But I do. I also notice that it sucks.
Maybe I just need a workout. I drag myself inside and make out the unmistakable soundtrack of cartoons when I cut through the kitchen to grab a vitamin water.
Upstairs, Livy and Nina’s doors are closed, but their lights are on, so I’m guessing they’re both home. Some kind of rhythmic thumping overhead tells me that Madame Weird is home too.
Okay. I can deal with this. Drum circles and Cartoon Network are way better than Drake whining at the dinner table because he can’t have another serving of bread pudding. Or Kit and Starling hissing at each other about whose turn it is to empty the kitchen composter. Or Mom’s interrogation about all things cathedral.
It was pretty hard to elaborate on Father Carmichael’s homily when I took in barely a word of it. I wasn’t about to confess that this was because the taste of Stella Mouton’s buttery biscuit lingered on my tongue and the sight of her in those skin-tight yoga pants made my tongue ache to linger somewhere else.
Every time I’ve seen Stella this week, she’s been so put together. Hair shining like ribbons of chocolate and toffee. Makeup like she’s about to pose in front of a light ring. Dark patterned swing dresses and low heels showcasing lethal legs.
Like she’s a walking advertisement for the salon where she works.Want to set men’s heads on fire? Call Stella for a smokin’ new look.
But this morning?
With her hair twisted up in a messy bun, wavy tresses spilling out and framing her face, her skin soft and bare, her green eyes a little sleepy?
It was like a WELCOME sign when you’ve gotten used to seeing KEEP OUT. Like getting backstage passes to a kickass show you didn’t know you wanted to see. Like reaching out to touch a marble statue in a museum and finding it as warm as living flesh.
She looked so soft and touchable, I thought my knees would give.
This is the nonsense I’m thinking about while doing chest presses and dumbbell flyes. Stuff I should not be thinking about period, but especially not when I could lose focus and brain myself with a weight.
When I finish my sets, I grab the towel at the foot of my bench and wipe the sweat off my face.
Or I try too. But the towel is overdue for a wash.
Okay, maybe all of the towels I have to my name are a little overdue.
I pick through my dirty laundry for what Zoe would call my “whites,” toss everything in my canvas laundry bag, and head downstairs.
While the washer is filling with hot water, I hear the rumble of the garage door. My pulse quickens. I ignore it. Probably just a combo of workout fatigue and steam from the washer.
The door to the garage swings open, and Stella jumps when she sees me. “Oh! Hey.”
“Didn’t mean to spook you,” I say. Salon Stella is back. That’s not really a complaint. But what happened to Soft Stella?
She shuts the door behind her and frowns. “Something wrong?”
“Why are you dressed like that?” The question, blurted out in the tiny space of the mudroom shared by two virtual strangers sounds as ridiculous as it possibly could.
Stella’s perfect brows soar. “Excuse me?”
Sense opens my mouth to attempt something reasonable, but my brain isn’t up to the task. If I’ve let on that I just spent the last twenty minutes enumerating the superiority of Soft Stella versus Salon Stella, I’m going to have to move out. Or at least find a truck to step in front of.
“I… You look like you’re dressed for work.”
She pastes on a flat smile, one I’m sure she reserves for idiots. “Because Iwasat work.”
“Oh.” I manage to stop myself from asking why. I should probably also stop looking at her.
Stella frowns at me like I’m not okay. Maybe I’m not. And maybe asking is better than staring.
“You made that big breakfast for seven people and then went to work?” Because that seems like a lot.
Her frown eases, and she blinks. “Oh… yeah.” She shrugs like it’s no big deal but the corners of her mouth lift.
I grew up watching Mom feed our party of nine twice a day when school was in and three times a day on weekends and holidays. She wasn’t always solo. When she could wrangle us, we helped, but she never had to feed us and then go to work. Feeding and keeping us from killing each other or burning down the housewasthe work.
