Page 26 of Bumping into You

Get a grip, man.

“Why are you standing there in a towel?” she asks, her voice raising to mouselike levels of squeakiness.

“Well, you see, I was in the shower when I heard an urgent knock, so I quickly grabbed a towel and answered. And, well, here we are, standing in my room, me in this towel, and you over there.”

“Right,” she nods, and continues to nod, like a bobblehead. It’s like she doesn’t know what to do with herself. Do I really make her feel that uncomfortable? I run my hand through my hair, water droplets falling as I do.

“So about your situation?” I ask.

“Just forget it, forget I said anything. I can’t believe I thought it was a good idea. I don’t know what has gotten into me.” She walks toward our adjoining door.

“What was a good idea?” I reach out and grab her arm softly with my free hand, the other still securely holding onto the towel. She stumbles and falls against my chest. I shouldn’t be noticing how right she feels against me. How perfectly we fit together. I try my hardest to rein in my thoughts as I right her.

“Gwendolyn, please look at me.”

“I can’t. Not when you’re like, well, like that,” she waves her hands blindly in my direction, clearly avoiding looking anywhere in my vicinity.

“Would it help if I put on something with a bit more coverage? Would you talk to me then?”

She nods, still avoiding eye contact.

“Okay, then turn around and don’t move.”

She turns to face the hallway door.

I move slowly toward my pile of clothes on the couch, making sure she won’t bolt to her room. Taking another quick glance to make sure she’s not looking either; I drop the towel. Her presence and my nakedness do nothing to help my attraction for her. I press against myself to calm things down, then slip on some boxers and grab a pair of joggers from off the couch.

“Okay, I’m decent. you can turn around.”

She turns, and her cheeks go red. “You said you were decent!” she exclaims.

“I am. I put on some pants,” I say in confusion.

“But not a shirt.”

Reaching behind me, I grab an exercise top off the side table and throw it on. “Better?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“You’re welcome. So, what’s the story? Does it have something to do with the situation you were on about when we ran into each other earlier?”

“Huh? Oh, that. It was nothing,” she waves me off. “Dad’s just sick.”

“What? Is he okay?” I ask, instantly brought back to my mom in her hospital bed, hooked up to way too many machines. The memory makes my pulse race as my worry for Mr. Kenton increases.

“Oh, yeah, I gave him some Dramamine that I had in my emergency bag, so he’ll feel better soon.”

Okay, so he’s not sick, just seasick. I study her for a moment. Clearly something is weighing on her, but if not her dad, then what?

“How can you stand having your things all over the place like this?” Her hands wave around the living room area.

I survey my room and realize it is a bit messy, clothes scattered over the couch and dresser, shoes wherever I kicked them off. But it’s not like I was expecting company.

“You didn’t come here to talk about the cleanliness of my room, did you?” I ask, kicking a few of my clothes under the bed.

“Well, no. . . .”

“Grand. So, what brings you to my room?”

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