Chapter 10
10
DYLAN
That sound again. It’s Monday morning, and I’m lying in bed, cocooned in my freshly changed sheets, the fabric cool against my skin. I stretch and sink deeper into the pillow, determined to tune out the weird noises. Still half-draped in the fog of sleep, I pull the covers closer as if they could shield me from the world. When the disturbance persists, tugging at my awareness, I roll over and blink at the clock on my nightstand: 5.50a.m.
By now, Hunter is usually gone, already at the gym or on her way to work. Whatever that obnoxious sound is, it’s not coming from inside the apartment.
I groan and flop onto my back, staring up at the ceiling. Ten glorious minutes before the alarm goes off, and I intend to enjoy them to the last second. I close my eyes again, drifting back to that sweet spot between wakefulness and dreams. Monday morning can wait a little longer.
Then I hear it distinctly. A low grunt, followed by a muffled curse. I frown, pushing myself up on one elbow. Another grunt, louder this time, then a strange rustling sound. Curiosity piqued, I sit up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. The room is still dim, the sun not fully risen, leaving everything bathed in a cool, bluish tint.
My gaze drifts over the last few unpacked boxes scattered across the floor of my new bedroom. Nina’s old room. I’m still adjusting to the idea that this place is mine. It’ll be a while before I stop thinking of this as a temporary crash pad. But perhaps now’s not the time to get philosophical.
Reluctantly, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and shuffle out of my room, my bare feet padding on the hardwood floor.
“Hunter?” I call out but receive no response.
I walk to her door, hesitating a second before knocking. “Hey, everything alright in there?” My voice comes out still gravelly from sleep.
After a brief pause, she responds with a frustrated, “I’m fine,” that doesn’t sound fine at all .
I raise an eyebrow, suddenly more awake. “You sure? It sounds like you’re wrestling a wild animal in there.”
More rustling, another grunt, and a soft thud. I knock again, this time a little louder. Okay, maybe it’s not a beast she’s fighting, but whatever it is, it sounds like it’s winning.
“Hunter? Can I help?” I offer, concerned now.
There’s a pause, then an exasperated sigh. “Alright, just… don’t laugh.”
Not reassuring, but definitely intriguing. I wonder what could be happening behind that door. Is she assembling IKEA furniture at 6a.m.? Practicing some bizarre new yoga pose?
“Promise. No laughing,” I pledge, unsure if I can keep my word. It’ll depend on what I’ll find on the other side.
After a reluctant, “Come in” from Hunter, I cautiously open her door and step inside her bedroom. And freeze.
I blink, processing the scene before me. Hunter is thrashing in the center of the room, tangled in a too-tight shirt that’s stuck over her head. The top covers her face and most of her upper torso, thank goodness . Her arms are raised above her, trapped in the sleeves as if in a sort of straightjacket. During the struggle, her bra has lost the fight to stay clasped and is now dangling beneath the blouse. There is a little under-boob showing.
Hunter looks like she’s been wrestling this outfit for a while, and the shirt is definitely winning. My eyes trail down to her flat stomach where a sparkly belly button stud pierces her skin. Has she always had that? I shuffle to my mental catalog of all the summer visits she’s paid to my parents’ place, but I can’t remember… The fact that I can’t recollect bothers me more than it should, and I don’t know why.
Hunter lets out another muffled cry.
The scene is comic, but somehow, I can’t find a single laugh within me. Instead, there’s this burning warmth settling in, something that twists low and leaves me rooted on the spot. I swallow past whatever it is I’m feeling at the sight of that belly ring and the peek of under-boob.
I tear my eyes away and scan the rest of the room—immaculately tidy, ready to pass a military inspection. The bed is pristine, not a single crease or pillow out of place, and every surface is spotless. Even the books on her shelves are stacked with precision. The only thing out of order is an overflowing laundry basket near her bed.
I take a step closer to Hunter to figure out the best way to help her out of this predicament without making things more awkward.
“Uh… need a hand?”
“No, Dylan, I’m practicing a new interpretive dance routine,” Hunter retorts, her voice muffled by the fabric. “Yes, please, help me.”
I approach her with the same caution I would use for a wild animal that might bolt at any sudden movement and reach for the hem of the shirt, trying to untangle her without accidentally copping a feel.
“Okay, just… hold still,” I instruct, grasping the fabric and tugging. “We need to coordinate. Exhale on three and I’m going to pull.”
She nods, the shirt bobbing with the movement. I count down, “One, two, three,” and tug.
The blouse doesn’t budge. Hunter lets out a frustrated groan that would be adorable if she wasn’t so clearly annoyed.
“I’m going to try again,” I reassure her.
“Put more elbow grease into it.”
“I won’t take the bait and make a joke about lubricant.”
“Dylan, please, I can’t breathe.” Even underneath the frustration, she sounds amused.
“Okay, one, two, three…”
We manage to pull the shirt down on the third try.
The fabric slides down her torso, snapping into place. Her bra stays twisted underneath. Hunter, her face flushed, tugs her top down further, avoiding eye contact.
“There. You’re free. Fashion emergency averted.” I keep my gaze high, away from her chest and the tantalizing lacy pink fabric of her bra.
Hunter looks part mortified, part defiant as she meets my eyes, 100 percent deliciously tousled. “Not a word.”
I make a zipper-over-mouth gesture as Hunter’s gaze drops from my face and she gasps, making me realize that I came straight from bed and am not wearing anything except for my boxer briefs.
I cough, and her eyes dart up from my bare chest.
“You’re in your underwear,” she mumbles, then catches herself. “I mean, thank you.”
“I’ll go get dressed.”
She nods.
But as I backtrack blindly, my foot catches onto something. I stumble, arms flailing to steady myself as my feet get more tangled into whatever tripped me. Something hard hits my calf, and I kick it away on instinct, sending clothes flying everywhere as I fall flat on my butt.
I land a little stunned, surrounded by scattered garments—jeans, shirts, and, to my horror, a collection of bras and lacy underwear—and Hunter’s laundry basket capsized on the floor.
I contemplate the possibility that I’m being punished for something I did in a past life because, amidst all the chaos, a lacy thingy has landed on my head. My eyes widen under the lace. The soft fabric—pink and racy—is draped over my nose. And I don’t need to inspect it to know it’s one of Hunter’s thongs hanging off my face like a deflated superhero mask.
For a long, painful moment, neither of us moves. My face burns red as I gingerly pluck the underwear off, holding it up. “Uh… this yours?”
Hunter stands there, equally shell-shocked. She stares at the thong in my hand as if it might explode at any second. Her cheeks are as pink as the lace, and she’s pressing her lips together. My roommate looks like she’d gladly crawl under the nearest piece of furniture instead of answering me. Finally, she moves. “Thanks.” She takes the unfortunate underwear from me and stuffs it back into the basket, avoiding my gaze as she collects the rest of her laundry, her long, dark hair falling forward to shield her face.
I stand, waiting for her to be done. Neither of us knows what to say. But I can’t stand the silence. “I, uh… didn’t mean to touch, t—to trip on… you know.” I rub the back of my neck. Real smooth, Dylan.
We share a look—embarrassed, horrified—and that has us both silently agreeing to never mention this again. “Well, uh…” I scramble for something to say to defuse the awkwardness. “I’ll… go pretend this never happened.”
Hunter nods, her face still flushed. “Yeah… solid plan.”
Making sure there’s no more laundry to stumble upon, I turn and slip out of the room. As I shut the door behind me, I lean against the wall and exhale, staring at the ceiling in disbelief. I try to focus on literally anything other than Hunter’s lingerie and the accidental peek-a-boob. Taxes. Yeah, taxes. Those are neutral. “Taxes. Think about taxes,” I mutter, as I head back to my room, hoping I’ve hit my embarrassment quota for today.