Page 31 of Nice Guys Don't Kiss Like That At Christmas
I lunge for it like it’s going to explode and try to zip the tote back like I’m burying my soul in it.Like I can pretend this isn’t happening.Adam’s hands are flexing and why am I staring?
My heart is pounding.My face is on fire.I could spontaneously combust right here in this freezing room.
I grab the first shirt I find from the smaller suitcase.Turn around.Yank off the soaked T-shirt.Pull it on with shaking fingers.The fabric settles against my damp skin.
It’s his shirt.
The old UPenn one.With the frayed hem and the faded zombie doodle on the sleeve.I’ve kept it all these years, buried in my drawer like a secret I couldn’t quite let go of.
And now I’m wearing it.In front of him.Seven years of pretending I’d moved on, undone by laundry.
Boom!
Another pipe gives way.A wall panel pops loose, hanging by a single nail.Water pours into the closet, creating a miniature waterfall over my carefully hung clothes.
“Oh, for the love of—”
Dorothy yips, high and panicked.Blanche barks, the deep sound vibrating through the floorboards.Adam grabs the vet bag, my suitcase and Dorothy, scooping her up in one smooth motion.I lunge for Blanche and the tote, with the vibrator definitely still vibrating against my dry shampoo, a persistent mechanical hum that seems to get louder with every second.
We burst into the hallway, water pooling around our feet, spreading across the hardwood.
And waiting for us?
Sally.
In slippers.Holding a mop.Looking entirely too calm.
“Well,” she says, eyes twinkling as they move from me to Adam to the shirt I’m wearing, “looks like the Christmas pipes have done it again.And you know what that means?”
Adam shakes his head.Like he knows.
Sally continues, “There’s only one solution.One dry room left.”
Oh, okayone-bed trope,here we come.Absolutely not.
“No,” we both say.Instantly.The word comes out in perfect unison, which somehow makes it worse.
Because her eyes are twinkling.Yes, twinkling.I didn’t even know eyes could really do that.
“Oh, you don’t have a choice,” she says cheerfully.“Every other room is booked.Your parents are above the clinic, Adam because their house is being renovated and they have no room.Your friends have kids who need their sleep and bunk beds.The only dry room left?”
Pause.
Dramatic mop lean.
“The honeymoon suite, where you’re staying, Adam.”
I stare at her.My pulse pounds in my throat.
Adam makes a sound that sounds a lot like his chickenco, co, cofrom earlier.
Sally smiles like someone who’s made cocoa for her favorite rom-com movie moment.Like she’s orchestrated this entire disaster.
“I’ll bring extra towels,” she says, and walks away humming “Silent Night.”
And I’m left standing there, dripping wet in Adam’s shirt, my vibrator still humming inside my tote, staring at the bare-chested man I told myself I was over.The one who’s now apparently myone-night-onlyroommate.
Where’s the GoPro?If this is reality TV (or Julie’s next spicy rom-com) I want veto rights, and a lawyer before they air the part with the pickle.
