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And too embarrassed.
Why did my mouth think mentioning “coming” with a man I’ve only kissedoncewas a good idea? I’ve never said anything like that in my life! I’m not a dirty talker. I never have been, not even with old boyfriends, who I dated for a really long time. Despite what my grandmother clearly assumes, I’m not a prude, but racy banter isn’t my forte. I prefer to show my spicy side in deeds, not words. It just feels less…awkward that way.
Though, considering that henceforth I’ll be known around Bad Dog as The Girl Who’s Afraid of Fornicating, it might be time to work on being less easily embarrassed.
“Eff my life,” I mutter as I head into the bathroom to the left of the front door, a small space with a dark green sink, a blue toilet, and a tiny pink shower, all at least half a century old. This mishmash of ancient artifacts clearly needs a remodel.
Pulling a towel from the garbage bag beneath the sink, I brainstorm ways to make the space absolutely darling.
As I spread my wet clothes out to dry on the floor, I decide that’s an excellent topic of conversation to pursue when Matty gets back from his cult-leader bunker. We’ll talk interior design and pretend that whole “coming” comment never happened.
That will probably be easier, however, if I’m wearing something other than a towel wrapped around my body. It’s a decent-sized towel, but the fact remains that I’m buck-naked underneath. The rain soaked through every stitch of my clothing, including my bra and panties, and I’m not about to walk around in wet underwear. That’s not comfortable or healthy.
Deciding that locating clothing before Matty gets back is a valid excuse for invading his privacy, I tiptoe into the small bedroom off the main room. It’s also theonlybedroom, but I try not to think too much about that. There’s an old couch in the main room. It’s small, but the cushions are in decent shape. I can sleep there. I can sleep just about anywhere, a superpower I inherited from Gram, who I’m sure will be just fine on the recliner tonight until Aaron arrives.
Still, my grandchild guilt says I should text her and remind her that Starling’s big sister, Wren, is right next door and has offered to help out any time she needs it. But in the end, the irritable voice in my head is still miffed that my grandmother talked about my nonexistent sex life in public, so I leave my cell out on the kitchen table and move deeper into the bedroom.
I’ll text Gram later. Maybe.
If I can stop wanting to scream every time I think of that article hitting the streets in print tomorrow morning on Black Friday, the most popular paper day of the year.
In the bedroom, the full bed against the wall is covered with a big white sheet, but I can tell there’s an interesting headboard hidden beneath it. I’m curious but force myself to leave it alone. I’m here to get clothes, not snoop on Matty’s décor. I move directly to the bureau with the scarred gray paint job and the crooked mirror on top, wincing as I catch a glimpse of my hair. It’s already started to dry in wild, frizzy blond curls around my face, making me look like I was struck by lightning on my way in from the storm.
I run a hand over the top, but I’ve lived with hair that naturally kinks like an unfortunate 1980s perm long enough to know there will be no help for it without a shower and proper wave-enhancing or eliminating products.
I avert my gaze from my reflection and start opening drawers.
In the first, I find boxer briefs and quickly close the drawer again. I’ve worn a guy’s boxers before, but never his boxer briefs, and that feels too intimate in the context of mine and Matty’s relationship. I move on, discovering socks, shorts, jeans, and finally, a drawer with t-shirts and flannel pajama pants.
I change into a pair of red and black flannel pants paired with a black t-shirt and white athletic socks and head to the bathroom to hang up my towel. I step back out just as Matty’s coming in the door, dripping rain onto the welcome mat as he pushes his hood away from his face.
His gaze rakes up and down my frame. “You found clothes.”
“I hope that’s okay,” I say, leaning against the wall just outside the bathroom, one socked foot on top of the other. “I was chilly all wet.”
“It’s fine,” he says, hanging his coat on one of the metal hooks nailed to the wall by the door before opening the large rucksack he acquired while we were apart. “But if you’d like something that fits better, and is a little warmer, I brought these.”
He crosses to the couch and proceeds to toss out a pair of blue and white flannel pajamas in what looks like my size, a pair of jeans, a package of underwear, two sports bras with the tags still on, three pairs of socks, two white t-shirts, a black sweatshirt, and a knit sweater with a flower print around the neck. I assume he’s done, but then he goes back into the bag to extract a pair of brown hiking boots with sturdy red laces.
“These are used, but still in good shape,” he says. “They used to be Melissa’s, but she swapped them out for something lighter last year.”
I shake my head, marveling at his haul as I join him by the couch. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or…concerned.”
“Concern is the typical response,” he says with a sigh. “The only response, so far, actually. Mel is the only other person I’ve shown all this. I wanted her to know she has somewhere safe to go if things get crazy. And I wanted her to be able to tell the rest of the family about the house and the bunker if I’m not around. I realize a complete breakdown of society, or an alien invasion is a long shot, but it’s not out of the question. I’d rather be ready than caught by surprise.”
I fight to keep my expression neutral as I nod. “So, you’re…a doomsday prepper?”
“I’m prepared. For doomsday or…whatever.” He shrugs. “I just want my family to have somewhere to go if a wildfire takes out Bad Dog or the town water supply is compromised the way it was a few summers back. Building this has been good for me. Comforting. It helps me feel in control in a world that seems pretty out of control most of the time.”
I nod. “I get that. The world can be scary. It seems like people are always fighting or reeling from some unexpected financial blow or recovering from a natural disaster. It can be a lot.”
The thunder rumbles again and the rain continues to pour down like the heavens have opened the floodgates.
I motion toward the windows. “See? Mother Nature clearly agrees with you. You aren’t a weirdo. You’re just a little…extra. But in a nice way.”
Matty’s lips lift on one side. “Thanks? I guess?”
“It was a compliment,” I assure him, though I can’t help adding, “But there is a part of this that still feels strange to me.”
