What I want to say is, Speak to me. Engage with me. I can’t fix anything if you ignore me.
I watch him continue to type, his face expressionless as a crash test dummy. Stacks of sales figures are to his right and he slashes a green highlighter across them. Meanwhile, I am at complete loose ends with no Helene.
“I’ll clean your apartment for you. I’ll be your slave for the day. I’ll . . . bake you a cake.”
It’s like a soundproof pane has dropped in between us. Or maybe I’ve been erased. I should let him do his work in silence, but I can’t stop talking. He can’t hear me anyway, so it won’t matter if I say this next thing out loud.
“I’ll go with you to the wedding.”
“Be quiet, Lucinda.” So he can hear me.
“I’ll be your designated driver. You can get drunk. You can get so drunk and you’ll have the best time. I’ll be your chauffeur.”
He picks up his calculator and begins to tap. I persevere.
“I’ll drive you home and put you to bed, like you did for me. You can vomit into Tupperware and I’ll rinse it. Then we’ll be even.”
He rests his fingertips on his keyboard and closes his eyes. He seems to be reciting a string of obscenities in his mind. “You don’t even know where the wedding is.”
“Unless it’s in North Korea, I’ll go. When is it?”
“This Saturday.”
“I’m free. It’s settled. Give me your address and I’ll pick you up and everything. Name the time.”
“Pretty presumptuous of you to assume I won’t have a date.”
I nearly open my mouth to retort that I know for a fact I’m his plus-one. Just in time, my cell phone rings. Danny. I swivel my chair a full one hundred eighty degrees. Hasn’t he ever heard of texting?
“Hi, Lucy. Feeling any better? Are we still on for dinner?”
I drop my voice to a whisper. “I’m not sure. I have to go pick up my car and I’ve been feeling pretty shitty.”
“I’ve heard so much about this car of yours.”
“I think it’s silver . . . that’s as much as I can remember of it.”
“I’ve booked a table for seven tonight. Bonito Brothers. You said you like it?”
There’s not much choice left then. It’s hard to get a reservation there. I try not to sigh.
“Bonito Brothers is good. Thanks. I won’t have a huge appetite but I’ll do my best. I’ll meet you there.”
“See you tonight.”
I hang up and sit facing the wall for a bit.
“Danny Fletcher has a clichéd evening in store for you. Italian restaurant, checkered tablecloth. Probably a candle. He’ll push the last meatball to you with his nose. Second date, right?”
“Let’s change the subject.” I pretend to start typing. My screen fills with error messages.
“Most guys would try for a kiss on the second date.”
That stops me in my tracks, and the look in my eye is probably crazy. The idea of Joshua making an effort on a second date is inconceivable. Joshua on a date, period.
I imagine Josh, seated across from a beautiful woman, laughing and smiling. The same smile he once gave me. His eyes lit up, anticipating a good-night kiss. I’ve got a dark ball of pressure burning in my chest. I try to clear my throat but it doesn’t work.
I’m not the only one looking a little crazy. “Just say it. You look like you’re about to explode.”
“Do yourself a favor and stay home tonight. You look terrible.”
“Thank you, Doctor Josh. Why does Fat Little Dick call you that, anyway?”
“Because my parents and brother are doctors. It’s his way of reminding me I’ve failed to reach my potential.” His tone indicates I am the town simpleton, and he gets to his feet. I trail after him down the hall toward the copy room. He doesn’t slow so I grab him by the arm.
“Wait a minute. I’m trying to fix this. You’re right, you know. I did come in here today hoping these last days together might be different.”
He opens his mouth, but I steamroll ahead. He’s letting me hold him against the wall, but we both know he could pick me up like a chess piece if he wanted to.
Some heeled shoes are clopping toward us sedately as a Clydesdale and my frustration mounts. I need to clear this up, now, or I am going to have an aneurism.
The cleaner’s closet will have to do. It’s thankfully unlocked, and I walk in and stand among the chemicals and vacuum cleaners.
“Get in here.”
He obeys reluctantly and I pull the door shut and lean on it. We remain silent as the heels round the corner and continue past.
“This is cozy.” Josh kicks his toe against a bulk quantity of toilet paper. “Well? What?”
“I’ve screwed up. I know I have.”
“There’s nothing to screw up. You’ve pissed me off. The status quo is maintained.”
He leans an elbow on a shelf to drag his hand tiredly through his hair, and his shirt slides up an inch or so out of his trouser waistband. We’re so close I can hear the fabric stretch and slide over his skin.
“I thought maybe the war might be over. I thought we might be friends.”
His eyes flash with disgust, so I might as well put it all out there. “Josh, I want to be friends with you. Or something. I have no idea why, because you’re awful.”
He holds up a finger. “There’s an interesting couple of words in among what you just said.”
“I say a lot of interesting words. And you never hear any of them.” I ball my hands until the knuckles crack, and the realization hits me across the head.
The reason for my rising distress is this: I will never see his hidden softness again. I think of his hands braced on either side of my pillow, talking me through the fever. His hands passing easily over my skin.
Right now he looks like he’d burn me at the stake. He was my friend once, for one delirious night, and it’s all I’ll ever get.
“Or something,” he uses his fingers to add quotations. “You said you wanted to be friends, or something. What exactly does or something entail? I want to know my options.”
“It probably entails not completely hating each other. I don’t know.” I try to sit on a stack of boxes and they crush underneath me so I stand back up.
“So, what is he, your boyfriend?” He has hands on hips and the small room shrinks to microscopic.
He’s close to me now. Whatever divine soap Josh uses, I need some. I’ll keep a bar of it in my top drawer to scent my lingerie. I feel my cheeks beginning to heat.
“You couldn’t care less if I date Danny. You can’t believe any guy would want to be with me.”
Instead of replying, he holds out his hand, palm up. His shirt sleeves are still rolled, and I look at the strong tendons and cords in his wrists. I notice for the first time he has those muscly-guy raised veins in his inner arms.
“Touching at work is against HR policy.” My throat is bone dry. Not touching me should be illegal.
He stares expectantly at me until I slide my hand into his. It’s hard to resist someone holding out his hand this way, and it’s completely impossible if it’s Joshua. I register the heat and size of his fingers before he turns over my hand to inspect the scratch on my palm, handling my hand like an injured dove.
“Seriously though, did you clean this? Rose thorns can have fungus on them. The scratch can get infected.” He presses around the wound, fussing and frowning. How can he be these two different men? A second realization hits me. Perhaps I am a determining factor. The concept is scary. The only way I can get him to drop his guard is to drop mine. Maybe I can change everything.
“Josh.”
When he hears me shorten his name, he folds up my fingers and gives me my hand back. It’s time to try this. I pray I’m not wrong.
“I wanted you there on Friday night. You, and only you. And if you don’t want to be friends with me, I’ll try to play the Or Something Game with you.”
There’s a long pause and he doesn’t react. If I’ve misjudged this, I will never live it down. My heart is pulsing uncomfortably fast.
“Really?” He is skeptical.
I push him against the door and feel a thrill when I hear the thud of his weight against it.