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His cheeks glow bright red instantly and even I’m embarrassed by what I’ve just said. Sometimes I swear I have no control over what comes out of my mouth when things get awkward.
“Sorry,” I mutter, slipping into the bathroom before he can answer, slamming the door behind me.
I quickly turn on the water, letting the sound of it drown out the exasperated sigh of embarrassment that is expelled from my mouth. But not only that, I’m hoping Tommy has disappeared or if he hasn’t, I hope he can’t hear me in here muttering to my stupid self.
“Oh my fucking god, you idiot. You said coochie in front of him. What the hell is wrong with you?” I’m staring at myself in the mirror, shaming the mortified face looking back at me.
This will definitely be a quick visit and I honestly should just shower and walk my ass back to where my car is parked near the entrance to Somerville’s. It’ll save me the mortifying encounter that will happen when I finally emerge from this bathroom wearing his coochie boxers. There’s no way he’s going to look at me wearing them and not think of my crotch.
I look around his bathroom and it’s beautiful and perfect and it smells like eucalyptus and the steam from the shower makes it feel far more comforting than it should. I step out of my clothes and into the shower, the hot water spilling over my sore muscles making me moan out loud.
Who would’ve thought harvesting honey would be so grueling and that it would take all day? I can attribute my stupidity to being tired and just all around worn out. I can’t be bothered with thinking about what to say. At least that’s the excuse I’m telling myself as I enjoy this shower far too much. The idea that I should shower quickly and go has all been lost.
The damn shower is the size of the bathroom in my apartment and it has a rainfall showerhead and this handheld nozzle and these wall jets that seem to be placed so strategically that they hit every sore muscle in my body.
I’m never leaving.
I live here now in Tommy’s bathroom and he’s just going to have to find a way to evict me, because I’m not going anywhere. He’s the fool who invited me back to his place not realizing that my apartment smells like Nona’s Italian Palace and hasn’t been updated since Reagan was in office. Saying it’s the size of a postage stamp would be generous, but this bathroom, it’s the size of the fucking Taj Mahal. So yeah, I’m staying.
I’m standing under the spray of hot water, the sweat and grime of the day washing away along with my embarrassment, but don’t worry, it creeps back in just when I find a little peace.
“Coochie. You said fucking coochie to Tommy Andrews and it will forever be seared into your brain. So now every time you see him, he’s going to remember you as the girl who called her vagina a coochie,” I mutter, cranking the water a little hotter in the hopes it burns my memories too.
After what feels like forever, I steel up the courage to get out and put on the clothes Tommy gave me. I gather up my dirty ones, tossing them in a pile off to the side while I look through the drawers for something to comb my hair with. I find a brush and I run it through, checking myself in the mirror quickly and my ruddy, shower-heated face is looking back at me.
“Here goes nothing,” I say, gathering my dirty clothes and opening the bathroom door. When I open the door, I’m hit with the most amazing smell of something cooking. When you live above an Italian restaurant, nothing you cook smells good. It’s all melded together with the smell of garlic and tomatoes, but Tommy’s kitchen smells like heaven.
Why is he doing this to me?
Is he trying to keep me here to see how many stupid things he can get me to say by making me have awkward silences and weird conversations?
I round the corner and find him standing in the kitchen, his back to me, and his hair is wet, but at least he’s wearing a shirt, because I don’t think I could handle it if he weren’t. I’m a total disaster and I have no idea why.
Obviously, he’s hot, but hot guys don’t frazzle me. It’s the exact opposite. Hot guys I can handle, but there’s something about Tommy that’s smarter and intense and fuck it, frazzling now.
“It smells really good,” I say, breaking the silence, knowing commenting on the food won’t come across as weird.
“It’s leftovers from a recipe the chef at Apple Jacks is trying out. Some pork and apple thing. I figured you were probably hungry too,” he says, turning around and leaning back against the counter. “Or I can take you back to your car and you can go,” he continues, motioning to the door.
“Um, yeah, I’m hungry, but I don’t have to stay if you’d rather...” I trail off, wondering why things between us have taken on this strange awkwardness. We spent the whole day together, talking and laughing, but now we’re lingering between crossing a line and running. It’s almost this wound-up sexual tension and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find him attractive.
But as my mind wanders to thoughts of Tommy, I’m hit with all my conversations with C. Grizwold and what I’m doing here feels somewhat wrong. He’s not my boyfriend and Tommy isn’t either and maybe the vibe I’m getting from him is being read all wrong. Maybe he’s just being nice. He does live out here all alone and I get what it feels like to be alone sometimes. Sometimes it just feels lonely.
“I have plenty,” he says, sliding a plate across the island between us. “You want a glass of wine?”
“Sure.”
“By the way, the boxers are clean,” he adds, laughing a little and I bite down hard on my bottom lip, looking down instantly at what I’m wearing.
“Thanks for the reminder of my stupidity. Can we go back to talking about your house?” I reply willfully, my cheeks burning. “It’s pretty fucking amazing. You must really like it here.”
I take a bite, interrupting him from being able to respond as I moan out loud. The food at Somerville’s is always delicious, so I shouldn’t be surprised that this is also unbelievable.
“Good, right?” Tommy asks, looking down at the plate in front of him. “I imagine it tastes even better when it’s not nuked.”
“It pairs really well with this wine too,” I say, taking a hearty drink. I should slow down since I do have to drive home.
“Yeah, I think Jack would prefer it paired with cider since that’s the point of the menu, but I don’t have any on hand.”
