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Another grunt.
“Jesus Christ.”
My mind has completely shut down. I watch his back on the bed and there’s movement, rustling.
He’s waking up.
Oh my God, he’s waking up.
He couldn’t have kept sleeping for five more seconds? Because five more seconds and I would’ve been out of here.
I stand frozen in the middle of his room as I lose my ability to think.
What the fuck do I do now?
Suddenly, my legs move. But instead of taking me to the door, they take me into his bathroom and before I can even comprehend what’s happening, I hop into the bathtub off to the side, and I pull the shower curtain shut.
It’s one of those opaque ones that completely hides you and thank God for that. Then, I plaster myself against the wall and press my free hand over my mouth. In the other hand, I have the double pack of Marlboros that I stole.
I hear bare footsteps and a couple more grunts. To my horror, those sounds are walking closer.
Oh God.
He’s coming toward the bathroom.
Toward me.
Why the fuck did I think it would be a good idea to hide inside his bathtub? I wasn’t doing anything illegal – well, if you don’t count stealing his cancer sticks and going through his stuff. I could’ve easily gone away through the door.
Now, everything is way, way worse than it needed to be.
Apparently, not worse enough because there comes a hiss. A distinct sound of something – a thick stream – hitting the ceramic, followed by a sigh.
I take it back. This is the worst sound in the world. Zach, peeing.
Why? Why is this happening to me?
Hysterically I think, if he’s sleepy and his aim isn’t on point and if he gets something out of the bowl, I’m not cleaning it up.
No.
Nuh-huh. I’ll quit my job before I… do that.
An eternity later, I hear the flush of the toilet and the rush of the tap opening. Oh, thank God. He’s done.
What are the chances that he’ll go away now? And go back to sleep like before, no less?
Zero.
Zerochance of that happening because a microsecond later, the curtain rips open and I come face to face with the guy I’ve been trying to avoid ever since I was ten.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he thunders – I don’t know how he manages that since he just woke up but still, the sound echoes in my chest.
His arm is stretched out wide, strangling the curtain with his grip, and for a few moments, all I can do is stare at his face.
It’s clenched tight, every little line, every taut muscle on display. He’s anger personified with his ticking jaw and gritted teeth.
I’m supposed to answer him; I know that.
