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I wake up and immediately groan in pain; despite the wonder-massage, I am so sore from being pelleted in the woods that I can barely pull the covers back. When I look, my arms are dotted with bruises so colorful, for a second I second-guess whether I showered yesterday after paintball. There is a deep purple one on my hip the size of an apricot, a few on my thighs, and an enormous one on my shoulder that looks like a rare geode.
I check my phone, opening the newest message from Ami.
Checking in for a body count.
We remain alive against all odds.
How are you feeling?
Same.
Not ready to venture out into the world just yet, but alive.
And The Husband?
Oh he went out.
Out?
Yeah. He’s feeling better and was a little restless.
But you’re still sick.
Why isn’t he taking care of you?
He’s been in this house for days.
He needed some guy time.
I glare at my phone, knowing I have no reply that isn’t going to end in us arguing. “Maybe he ran out of beard wax,” I mumble, just as I hear Ethan shuffling down the hall toward the bathroom.
“I can barely move,” he says through the door.
“I am polka-dotted.” I whimper down at my arms. “I look like something from Fraggle Rock.”
A knock sounds. “Are you decent?”
“Am I ever?”
He cracks the door open, leaning in a few inches. “I can’t be social today. Whatever we do, please let it be just the two of us.”
And then he ducks back out, leaving the door open and me alone with my brain while I try to process this. Again: When did the default plan become that we spend this entire vacation together? And when did the idea of that not send us both into a wavy bout of nausea? And when did I start falling asleep thinking about Ethan’s hands on my back, my legs, and between my legs?
The toilet flushes, the water runs, and I hear the sound of him brushing his teeth. I am tripping—I am used to the rhythm of his tooth brushing, am no longer shocked by the sight of his live-wire hair in the morning. I’m no longer horrified at the notion of spending the day just the two of us. In fact, my mind spins with the options.
Ethan emerges from the hallway bathroom and does a double take when he looks into the bedroom at me.
“What’s with you?”
I look down to understand his meaning. I’m sitting ramrod straight, with my sleep mask on my forehead, the blankets clutched to my chest, eyes wide.
Honesty has always seemed to work best for us: “I’m freaking out a little that you suggested we spend the day together, just us, and it doesn’t make me want to rappel down the balcony.”
Ethan laughs. “I promise to be as irritating as possible.” And then he turns, shuffling back to the living room, calling out, “And as smug, too.”
With this reminder of yesterday, my stomach twists and my lady parts wake up. Enough of that. Pushing up, I follow him out, no longer caring that he’s going to see me in my skimpy pajamas, or that he’s in boxers and a threadbare T-shirt. After our encounter in the bathroom on the boat, the hot tub, and his hands all over my oiled-up skin yesterday, no secrets remain.
“We could hang at the pool?” I suggest.
