The shower has turned off.
No. He didn’t hear that. He… “Everything okay?” says Arthur, since he’s kind and the walls are cardboard and he’s a caretaker, this is what he does. My soda water threatens to come back up.
“Totally fine!” I yell back. “Just—would it be all right if you slept in there?”
Big, tall-person footsteps. “No, don’t come out,” I panic. “It’s, I’m… sort of stuck in the vintage dress Sarah brought me, which was so cute and sweet, and it has pockets, and I probably won’t die from asphyxiation so—go to sleep in there if… if you don’t mind.”
Silence.
Then, “You can’t say you’re choking, then tell me to sleep in the bath.”
“I said I would live.”
“Graywood.”
“Bianco.”
We’re both thinking through how Arthur is going to word this, since I’m sure as hell not asking. “Can I… come out?” he lands on. “To help.”
Helpundressme. Damn it, this dress should’ve stayed in its own era. This isn’t the free-wheeling sixties anymore, at least not between me and the last person on the planet who should see me topless. Because remember? No bra.
“Lilah,” he says, “if you don’t reply, I’m going to assume you’ve passed out and come carry you to the hospital.”
Fantastic, another new and highly specific fetish nobody else could ever fulfill besides a professional athlete. “Nope, let me just…” I cross my arms, then uncross them, then add in a quieter voice, as shy as I feel, “Um, okay. Come out?”
I bunny-hop closer to the bed in surprise, because Arthur comespower-walkingout of the bathroom, his hair wet, shirt and jeans on, eyes sweeping over every possible threat until they land on me. “Hi,” I start. “It’s just in the back if you—”
“Yup, got it,” he cuts me off. “Turn around.”
I obey his command, happy to hide how red I’ve turned from seeing him freshly showered, a whole new side of him that seems vulnerable and intimate and cozy. When his hand strokes up the small of my back, searching for the top of the zipper, I inhale embarrassingly loud.
“Easy,” he murmurs, his voice constricted. “I’m not going to hurt you, but I’m going to go quick.”
Death to vintage clothing. The front of the dress presses tightly against my chest as he manages to get his fingers around the tiny metal zipper. He gives it an experimental tug and… nothing. “Damn,” he whispers, and the irritation in his voice is torture. Talk to me like that. Letmeannoy you.
He touches his palm against the curve of my lower back, says “One second,” then steps away. There are some fumbling drawer-searching noises behind me, then a satisfied hum. When Arthur’s back, he slides his hand all the way around my hip, gripping me tight.
“I’m going to do something now, but you can’t move, okay?”
“Okay.”
He holds me still as a snip fills the breathless room.
Then he holds me tighter, as my body tenses with the realization that Arthur iscutting meout of Sarah’s dress with hotel scissors.
His fingertips graze the curve of my hip bone, curling just around it, his thumb locking me into place from the other side. I fit right into the crook of his hand. Imagine that.
The scissors catch after two more snips—and there’s the whisper of a blade sliding down fabric. Arthur stops at where my bra would’ve been latched around my back… then restarts, evidently realizing that there’s nothing beneath the dress that he should avoid cutting.
“Better?” he asks, halfway down.
Worse than ever. “Totally. You’re saving my life.”
He laughs tightly. “Never heard that one before.”
Change the topic, change the topic. “Was I… really loud?”
“Hmm?” He sounds distracted.
