She’s not under the couch. Not that I think she could fit. The couch is on short legs, so theoretically, she could get under here, but practically—I just don’t see that happening.
Nor is she behind it, or under the coffee table.
Is there a secret passage into Lav’s room?
Doesn’t appear to be a cat door anywhere in the hallway, and when I pause at Lavender’s door, I don’t hear anything.
I usually hear her running down the hallway not long after the shower turns on, and I’ve been doing a good job of picturing the little girl’s smiling face rather than contemplating what a shower means for Heath’s state of dress.
I do let myself be jealous that he’s clearly not traumatized by showers though. Even now, I rush through them when I used to enjoy them.
I still can’t get naked and wet without thinking aboutthe incident.
The initial one, I mean. The one that sparked all of the other incidents I’ve had here.
I press my ear to the door, listening closer.
And that’s when it swings open.
I leap back.
Lavender looks up at me and screams.
It’s instinctual to scream back, which makes her scream louder, which makes me realize I need to be the grown-up in the room and not scream again.
I drop to my knees on the Turkish rug running down the hallway. “It’s okay,” I gasp. “Just me. Cricket. Hi. It’s?—”
There’s a whoosh behind me, and then I’m shoved out of the way by a wet, half-naked man wearing just a white towel around his hips.
“It’s okay.” Heath drops to his knees, gathers Lav into his arms, and cradles her tight. “It’s okay, baby. Did you have a nightmare? Daddy’s here.”
“There’s a scary woman,” Lavender shrieks.
And then the little sneak grins at me over her dad’s shoulder.
“Lav. We talked about Cricket coming up for coffee. Remember?”
She grins bigger.
And then she winks.
She winks.
At six years old.
I stumble back against the opposite wall, heart pounding in my throat, and gape at her.
And then a picture falls off the wall right next to me.
“It was so scary, Daddy,” Lavender says. “A big hairy monster with big wet hair and big boob-shoulders was dancing outside my door.”
Heath’s shoulders stiffen.
His bare, broad, wet shoulders.
Water drips down his neck in a steady stream from his hair, dribbling along his spine, all the way to his hips, where twin dimples stand out just above his towel.
My mouth is dry.
