Mats lifts an eyebrow. He’s a master of the sarcastic gesture. Maybe one more positive adjective would help to convince yourself that you’re good.
Our new relationship feels a lot like our old one. He’s still going to be his sardonic self, which means I still get to insult him. Except I’ll mean it in a friendly way. I’ll treat him like someone on the men’s team I really like. Maybe Jack Sinclair, the human puppy.
I’m nervous, I confess. I’m kind of a loud sleeper.
Figures. You’re loud when you’re awake too.
Okay, I’m not liking this new dynamic where Mats always has the upper hand.
I finish my cookie. There’s nothing wrong with being talkative. Someone in this room seems to have taken a vow of near-silence. My insult would have been more dramatic if it weren’t accompanied by a spray of cookie crumbs. I scramble to wipe the counter as Mats puts his glass and my plate in the dishwasher.
I talk. I just don’t talk as much as you, he says, then turns to face me. You know what I like? That we can argue and then move on.
He looks really pleased about this, which is oddly endearing. I don’t mind a good air-clearing fight once in a while. Like tonight? So, does that mean I have to apologize every time?
No, I apologized the first time. After our argument on the way home from the animal shelter.
I recall that time. I’m detecting a trend here. By argument, you mean that you tear a strip off me, then one of us runs off?
Mats chuckles. You’re leaving out the part where you say something ridiculous or insulting first. But it’s the freedom I like, freedom to express what I’m thinking. We can disagree, discuss it, and move on.
His observation feels revealing. So, you don’t usually tell the truth to other people?
He shakes his head. I don’t lie. But often, I don’t tell people things that will upset them. It’s different with you, though. You’re so upfront that, right from the beginning, I didn’t hold back.
Half of me wants to apologize again, but he obviously likes my lack of a filter. I giggle. Maybe it’s a skill I have: the ability to piss people off.
He smiles warmly at me, and it feels like we’re friends now. We make our way back upstairs.
The bedroom feels even more intimate now that I’m not protected by my armour of fake dislike. With the solid stone walls inside and thick snowy layer outside, we’re wrapped in a completely private universe.
And yet, I’m a lot more comfortable than I was half an hour ago. Our truce means that I don’t have to pretend to dislike him anymore. I trust him completely. And I can finally stop denying that I’m attracted to Mats. Even if it’s not reciprocated, at least I’m being true to myself.
Mats interrupts my zigzagging inner dialogue. You want to use the bathroom first?
Sure. I go across the hall into an old-fashioned bathroom with a blue-and-white checkered floor and an enormous clawfoot bathtub. I wash my face and brush my teeth with one of the brand-new toothbrushes that Geraldine left out for us. This place is practically a hotel.
I peer at my mascara. It’s practically bulletproof, since I wear it when I play hockey, and I don’t have the special eye-makeup remover needed to chisel it off. Maybe it’s better anyway, since without mascara my eyes look like tiny blue marbles.
I barge back into the bedroom before realizing I should have knocked. Mats has removed his sweater and is now wearing a thin white T-shirt that seems to have been sprayed onto his cut physique. I swallow.
That was fast. He brushes past me and disappears into the hallway.
Now my biggest problem is what to wear to bed. I sleep hot, so there’s no way I can keep my clothes on. And I’m not treating Mats to a view of my bra repaired with safety pins. Of course, I have a set of nice underwear for the times when guys are going to see it, but I didn’t think tonight would be one.
I rifle through the closet and dresser. There are some spare linens, but unless I want to fashion a toga, they’re not going to help. Finally, I find a box of old rags. There’s one intact cotton T-shirt with Keep on Trucking printed on the front. Maybe it belonged to teenaged Marjorie?
I quickly undress down to my thong and pop on the T-shirt. It’s stretched tight across my chest and doesn’t even come close to covering my ass, but it’s still better than a toga. I climb into bed and sit up, with the pillows behind me and the covers pulled up to my waist. Then I undo my braid and comb out my hair.
Mats knocks—of course—and actually waits.
Come in, I call.
He walks in, and his eyes widen.
What is it?
Oh, nothing. I’ve, uh, just never seen your hair like that. He motions to my hair, tumbling over my shoulders and wavy and wild from the braids. He switches off the overhead lights and the room is cast into a warm glow by the bedside lamps. We’re the only inhabitants of this tiny golden world.
