Page 38 of No Room in the Inn

Nope, they don’t affect me at all.

“Get—out—” I grunt as I shove him. Gosh, is heplantedhere? Why isn’t he moving?

“And of course it helps that I smell like—what was it?” He pretends to think for a second, then says, “Oh! That’s right.” He looks over his shoulder at me, grinning. “‘Masculinity embodied.’”

Kill. Me. Now. If he was here for that, he was basically here for everything embarrassing.

“Get out!” I all but shout. Giving him one last shove, I manage to disrupt his balance, and he careens forward. I use that momentum to get him through the door, and when I shut it in his face, he’s laughing.

***

I can only hide in my room so long before I have to go out.

It’s my stupid bladder’s fault. Is going to the bathroom really that important when I’m trying to avoid humiliation? But no—my body doesn’t care, apparently.

It takes a while, but I do finally come to the conclusion that I can’tactuallystay up here forever. Sooner or later I’m going to have to face Nixon—or at least go downstairs and risk seeing him. So I call Sarah again and tell her to come on over; she can be my buffer. Then I square my shoulders, ignore my borderline-crippling anxiety, and head downstairs.

I try to be as sneaky as I can, and for a minute all seems quiet on the Western front, as it were. But then I hear a crunch as I’m passing by the kitchen, and when I look, I see Nixon eating one of my burnt cookies.

“Gross,” I say before I can stop myself.

He looks up at me, and his lips spread into that grin again. He shrugs. “I’ve had worse,” he says.

I wrinkle my nose. “Have you really?”

“I mean, they’re pretty bad,” he acknowledges. “But if I have to choose between burnt cookies and no cookies…” He shrugs again.

I just stare at him for a second, trying to determine the likelihood of more teasing and embarrassment if I enter the kitchen to try one of the cookies.

He must be able to sense my internal debate—how does he read my mind like this? It’s kind of creepy—because although he smiles a little, he holds his hands up and says, “I won’t mention the phone conversation again. It’s safe in here. I promise.”

I’m just about to go grab a cookie to try when I hear the chime of the doorbell.

Nixon’s brow furrows as he frowns, looking confused. “More repairmen?”

I shake my head. “Sarah.” I clear my throat, then say, “Who I was talking to—”

“Ah,” he says, nodding. He grins. “By all means. She should see how hot I am.”

“Youjustsaid you wouldn’t mention the phone conversation again,” I say. He really shouldn’t need a reminder so soon.

“Oops—sorry.” He mimes zipping his lips and throwing away the key. I just shake my head in exasperation.

I roll my eyes and leave the kitchen, opening the door for Sarah. She barges in past me, craning her head around—to find Nixon, I assume—and marches straight up to him when she gets to the kitchen.

“Sarah,” I begin, but she cuts me off.

“Nobody move or speak,” she says, her words a command. “Let me read the vibe.”

“What vibe?” I say quickly. “There’s no vibe—”

“Hush,” Sarah says, cutting me off again.

I sigh, but Nixon obliges her, smiling. He puts his hands in his pockets and waits patiently as Sarah looks from me to Nixon and back to me again.

Then she moves closer to him, her eyes narrowed in inspection. To Nixon’s credit, he doesn’t flinch under her gaze. He even turns his head slowly from side to side, as though making her job easier by giving her a better view.

“Are you nice?” she finally says to him.

---