Page 38 of The Black Table
Morgan frowns. “Working?” she repeats. And for the first time all morning, there’s a little edge to her voice.
I’m not sure where I stepped in it, but I clarify quickly. “Like, they always win their fencing…matches? Right? So it must be working.”
“Ah.” Morgan relaxes. “That they do,” she murmurs. “That they do.”
A beat of silence passes.
“Well, thanks for…defending me,” I say suddenly. “And for lending me the clothes,” I add. “I appreciate it.”
Morgan smiles beneficently. “Of course. What are roommates for?”
I’m…not sure, I think.But maybe this.
“You looked great, by the way,” she adds, pushing her way off the bed and up to her wardrobe. “If you’re ever lacking appropriate attire, just holler.”
Something about the way she says it pings a memory in my mind.
And dread fills my stomach.
I sink back into the bed, staring at the ceiling.
Morgan notices, and almost jumps when she sees me lying prone. “What’s wrong? Are you diabetic or something? Do you need orange juice?”
I frown. That’s random. “No, I…” I blink hard. “I just remember I have my swim test tomorrow.”
“Ah,” Morgan says. “Okay.” I can tell by her tone that she doesn’t see the issue. And—fair point. I can’t blame her. “So you’ll go to your swim test. It’s a pain in the ass, don’t get me wrong, but…you can swim, right?”
I nod. “Yeah, but…I don’t even have a swimsuit.”
That’s not the problem. That’s not even close to the problem. But I’m not about to share more about what is.
“Why do we even have to have a swim test?” I mutter.
Morgan turns back to her wardrobe.
“One of those campus legend things, I think,” she says, picking out hanger after hanger. “The founder had a daughter who drowned, tragically young and beautiful, blah, blah, blah, and so one of their conditions for funding the university was that every student had to know how to swim.”
A beat of silence passes. Then Morgan unceremoniously dumps the heap of clothing in her arms onto the bed.
“Here. Take your pick.”
My eyes widen at the array of options before me. Swimsuits. All of them bright, many of them embellished, and none of them especially modest.
“Oh,” I say. “Um…” I scratch the back of my neck.
“You hate them,” she says. “You think I have terrible taste.”
“No,” I say quickly, although to be honest, it’s not theleasttacky collection of swimwear I’ve ever seen. One of them, at least, has a high neckline, a sort of turtleneck situation…and very low-cut bottoms.
Morgan folds her hands on top of the bathing suits. “Then?”
I breathe out. What’s the most reasonable way to phrase this?
The least…suspicious?
“I just…don’t like showing that much of my body,” I say. “Is all.”
I fold my arms over my chest, almost on instinct.
