A spa day? We have to convince Ariana to have a spa day with us?
No. No way.
That seems almost insensitive of the production crew to ask of us. I will look like nothing but a creep if I ask her to let me rub her down with this oil right now.
Unless…
Would she want to watch me massage Derrick or Ivan? Because I could do that. I do that all the time.
No. No. That’s no better.
Is this what Bradley meant, that I get to decide? I could hide this from everyone and not give them the choice. Or I could suggest it, and we can decide as a group whether to make use of this stuff.
And how we would do that.
The door to Ariana’s room opens before I can make up my mind, so I panic and shove the letter in the pocket of my joggers.
She seems surprised to see me here. Her brown hair issleep-rumpled and sticking up around her face, and she’s wearing a cute pair of round, black glasses.
I didn’t know she wore glasses. Did Derrick know that? They used to video call a lot at night, so he must have. How come he never told me how cute she looks in them?
My breath catches when I see the low-slung PJ pants she’s wearing, showcasing the soft curve of her belly. She’s wearing the tiniest tank top, which seems to have ridden up while she slept, and I cannot take my eyes off of her.
Or her one single sock.
“Holy shit!” She stumbles when she catches sight of me. “Oh my God, I forgot where I was.”
“That’s good, right? I mean, it’s better than freaking out about not being at home?”
I don’t know how she’s going to feel about me bringing up something that Sax would know about her, but not Grant.
Maybe it’s just because she’s tired, but she doesn’t seem to mind.
“They made the room look eerily similar to my bedroom. I guess it’s helping, but it’s still a little off-putting.” She shuffles past me into the kitchen and starts making coffee.
One sugar too many, with heavy cream.
“Do you want yours with cream?” Her question is innocuous. She has no way of knowing that it’s a bit of a kick to the chest.
“Ah, I’m lactose intolerant.”
Her spoon clatters on the counter. When I turn, her knuckles are white from how she grips the edge of it. Her head hangs heavily, her shoulders slumped, and she keeps her back to me.
“Oh. Right. I thought-”
“Yeah. Derrick likes cream in his coffee.”
How many times is this going to happen? Ivan had this grand idea that we start from scratch, but how is that possible when I know that she sleeps with a teddy bear that her brother gave her when she was nine, but she doesn’t know that I’m the one who spent the entirety of ninth grade with half of my head buzzed because I thought it made me look edgy?
“How do you take your coffee, then?”
“I add a teaspoon of sugar and a pinch of cinnamon.”
She rifles through the cabinets and comes out victorious, a glass jar clutched in her hand. “I can do that.” After a few minutes, she hands me my mug and leans against the counter. “So Derrick likes his coffee with cream. How about Ivan?”
“Ivan drinks Turkish coffee.” I take a sip from the warm mug and sigh happily. It’s perfect.
Though I wouldn’t tell her if it wasn’t.
