Page 84 of Holiday Romance
He falls silent, examining each picture with intense focus, as though trying to glean as much as he can from them before he finally pulls away, asking about the shower. Despite not technically living here anymore, I fall quickly into the role of host, heading upstairs to make sure the place is clean while he runs outside to get what he needs from his suitcase.
“I’ll just be in here,” I say, pointing to my old room when he returns. “Mam will probably make stew because it’s the only thing she can cook.”
“Stew sounds great,” he says, hanging up the spare towel I pass him.
“Give me a shout if you need anything.”
He flashes me a brief smile and disappears behind the closed door.
This is where a normal person would leave him to it. But I don’t move. It’s like my feet are stuck to the carpet, my body weighted to the spot as I listen to the scrape of the lock against the wood, the gentle rustling of clothing before the shower turns on. The hallway fills with the noise of our boiler heating the water, of the water itself splashing against the tiles.
It’s only when the front door opens below that I force myself back into my bedroom. Zoe left out some of her (non-maternity) clothes for me and I throw on a pair of her jeans and a hoodie before scraping my hair back into a bun. The water shuts off barely a few seconds later and I quickly tidy my things as I hear Andrew fumble with the lock.
We meet in the hallway, him with only that ragged towel wrapped around his waist. His clothes are in his arms, hiding half his chest, but I still get an eyeful of smooth wet skin and a shadowy trail of dark hair that disappears beneath the—
“No sixpack, sorry.”
My eyes snap up to the small, knowing smile on his face.
“You don’t need one,” I say, and his smile widens. “That was quick,” I add.
“I figured you might want one.”
“Oh. Nah.” I wave a hand, my eyes trained somewhere above his left shoulder. I don’t want to waste a second more away from him than I have to. “I’ll, uh… You can change in my room.”
I don’t give him a chance to respond, slipping past him into the now empty bathroom as we switch places. It’s steamed up from his shower, the air warm and scented with soap.Hissoap. That stupid sandalwood/pine/going-to-take-you-into-the-woods-on-a-summer’s-day-and-kiss-you-on-the-soft-forest-floor soap.
Whatisthat?
I move automatically, trying to keep busy. I wipe the mirror clean and shake out the shower curtain. I hang up the mat and wash my hands. I stand in the middle of the room and try not to cry.
They’re tired tears, I know they are. Emotional, physical, someone-look-after-me tears that burn behind my eyes. That I refuse to let fall.
Maybe I should have just brought him straight to the bus stop. It would have been easier that way. A clean break. No seeing him in my house, joking with my sister, probably about to charm my mother. I should have said goodbye in town, but I don’t want to say goodbye at all.
I don’t want him to go.
I don’t want him to go. I don’t want him to go. I don’t want him to go.
I stare at the shower, taking a few steadying breaths until I’m sure I have myself under control. When I do, I return to my bedroom, where I knock softly, entering when Andrew tells me to. He’s still only half-dressed, his chest and feet bare as he looks between the shirt options he’s laid out on my bed.
“How formal is dinner here?” he asks.
“Tuxedos or get out.”
“I figured.”
I step farther into the room as he grabs a T-shirt with one hand and rubs the damp towel over his hair with the other. The muscles of his stomach pull taut as he does. The same muscles I touched last night. And where just as the kiss in Buenos Aires seemed a whole other world away, the dark bedroom in London feels like a lifetime ago, one we still haven’t talked about.
“You’re making a face.”
“I know.”
Andrew frowns, draping the towel against the back of a chair. “What’s up?”
“I want to decide what this is before Christmas,” I say. “I don’t want to wait until we get back to Chicago. That’s too long. You said you’re not going anywhere, but I need to know where we stand or I’ll just go crazy.” I pause, sliding my hands down my thighs. “Does that make sense?”
“Of course it does.”
