“What if I can’t look at his forehead without thinking about what’s below the forehead?”
“Then you look at Megan.”
I groaned and flopped back onto my bed. “This is a disaster.”
“This is life,” my mom said, standing up. “Now get in the shower. You have work in an hour.”
An hour.
Sixty minutes.
Three thousand six hundred seconds until I had to face the man I’d seen in a towel, fled from in terror, and then apparently dreamed about naked and dancing.
I was going to die. This was it. This was how Cate Brennan’s story ended. Not with a bang, but with a mortifying whimper in a suburban driveway.
I dragged myself into the shower, where I spent twenty minutes rehearsing what I’d say.
“Good morning, Dr. Lyon. How was your weekend?”Too casual.
“Hello. I’m here to work. Let’s never speak of Saturday.”Too aggressive.
“Hi. I’m sorry about the towel thing. And also sorry for existing.”Too pathetic.
By the time I got out, I’d settled on: “Good morning,” followed by immediate eye contact with literally anything that wasn’t him.
I got dressed in record time—jeans, a sweater that said, “I’m trying but also I’ve given up,” and my most professional sneakers (the ones without visible stains). I checked my phone.
Mom:You’ve got this, honey. Just breathe.
I typed back.
Me: Crisis mode. Will debrief later. Send thoughts and prayers.
Mom:Sending thoughts. Prayers. And don’t forget to look at his forehead!
Not helpful.
I grabbed my bag, checked my reflection one more time (acceptable, if you ignored the panic in my eyes), and headed next door.
The trek to Gabriel’s house felt like walking to my own execution. Every leaf was a stay of execution. Every gust of wind was a countdown to doom. I considered turning around approximately forty-seven times.
But I didn’t.
Because I needed this job.
Because Megan needed consistency.
Because I wasn’t a coward.
I am absolutely a coward, but I’m a coward with bills to pay.
I hoped the fence onto his driveway at exactly 7:58 AM. Two minutes early. Professional. Composed. Definitely not having an internal meltdown.
I stood there, staring at the front door.
The same front door where, forty-eight hours ago, I’d encountered Towel Gabriel and promptly lost all higher brain function.
I could do this. I was an adult. A professional. A woman who could absolutely look her attractive, half-naked—NO. Stop.
