Finally, wearing nothing but goose bumps in the freezing vestibule, I spot a stack of fluffy white towels. I grab one and wrap it around myself, but even on my average-length torso, the bottom of the towel barely covers the tops of my thighs.Great. I reach up and undo my messy bun, letting my hair cascade around my shoulders to hide a little more skin. And then all that’s left to do is walk in.
With a deep, centering breath, I push the door open and am immediately engulfed by hot steam and bad choices.
17MARGOT
Thighs.
I’d challenge anyone seated across from Forrest Wakefield in a sauna to think of anything else. I thought I’d been strategic in sitting as far from him as possible on the opposite bench, but only now, faced directly with the spread of his muscular legs and tiny towel, do I realize my miscalculation. Is it too late to move to the bench perpendicular to his? What would I say?Sorry, I have to move before I accidentally beg you to crush me between those thighs like a grape!
Forrest also seems to be questioning his decision to stay. His eyes keep landing on random parts of me before hastily jumping away like my body is a game of Floor Is Lava. Which, honestly, isn’t too far off the mark. To put us both out of our misery, I finally hazard a “So…”
The only problem, of course, is that I have exactly zero follow-up thoughts to this brilliant segue except the word “thighs,” or possibly “chest.”
“So,” he repeats, clinging to the word like I’ve tossed him a lifeline.
“Why couldn’t you sleep?” I manage eventually. It seems mybrainis,in fact, capable of words that aren’t body parts if I keep my eyes on my own knees.
“I could ask the same of you,” he deflects. My traitorous eyes look up in time to see him running a hand through his damp hair. “Did Savannah make you cry again?”
I let out a half-laugh. “What gave it away? My existential ennui or panda eyes?”
He lifts a burnished shoulder. “That letter with the Halloween Polaroid nearly made me cry, and I didn’t even read it.”
I roll my eyes fondly. “That’s nothing. You should see her when she wants something and becomes the physical embodiment of that sad song they sing in ASPCA commercials.”
“I think you’re referring to ‘Angel’ by the great Sarah McLachlan.”
I smirk and cross my legs. “Top song on your workout playlist?”
He leans his head back against the sauna wall, exposing his throat. “Nah, I only work out to Taylor Swift.”
My surprised laugh turns into a cough.
“Here,” he says, passing his water bottle.
“Thanks,” I say, taking a long, grateful pull of icy water while trying not to get hot and bothered over sharing a straw.
“I didn’t take you for a Swiftie,” I say. “Savannah’s going to adore you.”
I catch what I’ve implied only after it leaves my mouth and spend the next few seconds trying to evaporate into the steam.
“She sounds like a fun roommate,” he says mercifully. “Do you keep tissues in every room?”
I stick my tongue out at him as I pass the water back, but the homesickness I’ve been wading in ever since arriving in Alaska seems to rise up like the tide around me. When I say, “She’s themostfun,” it comes out less like a snappy retort and more like I’m wishing myself condolences.
Forrest stares at me through the humid air, his eyes soft on my face. “You miss her.”
The way he says it, tender as a bruise, doesn’t make it sound like an understatement. I cross my arms across my towel a little tighter. “I’ve never been away from her this long,” I admit. “Ever.”
“Is that why you couldn’t sleep?” he asks. “Homesickness?”
I brush away the sweaty baby hairs curling around my face. “Not exactly. I needed to hit my word count, so I was working late. I saved reading her letter as a treat.”
“No reward like a good crying jag,” he says with a half-smile, reaching over to ladle water over the hot rocks and setting every one of his shining muscles into motion. When the hiss of steam clears, he sits back, adjusting his towel over his flexing thighs. “Saving your letter for after work, though: your self-restraint’s impressive.”
Forrest-slash-forest-scented steam swirls around my face, and a punch-drunk laugh nearly skips out of me.You have no idea, buddy.
I clear my throat. “I’m trying to finish my manuscript before I leave,” I explain, crossing my legs tighter.
