Chapter 13
DAMMIT!
I glare up at the shower head as it rudely responds with just a few final drips. My hair is frothy with shampoo, and suds are sliding down my neck and travelling down my boobs. This is the very worst time to crap out on me, pal.
I slap the shower head, hoping it might have one last spray of water tucked away somewhere that can rid me of my soapiness.
It produces a rattling sound that makes me glance up in anticipation.
Oh—there’s a spray of something alright, but it’s definitely not the crystal clear substance I was looking for.
Brown liquid comes crashing down and hits me straight in the face.
I let out a scream of frustrated disgust as I rush to turn off the tap.
I give the water a tentative sniff, then sigh in relief. It’s odourless, which at least means that all the crap that just came pouring down on me wasn’t actually an entire building’s worth of intestinal waste.
I let out an annoyed sigh. I was so ready to rinse this entire day off of me. The realization that I’m still seeing Fedde’s face everywhere I go, is not something I was prepared for.
I quickly wrap myself in a towel and hustle over to the kitchen sink. A few seconds later, the tap water turns to the same rusty brown colour. Swearing under my breath, I cycle through the options in my mind only to conclude that the possibilities are pretty limited.
Hey, Bluebird. What happened to you? Rudy leans casually against his door frame as he takes in the sight of me. He seems a little too amused. You’re looking rough.
Annnd thank you very much, I reply, sounding peeved.
He shakes his head. You know what I mean. You don’t look as put together as usual. Though, I guess there was that one time you showed up at my door in your PJs . . .
His eyes travel from my face down to the towel I’m wearing. I did make sure it was fully covering my boobs and butt before coming over. Wiggling back and forth awkwardly, I pull the cotton towel a little tighter around my body.
This was obviously a terrible idea. On the other hand, Rudy’s the only other person I know in this building. He seemed like the only viable solution to my problem. The only way to stop looking like something you might fish out of a shower drain.
Do you have clear running water right now? I finally ask, purposely ignoring his jab at my Disney pyjamas.
He gives me a puzzled look. I did a few seconds ago. Why?
Mine looks like my pipes are full of wastewater from someone who ate a bunch of super spicy Indian food.
Hmmm. Not ideal for hair-washing purposes, I suppose, he says with a chuckle.
I shake my head, relieved to hear that he gets it, before giving him a hopeful look.
The silence between us is ominous, until Rudy finally speaks. Um . . . I guess you could use my—
That would be great. Thank you, I jump in.
He laughs at my eagerness, then steps aside to let me through. The bathroom is—
Exactly where mine is! I shout, breezing past him toward the room where I’ll finally be able to freshen up.
Under any other circumstances, I would have subjected Rudy’s apartment to a thorough investigation, but right now, all I want is to deal with the grossness that’s saturated my hair.
When I’ve finally rinsed my hair and put on my sleepwear—I was smart enough to bring along a long t-shirt and a robe this time instead of my cartoon jammies—I take some time to look around.
Rudy’s bathroom is clean and tidy. No gross stubble in the sink and the toilet seat is down.
Of course, there could be other reasons behind the toilet seat position . . . like super spicy Indian food.
A moment later, I wander into the living room to find Rudy sitting on his black two-seater sofa watching a show.
There’s a big flat-screen TV mounted on the wall and I spot four guitars over in the corner, both electric and acoustic ones.
Another corner has a record player and a huge collection of vinyl.
I recognize Pink Floyd’s prism on one of the album covers.
His place has a minimalist vibe: he only owns what he needs and uses, nothing more, nothing less.
No throw pillows on the couch to brighten up the room.
No candles on the coffee table. And I doubt he’s ever put up a Christmas tree to liven up the place.
But even though he doesn’t have that much stuff, his apartment looks like it’s in much better shape than mine.
The walls are nicely painted and he has laminate flooring instead of a grubby carpet.
Thanks for the shower.
Rudy looks up and lets his eyes wander over me. I notice him swallow when his gaze lingers a little too long on my bare legs—good thing I shaved yesterday—and I tie my robe a little tighter around my waist.
The shower, yeah . . . No problem, he eventually replies, sounding slightly hoarse.
Drawing his eyes away from my legs and back to my face, he looks me straight in the eye with a crooked, slightly defiant smile on his lips. There’s a weird tension in the air that I attempt to cut by shifting my attention to his television.
Whatcha watchin’? I ask in a curious tone.
Money Heist.
Money what?
Rudy, who had just turned to look at the screen, jerks his head back toward me. You’ve never seen Money Heist? He sounds baffled.
Um, I guess I . . .
Sit down, he orders, pointing at the spot next to him on the couch before grabbing the remote. We need to fix this immediately.
But I . . .
Believe me, you need to see this. I just started a rewatch from episode one before the new season comes out. This is the best time to get on the train.
I could never have predicted a movie night proposal from Rudy. And I definitely couldn’t have predicted I’d be seriously considering his suggestion.
You sure? I ask.
Duh. I wouldn’t bring it up if I wasn’t, he says, rolling his eyes.
Fair enough. Rudy doesn’t seem like the kind of person who ever suggests things out of sheer politeness. After a brief hesitation, I flop down next to him.
Want some popcorn?
I’m yawning on the couch, but I refuse to give in to sleep. The suspense is too intense. I can sense Rudy looking over at me every once in a while and when our eyes finally meet, his smug grin screams, I told you so.
We have our backs propped against the armrests at opposite sides of the sofa, our legs stretched out toward each other.
When I shift a little in my seat, my leg brushes against his, sending a little jolt through my body.
It must be because my robe is part synthetic and the air is dryer now that the weather’s getting colder.
I quickly glance at Rudy’s face to see if he felt the same zap, but he hasn’t budged.
As he tucks a lock of hair behind his ear, his silver earring catches a flicker of light coming from the TV.
Unblinking, he keeps his eyes on the screen.
I’ve had a popcorn shell stuck somewhere between my molars for the past half hour and I really don’t feel like digging around inelegantly to fish it out.
When the credits roll on episode four, Rudy turns to face me. He seems to be studying my face and his brow furrows in thought when my hair catches his attention.
You have curly hair?
I awkwardly brush a hand through my locks. I didn’t style it after my shower, so it just air-dried in its natural state: a mane of blonde curls twisting in every direction. I look like I mess around with explosives in my free time.
Yeah, I suppose I do, I reply, taking care to sound casual. I usually straighten it so it’s not quite so . . . wild? That last part sounds like a question, but it’s something I did for a job interview once and now it’s just my signature style.
Rudy cocks his head to the side and moves his gaze over to my lips. Why though? he wonders out loud. This looks good on you.
I feel my cheeks flush and I give him a look of surprise. Was that a compliment I just heard?
A corner of his mouth tugs up. Maybe, he replies, before quickly gesturing at the TV.
Wanna watch another one? he asks, clearly delighted that I’m enjoying his favourite show.
I do, but . . . What time is it?
Rudy checks his phone. One-thirty.
I bolt upright. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. I have to get up in five hours!
Oh. Yeah, you should probably go, then.
I seem to catch a flash of disappointment in his eyes, but it’s gone before I can be sure.
You don’t have to work tomorrow? I pry as we make our way to the door. Rudy starts to unlatch the locks. I mean, you’re an amazing singer, but . . .
Gee, thanks, he chuckles. You’re right, though. I make a bit of cash playing those shows next door, but it doesn’t exactly cover the bills. I’m a barista at a coffee shop near Central Park.
You are? I look up at him. It’s not the answer I was expecting. You ride the subway every day, too, then?
How else would I get there? he replies, rolling his eyes.
Oh, I don’t know—maybe you drive a swanky company car. I give him a sugary sweet smile.
Rudy mostly ignores my comment, aside from the goofy look he shoots my way. He’s working on the last of the locks.
What’s with all the locks? I ask curiously.
He opens the door, peering out into the hall. There’s a few sketchy types in the building. Mary told me someone moved in recently who was accused of organ trafficking.
Organ trafficking?! My voice shoots up to the top of my range.
Accused of, he emphasizes. Not convicted. It’s a pretty big difference. I think he was actually acquitted.
Still, I squeak. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire, right?
I’m sure it’s fine. I have full faith in the justice system.
The American justice system? I ask, sounding baffled.
Rudy lets out a laugh. In these kinds of cases, at least. But maybe we should have that conversation another day? I thought you had to get up soon.
My face softens. Another day?
Yeah. Unless you don’t want to find out what happens next on Money Heist?
Um, sure. I mean yes. Of course.
Nice. Sleep tight, Bluebird. And with that, he holds the door for me on my way out, like a true gentleman.
Once I’m back in my own apartment, I latch, clamp, and twist every single lock on my door tightly shut.