Page 167 of The Sidekick

Underneath are a few simple summer dresses made of gauzy material in more pastel shades. A little better. One is pure white with purple tulips on it. He likes flowers, maybe he would like it?

This is so dumb.

Before I can change my mind, I roll it into a ball and rush to the bathroom with a “Be right out.”

“Take your time,” he calls back as I slam the door and then lock it like I think he’s going to break in. It’s dumb because, with skills like his, this lock doesn’t stand a chance.

I end up taking my time because I can’t remember when I last shaved my legs. Never a good sign. Jeans cover up a lot of sins. I’m going to feel really stupid when he falls asleep on the couch after he eats.

Oh, no. If he eats, I’ll be expected to eat. I missed lunch because I lied to Trevor about bringing my own. I have to eat something tonight. Smoothie it is. I have one in the fridge, after all.

Crisis averted, I start showering in less of a hurry and manage to find some kind of serenity that’s fragile enough to shatter in a stiff breeze. Beggars can’t be choosers.

I’m drying off when I hit my next crisis. No bra and no panties. Unless I want to wear the old pair. Ugh. No.

Ok. Channel the sexy jerk in heels. You can do it. Pretend you’re hot and confident. If he finds out, it will be because he’s looking. The dress isn’t see-through. If he doesn’t find out, you can just go to bed sad that he didn’t know.

That isn’t helping.

When I finally convince myself to leave the bathroom with my wad of dirty clothes, I figure he’s already asleep.

I’m wrong.

He’s at the sink. He’s changed into gray sweatpants and a white sleeveless shirt. I can see the outlines of all the colored flowers covering his back beneath the fabric. I’m so busy trying not to drool at the picture he makes that it takes me a minute to realize he’s pouring my smoothie down the sink.

“What are you doing?” I squeak out in sudden panic.

“How long has this been in the fridge?” He asks calmly without turning.

“I-” Honestly, I don’t know. It could be from yesterday. It could be from two weeks ago. I forget them all the time. It doesn’t matter anyway because he’s rinsing out the glass.

“Go ahead and sit down. Pick out a movie, and I’ll make us something simple for dinner. How about a plain peanut butter and jelly sandwich?”

When he turns to face me, he stops and slowly takes in my dress.

“Oh, sure,” I laugh awkwardly as he stares. “I’ll just toss these in the dirty clothes.”

“Ok,” he clears his throat and turns back to the sink to rinse out the glass again. Good thing I didn’t leave my stuff on the floor. I guess he’s a neat freak like Shade.

When I’m in the closet tossing the clothes into the basket, I notice his pants and shirt from earlier on top. I feel a pang of longing run through me at the simplicity of it. I feel comfortable with his clothes mixed in with mine. I snap myself out of my weird thoughts and pause to give myself time to freak out!

He’s making food, and I agreed! I should have told him I’d make another smoothie.

Oh my gosh, this is a disaster. I should tell him I’m allergic or something. But I’m a horrible liar, and I’ll feel bad that he went to all the trouble.

You know what? I’m fine. I’m going out there. I’m going to pretend like I’m normal. It’s one night. It won’t kill me. No more stress. Plan set. Feet move now.

I tiptoe out of the closet and peek out of the door. He’s standing at the sink still, hands braced on the counter with his head down. I don’t even want to know what he’s doing.

Instead of calling attention to myself, I hurry over to the couch and grab the remote. I don’t ask what he wants to watch. I just start clicking through things, pretending I’m alone and not insane. Who am I kidding? I’m crazy, clicking the remote, and staring at his biceps as he pulls things out of cabinets and the fridge.

I watch as he washes his hands and puts together two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. He adds a few strawberries and chips, then begins cutting everything on one of the plates into small pieces. When he’s done, he washes his hands again and brings both plates over to the coffee table.

I stare at them, feeling nerves pitch in my stomach. I don’t know how this is going to work. I have to eat something, I know that. Would he mind if I said my body affirmations? Will they even work with him sitting here? It worked last time, but I’m really nervous right now.

While my thoughts are spiraling, he sits next to me and puts both plates onto the cushion next to him. He looks at me with a smile and says, “Did you pick a movie?”

“Um,” I look at the screen, grateful to not be looking at the food. I didn’t pick something because I was too busy watching him and drooling for reasons that have nothing to do with eating.

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