Chapter 23 #2
“I said you could, didn’t I?” he says, and some of the tension drains from my shoulders.
“I’m home”—I already know this, because his truck is parked in the driveway—“but I’m working on some stuff in the kitchen.
The back door should be unlocked. Let yourself in.
Up the stairs, first door on the left. It’s probably open. ”
“Great,” I say, picturing him in his kitchen working on a clogged sink or a broken fridge. “No bleach in any of your shower bottles?”
“No bleach,” he confirms with a quiet huff of laughter. “Use whatever you want.” He pauses. “I think there might be towels folded under the sink?”
I hum. “Very impressive, but I’ve got my own towel. My own soap too. Just no shampoo.”
“Come on over, then,” he says. “Let me know if you need anything.”
He hangs up without saying anything else, and I toss the phone aside, gather my things into a plastic bag, and then leave the shed.
The air is brisk as I hurry through Dominic’s yard, crunching leaves as I go, but the back door is open like he says, and I step gratefully inside, emerging into a laundry room.
It’s hard to get a feel for someone’s home based on their laundry room—not that I want to get a feel for his home, because obviously I don’t.
But a better picture begins to form when I exit the laundry room and find myself in a breezeway, next to a set of stairs.
Part of the family room is visible, with half a TV, an end table, and part of a couch in my sight; it looks clean, mismatched but well-maintained and functional, minimal clutter.
Exactly what I would picture, to be honest. Dominic isn’t worried about aesthetics. As long as everything is tidy and working right, he’s good to go.
I can hear the faint clatters of Dom’s work in the kitchen around a corner, but I don’t peek; I hurry for the steps, locating the bathroom with ease when I reach the second floor.
Unlike the bathroom at his dad’s house, this one produces no teenage awe.
This is where Dominic looks at himself in the mirror now; this is where Dominic the man shaves and showers and—
And I’m being weird about this. I’m being really creepy. It’s just a bathroom, and he’s just a man.
So I flip the light on and hurry inside, locking the door behind me. I’m here to bathe, not to ferret out the details of my ex’s life. I won’t be able to divine his inner thoughts by figuring out what brand of toothpaste he uses.
(Colgate, by the way, which I ONLY KNOW because it’s right there next to the sink.)
I set my folded clothes and towel on the counter and then undress, pulling the shower curtain aside and stepping in.
After yelping at the temperature of the hot water, I wash quickly, allowing myself one deep inhale of Dom’s soap before using my own shower gel.
I’m done in probably five minutes, thanks to the absence of face wash and conditioner.
My lungs fill with steam when I step out of the shower, and I wince when I realize I didn’t turn on the bathroom fan. So I hurry over and flip it on. Then I wrap my towel around myself and tuck it securely in place before cracking the door a little too.
I stare at the fogged mirror for a few seconds and then smile; leaning over the sink, I use my finger to write THANK YOU! on the glass.
I set about gathering my dirty clothes into the plastic bag I brought, and I’ve halfway reached for my shower gel when I stop, an idea popping into my mind.
I could…leave it here.
But that says something, doesn’t it? Leaving your soap in someone else’s shower says something. It means something—especially when that person is your ex.
My insides twist, but not in a bad way; it’s the feeling you get when you go on stage to perform.
Anxious, but excited, too. I stare at that bottle of bodywash, surprised at my own daring, and then I nod.
My lips try to smile and my hands try to shake as I brush my hair, but I leave my innocuous vanilla and nutmeg shower gel where it is.
“Berkeley?”
I startle at Dominic’s voice, distant but audible. “Yeah?” I call back.
“Are you decent?” he says, getting closer.
I glance down to make sure my towel is covering everything. “Yeah,” I say.
“I’m coming in,” he says.
I make sure nothing embarrassing is hanging out of my dirty clothes bag, shoving everything further in as the door swings in. “That’s fine.”
I look over my shoulder to find Dominic in the doorway. His eyes widen slightly when he sees me, and he scrubs his hand down his face. Then, shaking his head, he looks at the ceiling.
“Do you know what decent means?” he mutters.
“Nothing is showing,” I say. I pause, swallow my nervousness, and then add, “Can I leave my soap here?”
His body hasn’t been moving, but somehow it freezes in place all the same; then, slowly, he brings his gaze back to me. He takes a step into the steamy bathroom.
“That depends,” he says evenly, his voice soft. He glances over my bare shoulder to the open shower; then he looks back at me. “Does it smell good?”
I know the heat on my skin is from more than the lingering fog. “Vanilla and nutmeg.”
He lifts his brows. “So…pumpkin pie.”
“You know I love pumpkin pie,” I say with a delicate shrug.
“I do know,” he says, his eyes narrowing.
His gaze darts over my face for a second, and then he takes a neat step backward, out of the bathroom once more.
“The soap can stay.” His throat bobs as he swallows and turns his back to me, speaking over his shoulder now.
“Get dressed, Berkeley. And from here on out, decent means fully clothed. Got it?”
“Got it,” I say lightly.
“Good,” he says under his breath. After a pause, he says, “There are linens and blankets in the hallway closet if you want to take some for your couch. And there’s fresh pumpkin bread in the kitchen. Help yourself.”
I blink in surprise. “Do you bake now?”
“Only sometimes.” He reaches blindly back and finds the door knob, adding, “I’m going out. Don’t wait up for me.”
“What—why would I wait up for you?”
His shoulders jerk into a shrug. “You’re walking around my house in a towel,” he says. “Who knows what kind of salacious thoughts you might be having?”
I gasp and throw my bag of dirty clothes at him, but he dodges with a huff of laughter. Then, without waiting for me to say anything else, he pulls the bathroom door shut.
I don’t see him again that evening, but the pumpkin bread is delicious.