“I’ll go start on breakfast.” Ethan reached out and ran his hand down my cheek before leaning in and kissing my lips quickly. His mouth was minty, and I watched him run his tongue over the lip rings before he smiled at me and practically skipped out of the room. I shook my head and walked into the bathroom.
Chapter 8—Fear
Two pink, fluffy towels were neatly folded on the edge of the tub, and a new toothbrush still in its packaging sat next to the sink in the bathroom. It was also pink, just like the towels and the bean bag chairs. I was starting to wonder about all the pink in Ethan’s apartment. I noticed another door on the other side of the bathroom, and when I opened it, I was floored by the size of the walk-in closet, two thirds of which was filled with women’s clothes. I closed the door softly and thought about how hard it would be to go through one’s parents’ things after they were gone. Obviously, Ethan hadn’t been able to do it. I fought back a tear and turned to face the shower.
To contradict my thoughts on color schemes, the products in the shower were decidedly masculine in nature. I smiled and lathered myself up with Axe body wash and washed my hair with American Crew shampoo. When I was clean enough, I stepped out onto the—yes, pink—bath mat and wrapped one towel around my body and the other around my hair. Once I was thoroughly dried and sporting a pair of lavender sweatpants and a—yes, pink—T-shirt from Ethan’s mother’s wardrobe, I opened the bathroom door and walked towards the kitchen.
The smell through the hallway, emanating from the stove, was nothing less than magnificent. Ethan was in the process of flipping a piece of French toast in a large, heavy-looking skillet at the same time he was stirring a saucepan of syrup. He looked over his shoulder and greeted me with his beautiful smile.
"You remember when we first met, and I said you were pretty?" he asked.
"Well, yes," I said, feeling my cheeks warm. "That was only yesterday."
"I was an idiot yesterday," Ethan said. "You're incredibly beautiful."
My cheeks went from warm to blazing, and I had to look away for a minute. I wasn't used to such comments, even with guys I had dated in the past. I really wasn't sure how to respond.
"They knew it, too," Ethan said quietly.
"Who knew what?" I asked, confused.
"Past boyfriends who never told you how beautiful you are. They saw it; they just didn't say it."
"How do you know that?" I asked.
"You're blushing," he said. "That means you aren't used to people telling you that. Also, most guys are pretty inept at relationships and never tell girls what they really want to say because they're afraid they'll sound stupid."
"Are you just that good at relationships?" I had to ask.
"No," Ethan responded, “but I don’t do much text communication, which is what fucks up all the relationships I see. You can’t convey tone in a text, and people are constantly getting pissed off just because a message is unclear or taken the wrong way. I also learn from my mistakes. My last girlfriend left because I didn't ever tell her how I felt. Once I realized what she wanted—no, what she needed—it was too late. I'd already fucked it up."
Ethan went back to flipping French toast, and I stood there with my mouth open for a bit. I couldn't decide if he was for real or not. I mean, even if you ignore all the pink stuff, a guy this insightful, sensitive, and thoughtful—and he's interested in women? It really didn't seem possible. I resisted the urge to start looking for cameras and game show hosts.
"Can I help?" I asked when I came out of my stupor.
"Sure!" Ethan nodded towards the refrigerator. "There's orange juice in there and glasses in the cabinet on my left."
I opened the door to the fridge and gawked a bit. Aside from a jug of orange juice, last night's leftovers, and the ingredients for French toast, the fridge contained a jar of pickles, a squeeze bottle of mustard, four cases of Coke and three cans of Sprite. That was it.
Okay, despite the pink color scheme, he definitely wasn't gay, not that I really thought he was. I retrieved the orange juice, filled a couple of glasses, and then placed them on the kitchen table. Ethan flipped more French toast and emptied the pot of warmed syrup into a small dish with a pour spout. I took it from him and put it on the table next to the jug of extra juice while Ethan loaded a plate full of French toast and deposited it in the middle of the table.
We dug in, and I moaned at the taste. It w
as undoubtedly the best French toast I had ever eaten.
“Ethan, this is fantastic!”
“Thanks,” he said with a blush. “My dad taught me how to make it when I was younger. I don’t think he knew how to cook anything else. Mom hated to cook, so we ate out a lot, as you can imagine.”
“My parents weren’t much for cooking, either,” I said. “I had a nanny when I was young, though. She did a lot of cooking for the family. She taught me how to make a bunch of stuff, which has come in handy since I moved out. It’s easy to get lazy and eat out all the time though.”
“It’s expensive to do it all the time,” Ethan said.
“You don’t really need to worry about that,” I said.
“No, I don’t,” Ethan said with a scowl, “but my friends do, so I usually try to bring some groceries over there instead. Since I eat over there more often than not, they’ll take it and not consider it like charity or anything. It’s just my contribution, you know? They don’t want any handouts, but food’s pricey. I usually take Faith with me to shop. She’s one of the few that knows I have money, but she won’t let on about it. She helps me pick out the right stuff to buy.”
“What’s do you mean, ‘the right stuff’?”