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On my way out for the next load, I catch a glimpse of aficusin Timothy’s bedroom. His open door is up a half flight of stairs from my room and easily takes up most of the second floor.
Peering down the stairwell into the kitchen below, I can see Celia, her back to me as she chops something. Now’s my chance to snoop.
I don’t know what I expected, exactly, but this room isn’t it. It’s clean, for one. The vibe, for two, is chilled and relaxed. The hardwood floor is covered by a massive cream-colored rug, which is in turn covered by a massive king bed that looks to have been professionally made.
Timothy has a balcony, with a table, some wicker furniture, and a lounge chair. I’d step outside, but I’m afraid sliding the doors open might give me away.
A small sofa sits against the other wall, underneath a large watercolor painting of Timothy. The artist captured him perfectly. His form is picked out of the white background in lime green lines and he’s standing in a wide stance on top of a building, fisted hands on his hips, chest puffed out. Bright orange splotches give him a laser-eyed effect, and the world’s tiniest cape flutters behind him. It’s clear the artist was making fun of him, but in a way that laughs with him rather than at him. The name in the corner is Jessie Foley—his twin—and the year indicates they were still in high school.
I think I’d like her.
Timothy has a walk-in wardrobe, so I stick my head in.
Okay, this is clearly a stockroom for an adult fun shop. One entire section is devoted to sex toys and every kind of lube on the planet. The bulk of the sex toys are still in their packaging, a large number of them designed for anatomy Timothy doesn’t possess. Seriously, why does he have so many clitoral stimulators? Maybe he uses them when he’s entertaining, and the lucky clitoris owner gets to take one home after? There are a couple of drawers in this section of the closet. I bet they contain his personal collection.
I know what I’m about to do is wrong, but I can’t help myself so I pull open the top drawer quickly like that makes it better.
Immediately I slam it. I can’t violate his privacy when I’d kick his ass if he did it to me. I’ll just pretend I didn’t catch a glimpse of cock rings and dildos.
Yeah right. I want to know all about them and what Timothy likes, and that’s going to be a problem.
A section of a wall is devoted to designer suits and since high-quality, expensive fabric is my weakness, I turn to leave before I can succumb to the temptation of touching them. Then I see it.
A snowboard, sans bindings, sits propped in the corner.
I wander over. The shelves are packed with gear and protective clothing. I raise the sleeve of a bright orange jumpsuit. It’s a wingsuit. He’s jumped out of airplanes wearing this. My stomach roils and I want to ball it up and stick it in the trash, so I move on.
My fingers skim along an orange rope coiled perfectly on a shelf before my eyes land on a carabiner. I yank my hand back like it burns.
I forgot he climbs sometimes. Not like my parents did. He’s not that good or devoted to it. But it’s something he does.
That’s enough exploring Timothy’s room.
When I carry all my sewing gear into the garage—for now—I find all the rest. Surfboards, mountain bikes, skateboards, kayaks…his motorcycle. Other stuff that I’m clueless about.
His house might not be a shrine to adrenaline, but it’s definitely adrenaline’s storage space.
I leave my plastic tubs full of sewing stuff among it all and go into the kitchen, where the warm, sunny space dries the cold sweat off my skin.
The large island is lined with stools and the kitchen counter holds a cluster of potted plants. A closer inspection reveals they’re real. Succulents, but still.
Timothy keeps houseplants alive.
Yes, his awful hobbies are tucked away in this house, but they’re out of sight and this place is lovely. There’s this whole other side to my best friend I haven’t seen before because I was too scared to look.
Celia waves off my offer to help, so I wander into the living room, tracing my fingers over the arm of the couch. There are mirrors on the wall, two of them, reflecting the image of Celia opening the fridge.
The living room looks familiar. The pool and the lounge chairs outside, along with a low concrete wall topped with plants and a wooden fence screening the neighbor’s house, ring a bell too.
“Was this house used as the set for a movie?” I ask.
Celia makes a choked sound and stuffs the Tupperware back in the fridge. “Oh. No, honey, let’s not.”
I frown, but she’s already opening cupboards, sticking her head in.
Too late, I realize her shoulders are shaking with laughter.
Oh.
