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She flapped a hand and turned her back on him. “Don’t worry about it. You want a drink?” She popped the cork out of the wine and poured two measures into the mugs. “Hope you don’t mind, I already started the bottle. Liquid courage and all that.” Turning toward him, she lifted one mug in invitation.
“I n-n-need a sh-shower.”
“Yeah, I noticed. Well, it’ll be here.” She put one mug down on the table and settled onto the couch with her own drink. The remote was on the coffee table, and she lifted it, turned on the TV, and began flicking through channels.
“Go shower, Sean,” she said after a moment.
He didn’t move. He couldn’t figure out why she was still in the room, much less talking to him.
Katie raised the mug to her lips and drank down the contents in four long gulps. She wiped the back of her hand over her mouth and sighed.
“You don’t want me,” she said without turning around. “It’s not a crime. I know I’m not, like, centerfold material. It’s fine. We’ll watch kung fu movies and work our way through this bottle of wine. You’ll stay on your side of the couch, I’ll stay on mine, and by the time I go to bed after three or four hours of Jackie Chan, we’ll be friends, and I’ll be able to sleep.”
He stared blankly at the back of her head.
Balls. Katie had balls.
She went through life with her heart on her sleeve, saying what she meant, telling people how she felt, what she wanted, what she needed, and she got slapped for it. But she didn’t let it set her back.
He couldn’t remember ever having been like that. Not one day in his life had he been that unguarded.
She found the right channel, and the screen filled up with a young Jackie Chan wearing a tank top, high-waisted jeans, and what looked like a woman’s belt while he beat the crap out of three bad guys.
“Take a shower,” she said flatly. “I don’t want to sit by myself in my room feeling like a complete waste of space, okay?”
He didn’t know what to say, so he grabbed some clothes from his bag and headed for the bathroom, leaving her alone, bathed in the flickering light of the television.
Chapter Eighteen
“Pass me the bottle,” Sean said.
Katie leaned forward and hooked the wine bottle off the coffee table with two fingers. She handed it over, careful not to touch him, and smiled at the image of Owen Wilson and Jackie Chan, drunk as skunks in two Old West bathtubs.
“This scene is totally homoerotic,” she said.
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Sean poured himself a few inches of wine. “Nothing homoerotic about it. The side-by-side bathtub scene is a c-classic.”
“Right. Two guys naked in tubs, a few feet apart, and you’re telling me they’re not thinking about doing each other?”
“It’s just efficient. There was only so much hot water, and somebody had to fetch it and c-carry it. They might as well both bathe at once. And anyway, they’re going to do the prostitutes after they get c-cleaned up.”
“Maybe, but they’ll still be thinking about doing each other. Like in Brokeback Mountain. All those lonely hours on the range …”
She glanced at him. He was grinning, his teeth half hidden behind the cup he’d raised to his lips. “You’re the expert,” he said.
“On what?”
“Gay subtext.”
She threw a pillow at his head and succeeded in knocking it against his cup, causing wine to slosh on his hand. He slurped it off, laughing.
“Give it back,” she said, holding out her hand.
He obligingly leaned over to retrieve the pillow and handed it back to her. Katie shoved it into the crack between the back of the couch and the arm and settled her head against it, relaxing.
This was better. She’d created a disaster, but now she’d fixed it with the wine and a bunch of smart-ass jokes while they watched the movies.
