“Okay,” she says. “You’re fine.”
I remove the pillow and my heart stutters in my chest. Should I tell my cardiologist about this? Would Dr. Gladstone advise me to move out for the sake of my health?
When I open my eyes, I am not fine. Not at all.
Clover Rowan Walsh stands with her back to me in a pair of pale pink underwear as she pulls a soft, matching lace bra over her head.She scrubs her hair with the towel and then tosses it behind her on the bed. The image of her yellow lace underwear dropping to the floor on the first day of classes is at the forefront of my mind. Does she really match every day? Does she expect other people to see what she’s wearing under her clothes? My chest heats with rage at the thought of sharing this sight with anyone else.
My lips smack together as I search for words to explain to her that she is not actually dressed because it turns out I am very much qualified to be an expert witness on the topic.
“You don’t have to look if my body makes you uncomfortable, but I just figure it didn’t matter, since according to your logic we spent at least a quarter of our lives in swimsuits together.”
As the resident authority on nudity, I would like the record to show that there is a substantial difference between what she wears under her little skirts and dresses and the swimsuits she used to tromp around in when we would chase after each other with water guns past Grandpa Dean’s beehives and through the fields of clover he planted one year for her birthday.
“Besides, let’s not forget how you just saunter around in boxer briefs,” she says.
“That’s my sleepwear,” I clarify.
She tugs a loose but short dress on over her head and spins around to find me looking right at her. Her lips twitch, almost as if they are torn between a smile and a frown.
A knock at the door interrupts the thick silence, and she goes to answer while I put on a white undershirt, the closest thing in reach, and a pair of sweats, strategically positioning the situation below the belt.
“Hi,” Clover chirps, her voice lifting in a soft question.
I pop my head around the door and see two women—older thanparents but not as old as grandparents—standing there in matching Wexley sweatshirts. They look like they like to go on cruises. (I’ve only been on private yachts, but I have a feeling that matching shirts play nicely on cruises.)
“Is it already parents’ weekend?” I mutter. Thank god—and perhaps the matching sweatshirts—that blood is no longer rushing to my cock.
The shorter woman laughs in response, but the taller one just looks at me curiously.
“They’re here, Greta,” says the shorter one, who is holding a Tupperware container.
Clover puts on a polite smile. “I’m so sorry, but do we know each other?”
Greta, who seems to radiate calm, says, “Well, Sandra here thinks she knows everyone, but no, we don’t know one another.”
“Not yet!” Sandra stands there for a moment with an expectant expression on her face.
I can see Clover’s brain working on overdrive as she tries to puzzle together what exactly is happening. “Oh,” she finally says. “Did you want to come in?”
“Love to,” Sandra sings as she sweeps right past us both, but then stops short, only for Greta to run into her back.
I jog over to the bed and do my best to pull the mismatched collection of sheets and blankets into something that could pass for a made bed.
Clover glances around for seating options. Her desk chair is piled high with clothes and my stuff is already unpacked, but disorganized. She holds her hand out to the bed. “Uh, you’re welcome to sit if you—”
“Oh, no, no,” Sandra says. “We’re just popping in and out to introduce ourselves to the other married couple on the floor.”
“Oh. Ohhhh,” I say. “Right. I remember hearing we weren’t the only ones.”
Greta rocks forward on her toes. “The first Married Mixer is next week, and we’re really hoping to see you both there. We thought we should come introduce ourselves first.”
Married Mixer? What the hell is that? I spare a glance at Clover, but she waves her hand away slightly.
“We’re both retired first responders.” Sandra points to herself and then hitches a thumb over at Greta. “EMT. Firefighter.”
“Did you two meet on the job?” Clover asks.
Sandra grins. “This one was on the scene when she tripped over a twig and broke her ankle.”
