“Was it three hours you were down there with me? I’m still hazy about some of the details.”
“Yeah, it was three hours.” He runs a hand through his hair, and it sticks up wildly all over the place.
“Fuck, sorry, I… I just never expected to run into you again,” he says finally.
“Especially in your bed, right?”
He shifts his weight, his shoulder bumping against the headboard. “Yeah, especially here.”
“Well, surprise!” I manage to restrain myself from doing jazz hands, but it’s difficult.
Jared swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “So, um…how have you been? Did you ever tell Carlos he was a fuckwit?”
“Oh god, I talked to you about that. Yes, I’m pretty sure I informed Carlos about his complete and utter fuckwittery when we were breaking up. And I’m sorry I rambled on to you about that. In my defense, I was kind of using you as a deathbed confessional.”
“It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last.”
“But I was the most entertaining, right?”
“Most definitely,” he says.
We stare at each other for a few heartbeats before he runs another hand through his hair, blowing out a breath.
“So uh…are you hungry? Did you want some breakfast?”
My brain short-circuits for a second.
Because he’s not doing the awkward shuffle toward the bedroom door while avoiding eye contact. He’s not suddenly remembering an urgent appointment with his dentist’s cousin’s goldfish that means I have to leave. He’s offering me food. Annie would probably have something to say about how quickly my heart latches onto that.
“I never turn down a free breakfast,” I manage to reply.
And so Jared gets out of bed, giving me a fantastic view of his incredible ass that makes me momentarily forget about everything else, including my own name and the fact that gravity exists.
No wonder he saved my life. That ass probably has its own superhero registration.
He pulls on boxers and a T-shirt while I continue to gape.
The man clearly does squats. Like, all the squats. Every squat that’s ever existed.
“You want to have a shower while I cook?” he offers.
I snatch my brain away from admiring his ass.
“Yeah, okay. Good idea.”
Jared disappears off to the kitchen while I stumble into his bathroom.
I usually avoid looking at my face in the mirror. But I can’t really avoid catching a glimpse as I climb into the shower.
What stares back at me is a horror movie mashup. The left side of my face still has streaks of green paint, like I’ve been attacked by a kindergartner with finger paints. The right side, where most of the paint has rubbed off on Jared’s pillows, reveals my scars. They stand out stark and undeniable, the biggest one cutting from my temple to my jaw, with smaller tributaries branching off like someone tried to draw lightning on my face and got carried away. My platinum-blond hair is sticking up like a hedgehog. Together, they complete the look of someone who got electrocuted at a St. Patrick’s Day parade.
Before my accident, I’d never have gone to bed without doing my face care routine, which included doing facial yoga that made me look like I was trying to eat my own nose.
But now, there doesn’t seem to be much point in spending time fussing over my skin. It feels like the equivalent of polishing a car that’s already been through a compactor.
I try to scrub the rest of the face paint off in the shower, turning one of Jared’s facecloths a Kermit-the-frog green.
But there’s no point trying to hide my scars from Jared now.
