How to Ruin a Wedding(61)

I take the world’s coldest shower, and when it feels like my skin is going to harden into ice, I remain for another five minutes. The cold steals all thoughts. All I can focus on is the feel of it on my skin, and my teeth grinding while they chatter.

When I step out of it, the thoughts slowly make their way back to me. The first, I realize as I wrap myself in a towel, is that my clothes are all in the room I claimed to be my sister’s. Would it be too suspicious to go in and sort through my suitcases when I should have my own drawer here, in Anders’s room?

I open the door slowly so it doesn’t creak, and peek out to see Anders hunched over his desk, swiping on a tablet with an Apple pen. There’s another smaller tablet beside him, propped up on a stand, displaying text in a font that’s thin on the top, thicker on the bottom, with wider space—a special font to help him read because of his dyslexia.

Curious, I tiptoe over. As I suspected, he’s working on a book cover. He’s on the sketching phase, so it’s just two plain doodles of bodies, and on the side, a bunch of colors in dots like a digital paint palette.

I lean in to read the text when he says, “Is this your attempt at being sneaky?”

“Oh no,” I say, “just nosy. If I wanted to, I could sort through all your things, and you’d never realize.”

He chuckles as he finishes the curve of someone’s leg. “Good to know.”

“Is that the book?” I point at the propped tablet.

“Yes,” he explains. “It’s nice to have it as a reference when I’m working on a cover.”

“Do you read the entire thing?”

“If it’s interesting enough.”

“Oh,” I tease, “so selective.”

He chuckles, then turns to face me. He stills, giving me a once-over before his gaze locks on to my face. His Adam’s apple bobs. My neck warms. He clears his throat.

“My clothes are in the other room,” I say.

“Right.” He gets up, carefully, so that our bodies don’t touch—a stark contrast from the normally easygoing way he reacts around me, and shuffles through his drawers. He pulls out a pale blue shirt and sweats. “Will this work?” His voice is this strained, polite, single tone.

“Perfectly.” My own voice sounds perky, airy, and I grab the clothes from him and change in the bathroom, slowly, trying to even out my breathing. I have to roll up the pants twice so I don’t trip on them, and the sleeves that probably stop just above Anders’s biceps fall midway down my arm.

When I come out, Anders is pulling out the thin sheet from under the comforter. He hears the door open and gathers it to his chest.

“Olive fell asleep in your room,” he says. “I’ll take the couch.”

“So much for movie night,” I say, plopping down on the side of the bed. “What will you say you’re doing if she walks out in the middle of the night and catches you on the couch?” The girl is too observant for her own good. It’ll raise another red flag if she catches us sleeping separately. It’s not a big deal if she knows, but if she relays that to Valerie or Bethany, it could bring too much suspicion on us. Or at least make it seem like we’re in a fight when I’m trying to get close to the family.

“Okay”—he grabs a pillow and tosses it on the carpet—“I’ll take the floor.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” I gesture to the mattress. “There’s plenty of space for both of us. And we’ve already slept together here.”

“Right,” he says. “When I was delirious with a fever.”

“Are you saying that the only way you’d share a bed with me is if you’re delirious?” Not to mention, he didn’t seem delirious when he wrapped himself around me. But adding that will feel way too angry-girlfriend-like, and I am just a phony.

“Of course not,” he says, looking from the floor to the bed. I can see the wheels turning as he tries to navigate this conversation.

“Unless,” I add, “you’re uncomfortable. Then I can take the floor. This is your house.”

Anders pinches the bridge of his nose, letting out a frustrated sigh. I’m not sure what I’ve done to warrant it, seeing as I’m offering to sleep on the solid floor instead of him.

When I get up, I move to where he drops the pillow, and he grips my arm as I kneel. “Lucinda,” he says, “the reason I am trying not to share a bed with you is because I can barely control myself now. You’re in my clothes, still wet from your shower, and in my bedroom. I am a man.” The last part is said so deadpan, I can’t help but laugh despite the dots of warmth sprouting throughout my body.

“You Tarzan, me Jane.”

He laughs, though there is still some frustration leaking into it. “Just get in the damn bed.”

I do, dropping a few pillows in the center as Anders moves to turn off the light, leaving only a sliver of moonlight to creep in from behind the sheer curtains of the windows. My eyes are adjusting, so I can’t see him well when we’re flooded with darkness, but I feel the mattress shift, and it steals some of my air from me as it does, like the room just lost half its oxygen supply.

“Good night,” he says.

“Night.”

We’ve been alone plenty of times, but this time, it’s a little hard to breathe. We’re both sober, there’s nobody around watching us, and we’re cloaked by the darkness while lying inches apart.