He replaces the showerhead and steps out of the tray, his shoes squelching. Then he grabs a towel and holds it open, angling his body away to give me the privacy of his averted gaze.
“I can manage from here,” I say.
“I know you can,” he says.
But he doesn’t leave. He just holds the towel, looking somewhere past my left shoulder, giving me the privacy of his averted gaze while still being close enough to catch me if the stool has any more escape plans.
I take the towel and wrap it around me.
“Thank you,” I say. And I leave it there, without any punchline or add-on.
Leo blinks. Like sincerity from me requires a moment to process.
“You’re welcome,” he replies.
He steps out, pulling the door closed behind him.
I sit on the stool in the quiet bathroom, towel around my waist, steam curling around me. The mirror is fogged. I can’t see my own reflection, which feels appropriate because I’m not entirely sure what I’d see right now.
Something in my chest has rearranged itself, and I don’t know how to put it back.
Through the door, I hear Leo in the kitchen. The click of the coffee maker. A cupboard opening and closing.
He’s making coffee. Probably a cup for me as well because that’s what he does.
I press my wet palms against my eyes and take a slow breath.
This is a problem. This is a very specific, sleeves-rolled-to-the-elbows problem.
Chapter Thirteen
Leo
There are certain moments in life when a man should take stock of how he got here.
Sitting in the back of a Toyota Prius in a unicorn onesie, the light-up horn on my head flashing, I get the feeling right now should be one of those moments.
Archie is beside me, reviewing his party notes with the focus of a general planning a campaign. He’s got an actual clipboard, with a checklist, and he’s tapping his pen against it in a rhythm that suggests he’s mentally choreographing my humiliation down to the half-minute.
I should be thinking about the party and whatever fresh indignity awaits me ahead.
Instead, I’m thinking about the shower.
Not the part where I stood fully clothed under running water. That part, I can file away under necessary emergency response and move on.
It’s the part after. The part where my fingers were in his hair, the bathroom went quiet, and I heard my own breathing change and couldn’t do a damn thing about it.
I’m still thinking about it when my phone buzzes. It’s Andrew.
Are you sure everything’s okay?
Shit.
I’ve been dodging Andrew’s calls for the past week. Apparently, he hasn’t been reassured by my curt text replies.
I guess I should be flattered that Andrew cares enough that he’s managed to drag himself away from the love-nest reunion activities between him and Justin to check in with me.
I glance sideways at Archie, who’s still reviewing his party notes.
