Chapter 6 We Know the Water Smells Like Eggs
We Know the Water Smells Like Eggs
Saturday, Now
“Aw, honey. I’m sorry,” Ethan tells me as the last dregs of Gatorade leave my body. “Let it all out.”
Standing on the side of the road, he’s holding my hair back and rubbing small circles between my shoulders in a distinctly collegiate manner. But maybe that’s a critical component of your entire life falling apart. Regression.
“Your poor van,” I say, my face pointed to the grass. I’m not ready to go vertical quite yet.
“Don’t worry about that,” he tells me, his hand still on my back. “Worry about what’s in your hair.”
I grimace. “On my lap too.”
He surveys the surrounding area. “There’s a truck stop just north of us. If we’re lucky, they’ll have a shower where you can get cleaned up.”
My shoulders sink. “A truck stop shower?”
“I usually shower at Anytime Fitness, but we’re a little too far from a city for that. A truck stop is going to be your best option. Would you rather use my camping shower? It’s ice cold, has no water pressure, and is fully open to the elements. Take your pick.”
I momentarily weigh the prospect of a public nudity citation against exposure to staphylococcal bacteria and arrive at a verdict that surprises even me. Releasing a tiny whimper of resignation, I murmur, “Truck stop, please.”
He rubs that spot between my shoulders again. It’s nice. Comforting. Like when my mom used to make me those Lipton Noodle Soup packets when I was sick.
“That’s my Chuck. So quietly heroic.”
I don’t care for the amusement in his voice, but as he just held my hair back, I’ll let him have this one.
“I’m sorry about your upholstery.” I avert my eyes from the soiled patch of grass and direct all my focus to Ethan’s left leg.
His muscular calf. His lightly suntanned skin.
It’s by far the strangest grounding exercise I’ve ever subjected myself to, but it works. It steadies me enough to lift my head.
“It’s a wipe-clean vegan leather. It’ll be fine.”
“You’re just happy because you were right about my car sickness,” I say, finally looking in his eyes. There’s a touch of schadenfreude tugging at his lips.
“Eh, but I wouldn’t’ve minded being wrong.” He disappears behind the van with my laptop and, about a minute later, reappears with a garbage bag. “I wiped off what I could. We’ll see if a cup of rice is any match for your insides.”
Yesterday, if you would’ve asked me what I’d save in a house fire, I would’ve pointed to the laptop inside this green compostable trash bag without hesitating. You think you know yourself, but then that alarm goes off and you’re surprised by your own ineptitude.
My whole body recoils when I take the bag from him. “You think rice will help?”
“It brought your pink Razr back from the brink,” he quips.
“Razrs are indestructible. They’re a technological marvel. They don’t make ’em like that anymore.”
“All right.” His palm finds my shoulder blades again. “Let’s focus on you. We’ll worry about the replaceable things later.”
—
I take the shower key from the pretty young woman at the front counter, who seems only moderately irritated that I interrupted her reading of Fourth Wing with something as mundane as my cleanliness emergency.
“The shower’s seven dollars. Keep your shoes on,” she instructs, snapping her gum.
There’s a giant red-haired man behind her restocking a row of tobacco pouches. “Don’t come back here to complain that the water smells like eggs,” he tells my reflection in the mirrored security camera. “We know the water smells like eggs.”
And with that inauspicious disclaimer, their attention returns to sexy dragon riders and Cool Mint ZYN, respectively.
I’m not sure what I was anticipating from a truck stop bathroom, but it’s somehow more grim than I would have thought.
The space resembles a single-occupancy gas station bathroom (the kind where you’re careful not to touch anything ) with an avocado-green shower curtain drooping in the far corner.
The dingy tile floor slopes inward to a drain at its center that’s guarded by a particularly vigilant spider.
There’s no tiny bottle of shampoo. There’s no shelf for clothes.
There’s not even a towel hook. Aside from the disconcertingly scorched toilet seat, there are no surfaces to speak of.
I can already feel the bile creeping back up my throat. I pop my head out the bathroom door, and the key clanks against the metal handle. I spot Ethan immediately and am flooded with relief.
He’s leaning over the counter, all charming smiles, chatting up the woman behind the glass, who’s been roused from her literary coma by his attention.
She’s twirling her hair, for god’s sake.
When she spoke to me, her entire body was an eye roll, but with Ethan, she exudes the small-town, effortlessly gorgeous energy of an undiscovered starlet.
The scene makes my already sensitive stomach twist a bit more violently.
It’s not as though I’m surprised. I’ve seen the effect he has on women.
And men for that matter. Everyone is drawn to him and the way he moves through the world with an easy confidence.
That, paired with his whole floppy-haired, eager-to-please Labrador retriever thing, is kryptonite to almost everyone.
I’m only immune to its potency because I’ve known him since he had a buzz cut, gapped teeth, and a passing interest in close-up magic.
Nothing can dampen an objectively gorgeous man’s sex appeal quite like the memory of his thirteen-year-old self dousing my arm in lighter fluid while attempting to set a playing card on fire.
I’d be lying if I said that, from time to time, I haven’t noticed my platonic best friend in ways that are undoubtedly non -platonic, but it always passes.
Attraction might spark for a millisecond when he whispers into my ear during a movie, his hot breath kissing the spot on my neck that is biologically hardwired to send tingles down my spine, but then he immediately neutralizes it.
He does or says something that reminds me that, at his core, he’s still Ethan: allergic to preparation, monotony, and monogamy.
The exact opposite of my type, which can be best categorized as a man who has strong opinions on German appliance manufacturers and always splurges on the extended warranty.
I clear my throat, hoping to get Ethan’s attention without capturing the notice of the entire rest stop.
I’m only partially successful. Ethan swivels his head in my direction, and I watch Casually Stunning Counter Girl’s face fall in the absence of his shine.
He jogs over to me, the aforementioned floppy brown hair flopping floppily. The whole maneuver is surely making Counter Girl weak in the knees. “What do you need, Beek?”
I flutter my lashes. “Could I possibly tear you away from luring that poor girl into your van? We have a situation.”
“Don’t love that insinuation, but you’re in a fragile state, so we’re gonna breeze right past it…”
I jerk my head toward the set inspiration for the movie Saw behind me . “I need your help in there.”
“ There , as in the bathroom?”
“No. There , as in the Portuguese consulate. Yes, the bathroom ! There’s no shelf. I need you to hold my bag and pass me my stuff while I shower.”
He leans against the door frame to tilt his head through the opening. He peers around the room and comes up as empty as I did. He looks between me and the eerie room, the flickering fluorescent light catching on the edges of his jawline. “Can you set it on the floor?”
I have the patience of an absolute saint. “It’s already been claimed by the largest spider I’ve ever seen. This is his house, and I’m gonna respect that.”
His lips quirk. “You’re so cute when you’re petrified. Your nose gets all twitchy like a cartoon bunny rabbit’s…” He takes my bag from my hands and strides into the bathroom, our arms brushing in a way that is surely raising his counter friend’s eyebrows. “Never fear. I’ll be your towel rack.”
“Did I ever tell you that you’re my favorite person in the whole wide world?” I’m practically bouncing with relief.
“Less talking. More showering. You still want to get to Petey and Laurel’s campsite before sundown, right?”
“One thousand percent,” I answer, slinking into the shower fully clothed, strategically avoiding contact with the mildewy curtain as though it’s a red laser beam and I am the seductive art thief in an Ocean’s movie. “I’m not taking any risks.” I couldn’t live with myself if Laurel married Petey.
“I think you’re going to regret this attitude toward your own sister’s happily ever after.”
“When their divorce goes through this time next year, I definitely won’t.”
“Come on, Chuck. I know you’re not actually that cynical.”
“Oh, but I am. I’m a twenty-eight-year-old divorcée whose mom forwards her relationship advice from a Twin Flames Facebook group. Life has hardened me.”
The way he pushes air through his nostrils spells out his thoughts. Oof, Charley , it says.
I peel off my T-shirt and pass it through the sliver of light between the curtain and the shower wall. It plops to the floor.
“Powell! The spider!”
“I’m not holding your vomit in my hands.”
“I carried you on my back for three blocks after you stepped on glass walking through Zeta Kappa’s foam party barefoot, and you can’t hold a dirty shirt?”
“It was thirty feet, tops. And that party was basically a giant bathtub.”
I shake my head even though he can’t see it. “I can’t have this argument with you again.”
“I’ve got a garbage bag in my pocket, and I promise to make sure Felix doesn’t hitch a ride with your clothes when we leave, okay?”
Of course he’s already named the spider.