A lot, actually. As in, even more than I am.
Which is odd. I’m the one who got boobsposed, and Liam is probably very used to being with naked women. That is, actually naked women. Way more naked than I currently am. Let’s be real—his ex is likely a Victoria’s Secret Angel who recently quit modeling to finish a doctorate in art history and become a junior curator at the Smithsonian. She has an impeccable belly button and knows what PlayStation button to press to throw a grenade. Did I say his ex? They’re still dating, for all I know. Having a very athletic sex life. I’m talking role play and toys. Butt action. Lots of oral, which they both excel at. Okay, this train of thought needs to crash right now.
Maybe he’s just embarrassed for me? Not that he should be. I’m pretty. I mean, I think I’m pretty. Cute, in a befreckled, wish-I-was-two-inches-taller, slightly-self-conscious-about-that-hump-on-my-nose way. Sometimes, usually after Sadie has put eyeliner on me, I even think I’m beautiful. But I’ll never be as attractive as Liam. Is that why he’s doing this weird thing—staring while obviously trying his best not to stare?
“I’m so sorry I didn’t warn you. I thought you were out of town or something. Because you didn’t come home last night, and...” I feel a bit embarrassed that I noticed. But how could I not? Ever since the snowstorm, we’ve gotten into this weird rhythm. Dinner together at seven. Not that there’s an acknowledged agreement or anything, but I know from before that he used to eat a little later, and I know from my whole life that I used to eat a little earlier, and somehow we converged on a time that works for both of us... Maybe I was close to texting him last night. But decided not to, because it seemed like crossing some kind of unspoken line.
“No, I just... I had to be at work. Because of a deadline. I was going to warn you, but...” You didn’t want to cross some kind of unspoken line? I want to ask. But one does not speak of unspoken things, so I just go with:
“Of course.” I clear my throat. “I’ll go to my room. Get dressed.”
“Right.”
I make to leave. Except that Liam’s still standing there, blocking the exit. The only exit, if one doesn’t count the window, which I briefly consider before acknowledging that it’s not a feasible option. Not in my current state of dishevelment. “You are...” He doesn’t seem to understand where he is. I’d gesticulate and point it out, but I have to clutch my towel with both hands to avoid flashing him, and—
“Oh. Oh, right, I...” He takes a large step to the side. Too large—he’s basically plastered against the sink now.
“Okay. Thanks again for letting me use your bathroom.”
“No problem.”
I really should leave now. “And I borrowed a bit of your shampoo. Well, stole. It’s not as if I’m ever going to return it. But, you know.”
“It’s okay.”
“I love Old Spice, by the way. Solid choice.”
“Oh.” Liam looks everywhere but at me. “I just grab the first one I see at the store.”
I know in that moment, I simply know, that Old Spice is William K. Harding’s favorite brand of personal hygiene products, and that he suffers deep shame because of it. “Right. Of course.” He can be adorable, sometimes. “Hey, just FYI, I’m not embarrassed. So you shouldn’t be, either.”
“What?”
“I don’t care that you saw me naked. Because I know you don’t care. Just saying, we don’t need to be weird about it. Believe me”—I laugh—“I know you’re not going to use your annoying ginger roomie’s tiny freckled boobs as spank bank material.”
I expect him to reply with a joke, like he usually does, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t reply at all, in fact. Just presses his lips together, nods once, and all of a sudden things feel even more awkward. Crap.
“Anyway. Thanks again.”
“You’re welcome.”
I step out with a small wave and notice two things: he’s staring hard at his feet, and his left hand is a tight fist at his side.
Chapter 7
Three months ago
There’s nothing wrong with the waveguide. That, I know for sure. The transformer and the stirrer seem fine, too, which has me thinking that the problem is in the magnetron. Now, I’m not really an expert, but I’m hoping that if I tinker with the filament the assembly will fix itself and—
“Is this because last night we watched Transformers?”
I look up. Liam, a soft smile on his face, is standing on the other side of the kitchen island, taking in the microwave oven parts I meticulously laid out over the marble countertop.
I might have made a mess.
“It was either this or writing Optimus Prime fanfiction.”
He nods. “Good choice, then.”