“Okay. Do you want some help?”
He glances around at the machines before looking back at me. “Yes, please.”
I take the towel. It’s cream colored and covered in some kind of tomato-based sauce. “What happened?”
“Promise you won’t tell my dad?”
I nod.
“I dropped a jar of sauce and I didn’t know how else to clean it up, so I used this.”
“Where is your dad?”
Henry’s eyes are wide with worry. “He’s in the shower but he’ll be out real soon.”
I glance down at the towel, forcing myself not to picture Michael in the shower. I might have been avoiding him, but I can’t say I’ve been avoiding thinking about him. It’s making for some great romance writing, though. All that pent-up sexual frustration has to go somewhere.
“You didn’t want to tell him?” I ask, turning towards a machine.
“It’s one of my mom’s towels. I thought he might get mad.”
I freeze at Henry’s mention of his mother. Michael made some oblique references to her in his book, and he mentioned she was trying to get full custody, but beyond that I know nothing about her. She was just this kind of abstract idea in Michael’s past.
But now, holding her towel in my hands, she becomes a concrete, real person. In my mind a picture of her appears: a tall, slim goddess, stunningly gorgeous, elegant and sexy. He’s pretty damn easy on the eyes, I’m sure he wouldn’t marry a troll. But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe she’s short and stocky, perhaps a little plump—plumper than me, of course—with a wonky nose. Maybe a lazy eye. And bacne.
“Can you help?” Henry pleads.
Shit.
I take a breath, trying to focus on the problem at hand. Poor Henry looks on the verge of tears.
“Yes, of course. Sorry.” I open a machine and stuff the towel inside.
“Oh! I don’t have any quarters,” he says, his voice rising in panic again.
“It’s okay, I’ve got lots.” I give him a reassuring smile as I put some of my powder into the machine and push a coin into the slot. “Everything will be okay, Henry.”
He doesn’t look convinced.
“You know, I’m sure your dad wouldn’t be mad if it was an accident.”
He shakes his head, his brow knitting. “I think Mom wants the towel back. And if I’ve ruined it then Dad will be mad, because Mom will yell at him.” He glances over my shoulder at the washing machine. “How long will it take?”
“Probably a while. If you want, I can keep an eye on it for you. Why don’t you go back upstairs? I’ll put it in the dryer once it’s washed.”
“Are you sure?” His eyes dart between me and the door.
“Of course. I’ve got to stay to do my laundry too. I’ll take care of it. I’ll leave it over here when it’s done.” I gesture to an empty shelf.
“Okay. Thanks, Alex.” He dashes out of the laundry room.
I smile to myself, absently loading my clothes into the washer. He’s a sweet kid. But his mom sounds… Well. It’s not my place to comment.
Knowing I’ve got a good hour to kill, I pop back up to the apartment and grab my laptop to keep me company. Unsurprisingly, I find myself in the mood to write some romance. The mention of Michael in the shower got the creative juices flowing, and it’s not long before my fingers are flying over the keys.
I’ve been writing so much of this romance stuff lately and I think I’m getting pretty good at it. I’m enjoying it more than my blog about being single, if I’m honest. I don’t know what it is, but it just feels moreme.
Still, I want to actuallydosomething with my writing, and I’m not sure if I’ll ever be comfortable showing my romance novel to anyone. At least with my blog I’ve got readers—two dozen, now—who can relate to my posts. And that’s cool.
