“I always want honesty.”
The left side of his mouth draws up in a reluctant smile. “You would,” he mutters. Drew shakes his head. “If I’m being honest, I don’t want you to go.”
My smile is unstoppable. “Then go take a shower,” I say, gesturing to the bathroom door across the apartment. “I’ll wait.”
A measure of surprise shows on his face. “You will?”
“Of course.”
Without another word, he crosses to an old wardrobe next to the bathroom and pulls out fresh clothes. He looks at me over his shoulder. “I’ll just be a minute. Make yourself comfortable.” And then he steps into the bathroom and shuts the door behind him.
And I’m alone in his apartment. It doesn’t feel weird, and that’s…weird.The space is austere, but it has its own warmth. The fading sunlight through the windows on three sides of the apartment paints the wood walls a kind of rosy gold. Besides the little kitchen table and chairs and the wardrobe, the only other furnishings are a bookshelf and a futon.
The futon is clearly where he sleeps. The mattress is outfitted with bed linens and a pillow, and the bed is made. This makes me smile. Drew lives up here, alone, with no one here to see and yet he makes his bed in the morning.
I hear the sound of the shower, and I still. This sound is followed by a muffled, metallicchink!Like the sound of the zipper on a pair of coveralls hitting the floor.
I grab the back of one of the kitchen chairs. Because behind that bathroom door, Drew Moroux is naked. Naked, and washing away the sweat that clung to him when I approached him at the deli. The grease on his hands. The exhaustion from his muscles.
I’d like to help with that. With all of it.
I’d like to brush soap against a washcloth and rub it over his skin. Take away everything that makes him feel unclean. Weighted down.
I’d like to shampoo his hair, running my fingers against his scalp until he closes his eyes in pleasure.
I’d like to hold him against me, skin to skin, so he would know that there’s nothing about him I’d reject.
Nothing at all.
I release the chair back and pace the floor, trying to put distance between me and these thoughts. That’s when I notice a yellow sheet draped over a wide rectangle across the room from the futon.
I frown at it, wondering what it might be. I step closer, curious, but I’m not about to snoop. Maybe it’s just a dust cover over something that’s been up here for a while, though it doesn’t look dusty.
Turning my attention away from this mystery, I check out his bookshelf, which forms a kind of privacy wall at the foot of his bed. But since it faces the door and his dining area, it seems the least private of his possessions, so I don’t feel like I’m spying on him. The bookshelf must serve as a kind of dresser or end table because one shelf holds a spill of change, a pocket knife, and a smooth wooden box I tell myself I’m not allowed to open.
The shelf above this holds just three books, a red hardcover copy of the American Standard Version of the Bible, a worn paperback copy of Dante’sInfernothat looks older than both of us, and a newer, but not brand-new, copy ofAtonement.
“Jesus Christ, Drew,” I whisper.
I’ve never read Dante, but I know enough to guess it’s not the feel-good book of the Renaissance. I didn’t readAtonement, either, but I saw the movie. Everybody dies. And the one who’s to blame can never really atone. Drew has a copy of the Bible, but, honestly, the first half of that is all about a pissed off patriarchal deity.
A trip to the library for more cheerful reading material is definitely in order.
I hear the shower cut off, and I let my eyes travel lower to the collection of CDs. As anyone might expect, most of them are at least ten years old. But a younger Drew Moroux clearly liked Jay-Z, Fall Out Boy, and Kings of Leon. I pull out the last one,Only by the Night, and look at the familiar red and black cover art.
The bathroom door opens with a whoosh of steam, revealing a breathtaking sight. Drew — his wet hair curling in dark waves, his clean face red from the shower — dressed in a plain white T-shirt and worn jeans.
His feet are bare, and from head to toe, he is masculine beauty embodied.
He sees me holding the CD case and gives me a questioning lift of his brow. I show him the cover. “You have good taste in music.”
He steps out of the bathroom and drags a towel over his head, catching the gathering droplets in his hair. “Had,” he says. “The incarceration station plays exclusively Christian songs, so I’m way out of touch.”
“Incarceration station?” I hear myself ask.
Drew’s perfect lips shape into a grin. “KLSP. The radio station at Angola.”
I blink in surprise. “So, you heard no other music? Like, at all?”
