When he’s finished with my body, he pauses. “Can I wash your hair?” Like it would be a favor tohimto wash it.
“Please.”
He grabs my shampoo and squeezes some into his palm. While he rubs it into a lather, I sink back so I can let my head sink under the water. When I reemerge, he’s already shifted to sit on the back edge of the tub.
Ryan’s fingers massaging my scalp is heaven. His fingers scrape perfectly along my skin, sending little electric shivers down my spine. He scrubs away days of sickness, of heartbreak and disappointment.
I could just dip my head back under the water to rinse off the shampoo. Instead, Ryan nudges my jaw upward and says, “Close your eyes.” His hand is big enough that when he cups it, he can pour a decent amount of water over my hair. He takes his time, rinsing out all the suds, careful not to let the shampoo drip down into my eyes.
Once my hair is blissfully clean, Ryan grabs the washcloth and moves down. He wipes any lingering soap off my torso, then moves down. My lower belly heats when he presses the washcloth between my thighs, but I know he’s not trying to turn me on—not now. He just washes my legs and hips while I stare at his rolled-up sleeves and corded forearm.
It’s a disappointment and a relief when Ryan moves away from my core to wash my calves and feet. I can’t hold back a giggle when he washes between my toes.
“Ticklish?” he says, the hint of a smile on his lips.
“Please. As if I’d ever give you that ammunition against me.”
His smile turns into a grin, and he just looks sohim.Boyish, playful, teasing, but still piercing. He sees everything about me, every stupid flaw and preference, from the music I hate to the body wash I love. It’s like he spent every day since he met me burrowing into my head, making himself a home that I can never dig out.
I move first, but he meets me halfway. Our lips meet, his hand cupping my jaw, my hands twisting into his shirt. It’ssweet, warm, melty—like we were just waiting for us to let ourselves be soft enough to kiss like this.
The way our lips touch feels like a promise. It breaks my heart into pieces, but somehow glues it back together at the same time. I feel shattered and remade, destroyed and turned into something stronger, fiercer, more beautiful.
When we finally break away from the kiss, we rest our foreheads against each other. I stare into his dark eyes for a moment, as years of memories and unsaid words pass between us. Like a passage between our minds, when we can exchange messages we don’t dare to say out loud. We don’t need to.
He sighs, and I pull back. He stands up to get me a towel, and there’s nothing left to say.
38
RYAN
The sun is shining, and despite the freezing cold wind assaulting my eyeballs, the general vibes from the world outside are good. Pippa woke up without a fever or a desire to puke, which meant she was well enough that I felt like I could run some errands that didn’t involve just taking the elevator up or down a few floors. The shops and restaurants along the street haven’t torn down their decorations yet, so there’s still a post-holiday sense of cheer.
I only wish I could enjoy it more.
Because at the end of the day, I’m in the same place I was before Pippa caught the death flu. She’s moving out, and our FWB relationship is officially over. My phone is still full of missed calls from Dad and Emily, who have definitely read the Toronto Tea article and are demanding answers. Plus, I skipped the tournament where I planned on salvaging my reputation.
I got to spend a few days in the eye of the storm, taking care of Pippa and pretending things might work out between us. I probably only have a few more hours before she comes to her senses and tells me to get the fuck out of her bedroom.
But until then, I get to live in the land of delusion.
I double check the map on my phone, making sure I’m going the right way. I knew Pippa had some books on hold at that café she and Cat go to, The Copper Cup. I figured I’d pick up her books and some pastries, a little welcome-back-to-the-land-of-the-living gift.
Plop!
Something white flashes in my vision, then lands on the lapel of my coat. Bird shit. The pigeon perpetrator flaps over my head, landing on the edge of a trash can. He flutters his wings, unbothered by the fact that he just took a dump on me for no reason.
“Fucking great,” I mutter.
“Some people say that’s good luck, you know,” someone says. “Getting pooped on by a bird.”
I look up to see a tiny woman holding a cell phone and a mini-microphone. It’s Marina Zhou, an influencer who makes videos about Toronto gossip. She’s known for her savagely funny on-the-street interviews, which I’ve been featured on before.
It’s possible to come off well in an interview with Marina, as long as you deflect her more vicious questions and don’t take yourself too seriously. The last video I did with her had dozens of women sliding into my DMs, but when I filmed that, I was on a high from winning a tournament and dressed for a night out, looking pretty fucking good. Now, I’m wearing sweats and a coat covered in bird shit. Plus, there’s a glint in Marina’s eyes that tells me she’s feeling relentless today.
This doesn’t bode fucking well.
Still, I glue on a smile and keep walking. “Any day I get to see you is a lucky one, Marina.”
