What’s that look in his eyes? Pity? Disappointment? Disgust? Ugh, I probably look and smell completely horrible right now.
“So you just showed up?” I try to pull out of his arms. “How’d you even get in, you creeper?” It’s supposed to be a joke, but my voice sounds harsh, even to me.
Why won’t he stop looking at me like that?
“You left your keys in the door,” he says. His own voice is cold, even.
I don’t blame him for his tone. I’m a mess right now.
“I’m—I’m okay,” I tell him, trying once more to escape his arms. I grab the towel rack and pull myself awkwardly to my feet.
Calder rises too. He reaches around me, into the shower, and cranks on the water.
“In,” he says.
I want to argue, just for the sake of my pride, but honestly, what dignity do I have left at this point? I’m drunk and covered in vomit. I reach for my shirt, but then I remember that was one of the few things I managed to pull off before tumbling into bed. The sudden realization that I’m half naked only makes my situation that much worse. I can’t even bring myself to look at him as I reach around to unclasp my bra. The motion knocks me off balance, but Calder’s hand shoots out to steady me.
He doesn’t say anything. But after I struggle for another moment he reaches behind me and unhooks my bra. Slides the straps off my shoulders. Drops the bra on the ground. His hands move to my skirt next. He undoes the zipper, slips the skirt down my legs. My panties, too. His hands are steady, his touch almost clinical. He skims right past the places he used to linger. He hardly seems to notice I’m naked at all.
When my clothes are nothing more than a puddle around my ankles, he leans over, pushes the shower curtain aside, and runs his hand through the water to test the temperature. Then he helps me inside.
The water is cold. It’s a shock to my liquor-warmed body, and I gasp. But it’s a good feeling, this coolness running down my skin. For a moment, a brief moment, I start to feel better. a coherent response. somethingpa
And then I notice Calder is taking off his shirt.
“What are you doing?” I say.
“You can hardly stand. And I’m not getting my clothes wet.” He drops his shirt. I expect him to lean over then, support me and my poor wobbly legs. But he reaches for his pants next, pulls those off too. And then he’s stepping into the shower beside me.
“What are you doing?” I ask again.
He doesn’t reply. Instead he reaches down and grabs my soap. One hand holds me by the waist, steadying me, while the other brings the soap up to my shoulder. He moves it gently across my skin. Over my collarbone, down my arm. My chest next. The suds slide down across my nipples, but his fingers avoid the sensitive pink nubs. He moves the soap across my stomach next, then lower. Something clenches inside of me as he moves toward the crest between my legs, but once again he refrains from any overtly sexual touch.
Suddenly he’s crouching, and I have to reach out and steady myself on his shoulders. He slides the soap down one leg, then the other.
“Turn around,” he says.
I obey. This time I have to lean my hands against the wall for support. The tile is cold beneath my fingers.
Calder cleans the back of my legs before rising again. He’s a wall of heat at my back, a stark contrast to the cool water pouring down over our heads. The soap glides over my lower back, up my spine. Across my shoulder blades. He’s not touching me at all anymore. He keeps the soap between us.
I want to say something. To apologize for being such a mess. To beg him to forgive me. But my tongue is thick in my mouth. I’m not sure he even wants to hear it. He hasn’t even looked me in the eye since he threw me in here. Not that I blame him. He has every right to be pissed at me. I never meant for him to see me like this.
The soap moves up my neck and down again. And then it’s gone. I hear him set it back on the ceramic dish.
He still doesn’t touch me.
I lean forward and press my forehead against the tile. The water helped clear my mind at first, but now everything’s clouding over again. I’m dizzy, and my stomach hasn’t quite settled yet.
And Calder just stands there, still and silent behind me.
“Are you mad?” I hear myself saying. It’s hardly audible above the water.
He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t move. He probably didn’t hear me.
And then suddenly his arms are around my waist, his chest against my back, his mouth in my hair.
“No,” he murmurs. “No, of course not.”
He releases me suddenly, then leans over and grabs some shampoo.
Right. There’s probably still vomit in my hair.
He takes his time washing my hair. It’s still not sexual, but his touch is soothing. His fingers move in slow circles against my scalp. I want him to say something else, but he doesn’t. He just washes my hair, and when he’s done he reaches around me and turns off the water.
I’m shivering. Calder leans out of the shower and grabs the one clean towel still hanging on the rack. He wraps it around me and rubs me dry.
“I drank a little too much.” I don’t know why I say it. It’s already obvious. But I don’t like the silence.
“I wasn’t—wasn’t paying attention,” I continue. “I wasn’t trying to get dr—to get drunk. I’ve just had a crappy week.”
But he knows that already. He doesn’t say anything.
This wasn’t why I contacted him. I had an awful week, but he’s had an awful year. How did I manage to twist this around, to make it about me? I wanted to make things better for him. I look up at him, and for the first time Calder is looking back at me, and in the light of his beautiful eyes my problems seem so, so stupid.
I really am pathetic.
“What about you?” I say. “Are you okay?”
Something flickers behind his eyes. Pain? Despair? I’m still drunk, but I know I’m not imag the site where Garrett contributes6Npaining it.
“I’m fine,” he says.
He’s not. I know he’s not. But he’s kissing me on the forehead, leading me out of the shower, toward the door.
“Wait.” I plant my feet next to the sink. My skin might be clean, but I need to get the sour taste out of my mouth. I brush my teeth, leaning against the counter for support, while Calder takes the chance to dry himself off. Afterward he rifles through my medicine cabinet and forces me to swallow a couple of aspirin.
After that he leads me to the bed. This is the first time he’s ever seen my bedroom, and I inwardly cringe at the way this scene has played out. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. We should have stumbled in here after our first date, laughing and tearing our clothes off. We should have tumbled onto the bed and lost ourselves in each other.