Page 43 of How We Play the Game
“Next kitchen?” I propose, yanking my attention away to grab my controller off the couch between us—my pinky finger brushing against his. The contact lasts for barely a second, but it’s still enough to send a jolt through me.
I can hear Ivan let out a quiet sound of amusement. “If you think you can handle it.”
If I weren’t actively avoiding contact, I’d shove my knee against his. Instead, I settle for sticking my tongue out at himmoments before we load up the next round—a very civilized and mature response.
As expected, the next level is more challenging than the first. We’ve upgraded to burritos and the occasional fireball launching at us from out of nowhere. People aren’t kidding when they say the service industry is hell. My stomach sinks when we miss moving on to the next round by a single order, a groan threatening to escape my lips, but I owe it to our fake relationship to be optimistic for once.
“We’re just getting the lay of the land,” Ivan says before quickly opting in for a second match.
Thankfully, for both Ivan’s and my sanity, it seems like he was right. We’re able to find our same rhythm from the first round now that we know what to expect. Dodging fireballs comes with its own set of complications, but with Ivan on meats, rice, and washing dishes and me on tortillas and serving, we’re able to make it through the round with two gold stars and no bodily or mental damage done to either of us.
The silence is welcome as we move on to the next round, and then the next. Our routine gets more and more solidified with every passing round. Within just a few minutes we’re masters of communication—at least when it comes to the virtual kitchen. Whether that skill development will carry over to our real-life interactions is still up in the air, but progress is progress.
“What’s your favorite color?” Ivan asks midway through the fifth—or is it sixth?—level. We’ve upgraded to burgers, fries, and chicken tenders all at once. Guy Fieri would be so proud.
“What?” I ask, brows furrowing as I focus on dashing toward the fryer to grab the chicken before it can burn.
“You strike me as a red type,” Ivan continues, effortlessly gliding across the screen to deliver our latest order. From the lack of frantic button-mashing sounds, he’s not nearly as focused as I am. “But I could see blue.”
Unlike him, I need my full attention to concentrate. Once we’ve finished off the level, barely making enough to move on to the next stage, I work on processing what the hell he just asked me. “Why?”
For all I know he could be trying to find new ways to throw me off. I wouldn’t put it past him to have a spreadsheet of people’s favorite things on the off chance he runs into them on the street. Just a trick to make them feel special, like he remembered. Then again, if they do end up feeling special, does it matter how he remembered? I don’t enjoy this line of thought.
“Because it’s what you said we should be doing?” he responds as he sets his controller down. So much for moving on to the next round. “Learning each other’s favorite colors and swapping social security numbers?”
Leave it to him to make my own words come back to bite me. “I didn’tactuallymean …” I trail off, not sure how to finish that sentence. Because I’m not sure what I meant. Sure, getting to know each other feels like a pretty important part of pretending to date each other, but is anyone actually going to quiz us on basic facts about each other?
Was I just looking for ways to get out of whatever Kavi had planned because the thought of having to spend more time with Ivan than I have to sets me on edge in a not altogetherunpleasant way? Definitely still unpleasant, on some levels. Even when he’s not “on,” he’s got a certain level of snark, which I would admire in someone who I wasn’t actively trying to work with. But more than that it’s the nagging fear that I won’t hate this. That I’ll start believing what he says. That I’ll end up letting him make me feel special, and forget it’s all a lie.
But, since he’s off the clock, it might be kind of novel to hang out with Ivan. Not VANE, not the Ivan Hunt thousands of people love and adore and, more recently, love to hate. Just … Ivan.
Not that I’d ever say that out loud.
“Purple,” I finally respond, after I’ve been quiet long enough that Ivan has been eyeing me like I might explode any second.
He seems taken aback, but also amused. “Really? Why?”
“Because I look dope as hell in purple.” If my hair wasn’t tied up in a messy “I need to concentrate” bun, I’d flip it over my shoulder.
Ivan chuckles as he takes in my purple dress “Point taken.”
Well, I’m not sure how I expected him to respond, but it definitely wasn’t that.
Heat floods my cheeks until I feel like I’ve come down with the world’s most sudden fever. Goose bumps blossom along my bare arms even though the room is a perfectly pleasant temperature. I stay laser focused on the screen, busying myself with adjusting the game’s display settings to give myself something to do while I struggle to both process Ivan’s response, and think of a way to reply that isn’tequally loaded. It’d only be fair if I threw a bomb back into his court, but I think if I attempted to match his energy with a sly compliment or a wink, I might break my brain in the process.
“And let me guess,” I finally say once the game’s settings have been thoroughly tinkered with. “Your favorite color is the same as whoever you’re talking to, because you haveso muchin common and should be best friends forever.”
Sarcasm, our forte. Or mine, at least. Something I know I can match blow for blow and puts us firmly back into neutral compliment-free territory.
“I’m notthatmanipulative—have a little faith in me,” Ivan replies with another laugh. He’s just full of those today, isn’t he?
The problem is, now my interest is actually piqued. I’m able to bite my tongue as we start up another round, but curiosity gets the better of me about a minute in. “So … favorite color?”
Ivan doesn’t respond at first, focusing on tossing burger buns to my half of the kitchen before replying, “Gray.”
“That’s just as—”
“It’s a cross-season neutral!” he interjects immediately. The fact that he already had an excuse prepared just proves my point, though.
