“I’ve got a garbage bag in my pocket, and I promise to make sure Felix doesn’t hitch a ride with your clothes when we leave, okay?”
Of course he’s already named the spider.
I pull my bottoms down and self-consciousness alights in my belly at the sight of my aggressively unsexy undergarments. I ball up the faded cotton and hide them in my shorts like I’m at the gynecologist. Then I toss them on the floor near Ethan’s feet and yank the shower handle. Smelly, ice-cold water sputters onto my chest.
“Holy—” I cry out, just as Ethan says, “Whoa. That’s…pungent.”
When the heat of the water settles somewhere just below body temperature, I give up the fight and dip my head under the limp stream.
“I grabbed my soap from the van.” His hand stretches through the opening. My eyes immediately lock on the tattooed flowers that climb up his forearm.
Something about seeing a male hand so close to my naked breast sends an unwelcome swoop low in my belly. I can’t remember the last time a man’s hand grazed my nipple. I think it was snowing.
I grab the bar from him, and thankfully, the feeling subsides when his hand disappears. “Barsoap? Is this a joke, Powell?”
“No plastic, and those giant bottles take up too much space.” He laughs at my tortured whine. “I promise, I always rub it onto my washcloth. Never my body.”
“If I find one curly hair, I swear to god—”
“I bought you a little bottle of shampoo from the counter whenever you’re ready for it. I figured you might not be ready for the multiuse-shower-product lifestyle.”
“You were correct,” I answer, closing my eyes and rubbing the milky white bar into my palm. “Is that what you were doing at the front?” My voice is innocent. Mostly.
“Yes…what else would I be doing?” he asks, and I’m grateful for the moldy curtain that hides my reddening cheeks.
“That was a lot of chitchat over a bottle of shampoo.”
I feel it first—the weight in my chest, the burning in my throat—before I know what it is. I’m jealous. I’m jealous of the woman, who minutes ago was just the cashier selling shampoo and scratch-offs but, with one look from Ethan, is now the physical embodiment of every way I’m falling short. She’s a little bit younger. Her hair is just a little blonder. Her smile, eager. She looks easy and effortless when all I’ve ever done is try way too hard.
I know it’s not aromanticjealousy—we’ve never been like that—but best friends are their own kind of soul mates. They’re the people with whom we share our innermost selves. Ethan’s known me best at nearly every stage of life. New people will never meet that nervous, optimistic kid, or the chaotic yet motivated college student, or the young professional with expensive suits and spotty dental coverage.
No one else will ever split my life into a before and after because they’ll only exist in his after. They’ll only know the person I’ll let them know. But best friends get it all—our best selves and our darkest versions—even when they’ve never asked for it.
It’s only natural to feel a little threatened by someone new when you have a friendship like that.
There’s a self-satisfied smile in his voice when he responds, “Autumn was asking about my T-shirt.”
“Autumn,” I repeat, letting her name fill my mouth. It takes me a second to picture exactly which worn band tee he’s wearing, but then the colorful figures come into focus. “Aren’t you wearing aStop Making SenseT-shirt?” I pause for dramatic effect. “You think the Sydney Sweeney lookalike is a big Talking Heads fan? Shampoo, please.” I send my arm through the slit in the curtain.
Our knuckles brush as he takes the body bar and replaces it with a tiny green bottle of Garnier Fructis.
He clears his throat.
“She doesn’t look like Sydney Sweeney. Sydney Sweeney doesn’t even look like Sydney Sweeney.”
I uncap the shampoo and the shower steam mixes with the scent of tropical smoothie. The aroma is a time machine that sends me traumatically straight back to a middle school girls’ locker room. “There’s no way she’s heard of them,” I tell him with certainty. “She looks twenty.”
“She might’ve.” His tone is defensive, but less for Autumn and more for the enduring relevance of David Byrne. “She doesn’t look any younger than we do,” Ethan adds.
“Can we just admit that that gorgeous young woman was looking to spend her fifteen in the back of your van with your small-batch tub of artisanal lube? Rather than existing in this alternate reality where twenty-year-olds know the words to ‘Psycho Killer’?”
I cut the shower, and Ethan’s hand slides against my ribs with one of his wide microfiber towels.
“I never said she wasn’t flirting with me.”
Something circles in my stomach—the last vestige of myhangover? I’m not sure. But it’s the reason I sound unsteady when I reply, “Sorry. I, uh, didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You didn’t. Well, you did, but I don’t care.” His voice is cool. Sure. Confident. “She’s not my type.”
