Something Borrowed - Emily Giffin [120]
I realize that I have missed what James has been going on about, something about Madonna. "Do you like her?" he asks me.
"Not especially," I say. "She's okay."
"Usually Madonna elicits a stronger response. Usually people love her or hate her… Ever played that game? Love it or hate it?"
"No. What is it?"
James teaches me the rules of the game. He says that you throw out a topic or a person or anything at all, and both people have to decide whether they love it or hate it. Being neutral isn't allowed. What if you are neutral? I ask. I don't love or hate Madonna.
"You have to pick one or the other. So pick," he says. "Love her or hate her?"
I hesitate and then say, "Okay then. I hate her."
"Good. Me too."
"Do you really?" I ask.
"Well, actually, yes. She's talentless. Now you do one."
"Um… I can't think. You do another one."
"Fine. Water beds."
"So tacky. I hate them," I say. I'm not on the fence with that one.
"I do as well. Your turn."
"Okay… Bill Clinton."
"Love him," James says.
"Me too."
We keep playing the game as we finish our wine.
As it turns out, we both hate (or at least hate more than we love) people who keep goldfish as pets, Speedos, and Ross on Friends. We both love (or love more than we hate) Chicken McNuggets, breast implants (I lie here, just to be cool, but am surprised that he does not lie in the other direction—maybe he fears that I have them), and watching golf on television. We are split on rap music (I love; it gives him headaches), Tom Cruise (he loves; I still hate for dumping Nicole), the royal family (I love; he says he's a republican, whatever that means), and Las Vegas (he loves; I associate it with craps, dice-rolling, Dex).
I think to myself that I like (I mean, love) the game. Being extreme. Clear-cut. All or nothing. I do Dex in my mind, flip-flopping my decision twice—hate, love, hate, love. I remember that my mother once told me that the opposite of love isn't hate, it's indifference. She knew what she was talking about. My goal is to be indifferent to Dex.
James and I finish our dinner, decide to skip dessert, and go back to his place. He has a nice flat—larger than Ethan's—full of plants and cozy, upholstered furniture. I can tell that a woman recently moved out. To this point, half of the bookshelf is bare. The whole left side. Unless they kept their books segregated all along, which is doubtful, he has pushed all of his to one side. Maybe he wanted an exact percentage of how much more empty his life is without her.
"What was her name? Your ex?" I ask gingerly. Maybe I shouldn't be bringing her up, but I'm sure he assumes that Phoebe told me his situation. I'm sure she filled him in on mine as well.
"Katherine. Kate."
"How are you doing?"
"A bit sad. More relieved than anything. Sometimes downright euphoric. It's been over a long time."
I nod, as if I understand, although my situation could not be more different. Maybe Dex and I saved ourselves years of effort and pain if we were only going to end up like James and Kate anyway.
"And you?" he asks.
"Phoebe told you?"
I can tell that he is considering a fib, and then he says, "More or less… yes… How are you?"
"I'm fine," I say. "It was a short-lived situation. Nothing like your breakup."
But I don't believe my words. I have a flashback to July Fourth and feel a wave of pure, intense grief that catches me off guard with its intensity. I panic, thinking I'm going to cry. If James asks another thing about Dex, I will. Luckily, serious conversations seem not to be James's thing. He asks if he can get me something to drink. "Tea? Coffee? Wine? Beer?"
"A beer would be great," I say.
As he leaves