She gestures to a small bathroom hidden in the corner that I’d almost forgotten about.
My expectations for this month, if I ever even had any, plummet out my ass.
Shareis such a foreign concept to me. As an only child, I’ve never once needed to share anything, except the occasional Town Car to school with some of the kids who live in my building. I’m not looking forward to finding unidentifiable hairs on the tile or listening to some stranger toss and turn above me all night as the bedsprings squeak.
The ghost of that sound brings me back to Hector’s full lips, his stern gaze, and his gruff, provoking comments. My mind tips to the other ways springs could groan and give and moan…
I stop myself before I overheat. That is not appropriate.
Mom and Dad sent me here to keep a low profile while the island gets sold and the story gets squashed before it gets out. Not to fuck one of Gramps’s students.
Even if it has been ages since I’ve allowed myself the privilege of touch. Nursing wounds after a majorly public breakup is difficult business. The last thing I need is people commenting on my choice of rebound. The rumor mill cares too much about where my lips have been, which is why I’m practically starved at this point.
I push aside that inconvenient hunger to give Grandma a proper response.
Mom and Dad expect me to be gracious, humble, and repentant, so I mask my upset (and stupidly horny) feelings. “Fine. This is all fine. In fact, it’s great. Thank you.” The nerve signals telling my brain to move my mouth into a smile are responding with:Are you sure?Which I’m certain makes my face look like a melting wax figure’s.
“You’re welcome.” Grandma seems pleased. “I’ve put fresh towels out for you. If you’ve forgotten any toiletries, there’s a closet with some odds and ends in the hallway upstairs, but if you need anything specific, the drugstore in town should be able to sort you out,” she says. “I’ll leave you to get settled. Holler if you need anything.”
As soon as she’s gone, I want to holler my head off.
I miss my king bed with its four-poster canopy done up in golds and blues. I miss my freestanding whirlpool tub in myprivatebathroom. I even miss the cacophonous sounds of the city spilling inside, keeping the silence and the thoughts that come with it at bay.
I’ve never had a roommate before. I’ve never wanted a sibling. I like being alone.
I’ve been alone most of my life and that’s what I’m used to. That’s what I know.
Unable to stand still any longer, I trudge into the bathroom with a silk pajama set pulled from the top of my luggage. Not appropriate for the weather, but I’ll deal. I want to get out of these still-damp clothes. Hopefully, I can sleep off this sick feeling.
The sink is practically on top of the toilet, so I can’t swing open the medicine chest without pressing my entire body up against the far wall. The shower looks like something out ofElf. I’m going to be crouching the whole time to keep my head under the water.
Once I put away my plethora of peels, moisturizers, and serums, I catch my flinty reflection in the mirror. I take stock of my dirty-blond hair, my baby-blue eyes, and my smooth, boyish complexion, which is seconds away from a stress breakout. My pores are screaming.
On an exhale—a cleansing, arduous exhale—I remind myself that if I make nice and make good for the time being, there’s a chance I’ll be back in New York in time for the big party. I just need to prove to my grandparents that I’ve changed. Enough for them to convince my parents of the same.
Upending your entire attitude and worldview can’t be that hard, right? I’ve seen Scrooge do it a million times in all thoseA Christmas Caroladaptations I watched with my parents back when we still cherished Christmas like other families do. I’m sure there are plenty of meddling ghosts in this house to help me.
But that thought paired with the situation makes the back of my neck start to sweat. My heart rate spikes like it did in the car, a relentless hammering against my rib cage. I’m staring down the barrel of a second spiral within a single hour. A record, no doubt. Except this time, the hoedown doesn’t do it for me. Flashes of down-home cookin’ and sweat-stained flannels churn my stomach over and over, until I feel like my body is rebelling against me.
Quickly, I flip to something flashier, glitzier. Closing my eyes, I imagine a sweeping ballroom.
A Make This All Go Away Masquerade. Black-tie attire mandatory. Guests in evening gowns and tailored tuxedos glide across an opulent room where bulbous bottles of champagne get poured into crystal flutes. A string quartet plays as people caress their lovers in slow-dance embraces, hands on waists, arms draped over shoulders. Everyone’s identity is a secret, which is perfect for me, someone who needs that feathered mask to conceal at least some of the hurt my visage carries.
And as my breath settles into a more natural rhythm, I imagine myself waltzing with a broad-shouldered man. His eyes are two dazzling torches underneath his beaded mask; I’m liquid gold beneath his touch.
The classical cover of a pop song ends, and the man asks to see my face—allof my face—but my gaze dips bashfully to the brilliant marks making a geometric pattern on the soft underside of his throat, and I know in an instant I’ve made a horrible mistake.
Eyes snapping open, I force myself to swallow down the rest of the anxiety along with that unwelcome fantasy aboutHector.
I look myself dead in the eyes and jab a stern finger at my reflection. “Don’t you dare get any ideas,” I warn before shutting out the lights and forcing myself to sleep.
Chapter 3
Thwack.
I’m awakened from my depression nap by the sound of a possible murder taking place. I shoot up, hair flattened to my forehead, drool dangling from my lower lip.
Smack.
