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“Oh.”
“Come. I’ll get you clothes.”
In the bedroom, when I catch up, he hands me a shirt and a pair of pants that are probably going to be eight inches too long, but they are warm and thick. “Go shower. I’ll get the rack out and hang your laundry when it’s done.”
By the time I’m out and dressed and have climbed down the stairs, Peter is in the back room by the fireplace, laying my clothes out on large, metal wire racks.
Including my underwear.
“I can get that,” I say, snatching the cotton undies from his grip. Wordlessly, he hands me the basket of damp clothes and leaves.
I’ve never not used a dryer before. Of course, I’ve always owned clothes that needed special care, but it’s going to take my jeans forever to dry like this. I put the last few items out, draping shirts and leggings over individual bars of the rack. There are already two pairs of panties out—my black cotton thongs—and Peter must have hung them.
Ugh. Of course, I didn’t wash any of theniceunderwear. It had to be the comfortable, basic stuff.
But, wait. Wouldn’t it be more embarrassing for Peter to see black lace or a G-string?
I sigh at myself. We’re both adults making the best of a situation. I doubt my cotton panties are going to be the straw that breaks the camel’s back.
When I get back to the bedroom, Peter is in bed, the lamp by my side of the bed is on and the glow of his phone lights up his face.
“Ready for lights out?” I ask as I crawl under the covers.
“Yes.” Peter turns his phone off and puts it on the nightstand, shifting onto his back.
“Thank you for inviting me to spend the holiday with your family.” I turn the light off and turn onto my back too.
“You are welcome. I’m sorry you’ll miss Christmas with your family.”
I shrug in the dark, staring up at the ceiling. “It’s exhausting, to be honest. It was a relief to get away for work because my mom has probably been a nightmare this week.”
Living with my parents means that I get roped intoeverything.Even though we’re not religious, my mom has huge expectations for Christmas, and it’s hard to put my foot down when I need to get work done.
“Anyway, I like your family a lot.”
“I like them too.” He hesitates for a moment. “You were good with the kids.”
There’s a hint of surprise in his voice, and indignation rises. Sure, Sylvie didn’t actually talk to me much, but I had a great time chatting with Noah. What exactly did he think was going to happen? What did hethinkI would do? Something transphobic?
“Of course I’m good with kids,” I snap. “You don’t have to sound so surprised.”
I can feel Peter gathering his thoughts on the other side of the bed. “I thought you didn’t like kids.”
“Why would you think that?”
“You said ‘Kids are the worst’ back in Basel.”
I search my memories and land on my conversation with Clara back at the hotel. I bite my lip. I do remember that comment. Perhaps my resentment toward my sisters is coloring my thoughts about my niblings. “I did say that. It was a flippant remark that I shouldn’t have said. My sisters’ kids are at a difficult age and sometimes I feel taken advantage of around them.” I walk such a tight rope with my family with regards to the kids and taking care of them.
“I see.” There’s a pause, and I wonder if that’s the end of the conversation. But then he adds, “I want kids of my own someday.”
“I do too.” Quiet descends and when Peter doesn’t say anything else, I turn onto my side, tucking my hands under my chin and closing my eyes.
8
Peter
Behind me,Kara shifts for at least the twentieth time, causing the bed to bounce slightly. I turned away from her shortly after we said goodnight, though I don’t usually sleep on my side. I had caught myself glancing over at her twice and decided that we were too close together to sleep on my back.
