my cleverness.

“Why do you have these?”

“They’re from my other life.” He disappears into the kitchen again.

I hit Mute on the TV remote and the silence drenches us. I creep past him into his kitchen. It’s sparkling clean and the dishwasher is humming. The orange scent is his antibacterial counter spray. I notice my Post-it note with the kiss on it stuck to the fridge and point at it.

He shrugs. “You put so much hard work into it. Seemed a shame to waste it.”

I stand there in the lightbulb glow of his refrigerator and stare at everything. There’s a rainbow of color in here. Stalks. Leaves. Whiskery roots. Tofu and organic pasta sauce.

“My fridge is nothing but cheese and condiments.”

“I know.” I close the fridge and lean against it, magnets digging into my spine. I put my face up for a kiss but he shakes his head.

A little crestfallen, I look in his cutlery drawer and stroke the arm of the jacket hanging by the door. In the pocket I find a gas station receipt. Forty-six dollars paid in cash.

Everything is neat, everything in its place. No wonder my apartment broke him out in stress hives.

“My place is like a Calcutta slum in comparison to this. I need a basket for my gym gear too. Where’s all your junk? Where’s your too-hard pile?”

“You’ve confirmed your worst fears. I’m a neat freak.”

I’m the freak as I spend at least twenty minutes looking at practically everything he owns. I violate his privacy so badly I make myself feel a bit ill, but he stands there and lets me.

It’s a two-bedroom place and I stand in the middle of what is set up as a study, hands on hips. Huge computer monitor, some huge dumbbells. A closet filled with heavy winter sportswear and a sleeping bag. More books. I look lustfully at his filing cabinet. If he wasn’t here I’d read his electricity bills.

“Are you done?”

I look down at my hand. I’m holding an old matchbox car I found in one of the narrow drawers of a bureau. I’m clutching it in my hands like a crazy old pickpocket.

“Not yet.” I’m so scared I can barely say it.

Josh points, and I walk over to the remaining darkened doorway. He snaps on the light switch near my ear and I make a strangled gasp of delight.

His room is painted the blue of my favorite shirt of his. Robin’s-egg blue. Pale turquoise mixed with milk. I feel a strange unfurling in my chest, like a sense of deep déjà vu. Like I’ve been here before, and I will be again. I hug the doorframe.

“Is this your favorite color?”

“Yes.” There’s tension in his tone. Maybe he’s been teased before.

“I love it.” I sound reverent. It’s such an unexpected pop of bright against the dark chocolates and taupes, and I think how Josh it is. Something unexpected. Pale pretty blue. The dark brown headboard, plushly upholstered in leather, saves the room from femininity. He’s behind me, close enough to lean against, but I resist. The scent of his skin is fogging my brain. His bed is made and the linen is white, and I seem to find that little detail pretty sexy. His bathroom is polished to a high shine. Red towels and a red toothbrush. It looks like an Ikea catalog.

“I would never have picked you as someone who owns a fern. I had one but it went brown and crunchy.”

I go back to Joshua Templeman’s bed. I touch my finger to the edge of his pillowcase.

“Okay, you’re getting beyond weird now.”

I try to rattle the headboard but it’s solid.

“Stop it. Sit on the couch. I made you tea.”

I scuttle sideways like a crab into the living room. “How could you stand there and watch me snoop?”

I take the fancy cushion and stuff it in the small of my back. He gives me a mug and I hold it like a weapon.

“I snooped through your apartment. It’s your turn.”

I’m flustered, but try to hide it with a joke. “Did you find all the pictures I have of you with your eyes scratched out?”

“No, I never did find your scrapbook. I do know you’ve got twenty-six Papa Smurfs, and you don’t fold your bed sheets properly.”

He’s at the other end of the couch, head rolled gently to the side, lounging comfortably. He lolls in his office chair a lot but I’ve never seen his body make such stretched-out, loose shapes. I can’t stop looking at him.

“Sheets are too hard. My arms aren’t long enough.”

He sighs and shakes his head. “It’s no excuse.”

“Did you look in my underwear drawer?”

“Of course not. I’ve got to save something for next time.”

“Can I look in yours now?” I’m losing my wits. The threshold to his apartment is where I left my sanity. I sip the tea. It is like nectar.

“Now, Shortcake. We’re going to do something a bit unusual.”

He unmutes the TV and takes a sip from his mug and starts watching an old rerun of ER like we do this every night. I sit with a pounding heart and try to concentrate. Hey, this is no big deal. I’m sitting on Joshua Templeman’s couch.

I roll my head to the side and stare at him for the entire episode, watching the tense surgery scenes and ward conflicts reflected in his eyes.

“Am I bothering you?”

“No,” he replies absently. “I’m used to it.”

We are not normal. The minutes tick past and he drinks his coffee and I continue to stare. He’s got a shading of stubble I don’t see during working hours. My chest is tight with anxiety. My body and brain are conditioned for combat whenever I’m in his immediate radius. When he looks over, I jerk back. He puts his hand between us on the couch, palm up, and then looks back at the TV.

It’s like he’s put out a dish of seed and is now sitting very still, waiting for the cowardly little chicken to make a move. And it does take me a while. I tentatively pick up his hand and lace his fingers into mine. For a scary moment he doesn’t react, but as the warmth of his hand begins to glow into my palm, he gives me a deep, delicious squeeze. He lays our joined hands back down, picks up his mug with his other hand, and nods at the screen.

“I watch medical dramas to spite my dad. They drive him insane. You could never have this on in their house.”

“Why? Are they inaccurate?” I’m glad to be able to focus my attention on something other than this strange hand-related development.

“Oh, yeah. They’re complete fiction.”

“I prefer Law and Order. I love when a restaurant worker finds a body in a Dumpster.”

“Or a dog walker in Central Park.” He gestures at the screen with his coffee. “That so-called doctor isn’t even wearing gloves.” He scowls at the screen like he is offended to his core.

The art of holding hands is underrated and it’s embarrassing how much this simple act has me nearly breathless. The pads of each of his fingertips reach across the backs of my hands to my wrist.

Large men have always intimidated me. When I mentally line up my ex-boyfriends, they’ve all been definitely on the jockey end of the scale. Easier to deal with. More of an even match. There’s never been any of the astounding masculine architecture I’m sitting next to now.

The rounded caps of muscle on his shoulders balance on smoothly curving biceps. His elbow and wrist joints are like something from a hardware store. How would it feel to lie underneath a man as big as this? It would be staggering.

Josh watches ER and yawns, not at all suspecting I’m trying to estimate how big his rib cage is like a meat-eating predator.

It’s possible our size mismatch has added a friction to our interactions during our working hours. I’ve always tried to make myself stronger in the only way I can: my mind and my mouth. I think he’s converted me. I think I’m into muscles now. I’ve started to breathe a little hard, and he looks at me.

“What’s with the weird eyes? Relax.”

“I was thinking how big you are.”

I look at our joined hands. He carefully strokes the length of my palm with his thumb. When we look at each other again, his eyes are a little darker.

“I’ll fit you just right.”

Goose bumps scatter my skin. I press my thighs together and accidentally make a little pony-snort. I’m sexy as hell. I can’t resist; I look over my shoulder at his bedroom. It’s so close it would take maybe five big strides to be pushed backward down onto his mattress. His tongue could be on my skin in under thirty seconds.

“If you’re going to fit me so well, show me.”

“I will.”

Our palms are slick. The back of my neck feels hot under my hair. I need to be kissed again. This time, I’m going to slide my tongue against his until he groans. Until he presses something hard against me. Until he takes me into his bedroom and takes off his clothes.

The end credits of history’s longest episode of ER begin to roll. My heart is threatening to pop like a balloon.

He mutes the TV ominously and turns his head until we’re playing the Staring Game. I watch his eyes tip into black, breathless for whatever is about to happen. I can feel a pulse point in all the sensitive parts of my body. Between my legs is heavy and warm. I look at his mouth. He looks at mine. Then he looks at our joined hands.

“What happens now?”

He slants me a look. The next word out of his mouth is like the lash of a whip. “Strip.”

I flinch and he laughs to himself and turns the TV off. “I’m kidding. Come on, I’ll walk you down to your car.”

I am getting dangerously high off his smiles. This is my third one now? I’m stuffing them in my pockets. I’m cramming them into my mouth.

“But . . .” My voice is plaintive. “I thought . . .”

His eyebrows pinch together in a fake display of incomprehension.

“You know . . .”

“It’s rather hurtful to only be wanted for my body. I didn’t even get the date beforehand.” He looks down at our hands again.

“From what I can see, you’ve got a fabulous set of bones. What else should I want you for?” I start holding and squeezing some of his arm joints. It’s the worst seduction routine imaginable, but he doesn’t seem to mind. His elbow is too big to fit in my hand. My dress helpfully slips down a little when I reach for him, and his eyes trail down to the revealed cleavage.

When we make eye contact again, I realize that I’ve said the wrong thing.

He swiftly conceals it by frowning. “We’re not doing this tonight.”

I nearly snap back but as I watch his eyelids close and he takes a deep breath, I realize how badly I don’t want this evening to end. “If I ask you a question about yourself, will you answer?”

“Will you do the same?” He’s regaining composure, like I am.

“Sure.” Everything we do is tit for tat.

“Okay.” He opens his eyes and for a moment I can’t think of anything to ask that won’t be revealing too much of myself in the process.

What do you really think of me? Is this all some elaborate plan to mess me up? How badly hurt will I be?

I try to sound light. “Let’s make it a game, like everything else we do. It’s easier. Truth or Dare.”

“Truth. Because you’re dying for me to say dare.”

“What are the pencil codes in your planner? Is it for HR?”

He scowls. “What’s the dare?”

His scent is fogging spicily around me. The plush, warm couch conspires to tip me closer to his lap.

“You even need to ask?”

He stands up, and stands me up too. My hands curl into the waistband of his jeans and I feel nothing but firm male against the backs of my knuckles. My mouth is nearly watering.

“We can’t start this tonight.” He takes my fingers out of his jeans.

“Why not?” I think I’m begging.

“I’m going to need a little more time.”

“It’s only ten thirty.” I follow him to the front door.

“You’ve told me we’ll only do this once. I’m going to need a long time.” I feel a fluttery pinch between my legs.

“How long?”

“A long time. Days. Probably longer.”

My knees knock together. His eyes crinkle.

“Let’s call in sick tomorrow.” I am infatigable in my quest to get his clothes off. He looks at the ceiling and swallows hard.

“Like I’m going to waste my one big chance on a generic Monday night.”

“It won’t be a waste.”

“How can I explain it? When we were kids, Patrick would always eat his Easter egg straightaway. I could make mine last until my birthday.”

“When’s your birthday?”

“June twentieth.”

“What star sign are you? Cancer?”

“Gemini.”

“And why wouldn’t you eat it straightaway, exactly?” Wow, I sure know how to make things sound filthy.

He strokes my hair away from my shoulder. “It made Patrick sweat. He’d go into my room and obsess over it. He’d ask me every day if I’d eaten it. It drove him insane. It drove my parents goddamn insane. Even they’d beg me to eat it. When I finally did, it tasted better, knowing how bad someone else wanted it.”

He slides the shoulder of my red dress a half inch to the right and looks down at the skin, before leaning down and breathing me in. I feel the tickling suck of his inhale and feel a deep stab of empathy for the heavenly torture his Easter eggs suffered.

“It’s perverted to be turned on by a childhood story about two brothers, isn’t it?”

He presses his mouth to my shoulder and laughs. It vibrates through my entire body. I look over at his beautiful bedroom, all lit up with the light still burning. Blue and white, like a gorgeous Tiffany box. A gift with a ribbon. A room I want to spend days in. A room I’ll probably never want to come out of.

“Did you eat it a bite at a time, or did you snap one day and gorge on it?”

“I guess you’ll find out. Eventually.”

He picks up his keys and stands jingling them while I put my coat on. We don’t touch in the elevator. He walks me outside in silence, over to my car.

“Bye. Thanks for the tea.” Embarrassment has caught up with me. I’ve acted like a total nut tonight. Why is it I can act like a normal human with a guy like Danny, but with Josh I end up dorking out? Something is sharp in my hand and I look down. Oh shit, I’m still holding the matchbox car.

“I’m a freak.” I put my face in my hands and tiny wheels roll across my cheek.

“Yes.” He is gently amused.

“Sorry.”

“Keep it, it’s a present.”

The first thing he’s ever given me aside from the roses. I’m honored beyond words and study it afresh. It has the initials JT scratched onto the bottom.

“Is it a childhood treasure? It looks old.” I don’t think I’d give it back, even if he changed his mind.

“Maybe it’s the start of your new collection. I think we’ve done something kind of monumental for us. We had a ceasefire. For the full length of a TV episode.”

“You sure are good at holding hands.”

“I’m probably not good at a lot of things, but I will try to be,” he tells me. It’s the strangest thing to say and I feel another crack forming in the wall between us.

“Well, thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“No you won’t. I’ve got a day off.” He never, ever takes a day off.

“Doing anything special?” I look up at the apartments above and a wave of loneliness hits me.

“I have an appointment.”

Just when I think I’ve got a handle on this kaleidoscope of weird feelings, it twists and something new surprises me. I feel like I’ve been told Christmas is canceled. No Josh, sitting across from me like always? I have to bite my lip to silence myself.

Please, I beg myself. Please hate Josh again. This is too hard.

“You’re not going to miss me, are you? You can manage one little Tuesday on your own.” He touches the little toy car in my hand and spins the wheels a little.

I try to be nonchalant, but he probably sees through it.

“Miss you? I’ll miss looking at your pretty face, but that’s about it.”

I hope it landed somewhere in the vicinity of faint sarcasm. I haul my quivering body into my car. He taps the window to make me lock the door. It takes me several attempts to get the key into the ignition.

Josh stands motionless in my rearview mirror until he’s a speck, one person among billions, but I cannot tear my eyes away until he disappears altogether.

When I get home, I still have the Matchbox car in my hand.