All he was going to see was what he said I was—and maybe he had a point: I was mess and chaos personified (he, of course, put it less eloquently).
To his credit, Caden didn’t flinch or tell me I was too much. He smiled and said, “I see the problem. People will naturally be looking there.”
Approximately two seconds later, I broke down sobbing on his freshly showered chest about everything—about how I missed my home of Wellsport, Maine, and my parents so much, how everyone here called me “Nat” and I hated how it made me sound like a little bug, how my peanut allergy was exhausting in a dorm room because my roommate loved peanut butter and jellies and I didn’t feel comfortable asking her to stop, and now Ihad blood dripping down my leg and I should probably just stay in this bathroom forever and become one with the moldy floor, like I deserved. Without a word, he swept me up in his arms, carrying me to the shower stall.
“What are you doing? I’m bleeding all over you.” I sniffed.
“You should wash yourself off,” he said softly.
“I don’t have a change of clothes.”
“You can have mine.”
“I’ll just bleed all over them.”
“I’ll find something for you.”
“But what will you wear?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time a dude’s walked this hall in his towel.” Gently, he placed me down in the stall, catching the towel hanging on his mid-drift before it fell loose.
With that small, sympathetic smile he’s worn so many times since, he handed me his washcloth. I gratefully took it, shut the curtain, and continued my nervous babbles, ignoring the fact that none of this was sanitary, but like my mom who also had a pelvic region from hell and an all-encompassing inflammatory disease taught me, living in the less-than-ideal means not having to deal with worst case scenarios. There was an awkward silence when I shut off the water, both of us realizing I needed a towel at the same time, and the only two available were a tiny hand towel Caden had used on his hair, and the one wrapped around his waist. Caden went into the next stall and handed me the larger one, and we laughed through the awkwardness. Finally dry, I drew my curtain back and found his clothes folded into neat piles, waiting for me. A sanitary pad from I don’t even know where sat on the top.
Unlike most guys, Caden didn’t shy away from acknowledging a natural part of my life.
A part of my life that had been distressingly aggressive lately.
That was the moment I started falling for him.
With a grateful heart, I dressed, feeling an unknown comfort in Caden’s clothes, like they were just the right amount of baggy, just the right amount of worn. Like I was meant to wear them.
Grimacing, I flung him back his towel, now extra unsanitary, wet, and…dotted with blood.
He emerged from his shower stall, thin gold-framed glasses perched on his nose and a soft smile, gazing at me. A weird, incandescent happiness bubbled in my chest until it sprung out of my mouth in tiny giggles. He laughed right back, faint laugh lines that have only grown deeper edging the corners of what my roommate Tessa and I have nicknamed bedroom eyes—because all he has to do is look at you, no heat, no sultry desire clear behind his gaze, and you’ll still feel thoroughly seduced and begging for a moment alone with him.
We stood like that, laughing, for what felt like an eternity, ignoring my impending interaction with Dillon. And what had the makings of one of the worst days of my life ended up being one of the best.
After a blizzard held our campus hostage for the next few days, I ran into Caden again and asked if I could buy him a coffee. He agreed, and he was such a gentleman that he didn’t even bring up the incident. I thought we were flirting and he was into me—except here we are, three years later, and Caden still hasn’t made a move.
In the last year and a half he’s had plenty of chances, including posing as my fake boyfriend to keep my parents off my case. But even then, he’s never tried to make it real, and I haven’t wanted to risk losing our friendship by admitting my feelings for him first. We’re already faking it because I’m pathetically friendless, I don’t want to make my situation more dire.
Two years ago, my parents’ concern surrounding my social life had grown from excessive to downright horrifying when my mother threatened to make multiple dating profiles for meif I didn’t leave my dorm room and socialize. She had been operating under the assumption that my breakup with Dillon had devastated me, and I hadn’t corrected her.
The truth was honestly worst. I had, actually, tried to make friends, but all of my over-enthusiastic attempts at friendship had scared anyone but Caden away. He was the only one who didn’t seem to mind my big personality or the chronic illness that left me bound inside often.
Any other friendship, especially of the female variety—the supportive, loving kind that I was desperate for—had faded the minute my health acted up.
Caden’s too loyal to throw me out, I know that much, but I can’t tell if he wants more. I had convinced myself he didn’t and that I could be content with our friendship, but when my parents started growing suspicious about my elaborate dating stories, he was the one to suggest joining me for the holidays.
And that’s when a dangerous dose of hope unfurled inside of me.
While we’re in Wellsport, Maine, I’m determined to be the best fake girlfriend ever. Maybe then Caden will want to act on the truth I’ve known since we first met: we’re each other’s happily-ever-afters. How could we not be after that kind of meet-cute? We’re just the slow burn, friends-to-lovers kind.
In all honesty, I hope it won’t take two weeks of a will-he or won’t-he slow burn for him to be convinced. Between the mistletoe my mom loves to hang on every doorframe and the constant Christmas-themed movie snuggles, hopefully Caden’s “Friend Like Me” tune will change to “All I Want for Christmas is You,” and we can share Christmas and a New Year’s kiss for real, together.
“Are you excited for our road trip?” I ask, not bothering to hide the dopey, dreamy expression on my face as I stare at Caden. These morning chats, the ones where it’s just us, are myfavorite part of the day. I know it’s sad of me to admit that, but as far as Caden is concerned, I’m a pathetic woman.
See current intrusive thought: Hey, Caden, have you noticed that this kitchen island is the perfect pick-me-up-and-slam-me-down height? Maybe next time we’re in here together, you’ll opt for an alternative breakfast choice. Namely me. I would very much like to be the alternative breakfast choice.
