“Ah—sure. Here you go. I . . .”
He extends his arm and turns the other way while I wrap the towel （his towel; Liam’s towel） around myself. It’s fluffy and clean and it smells good and—who uses black towels, anyway? Who produces them? Where does he even buy them, Bloodbath and Beyond?
“Mara?” He is standing under the doorframe, pointedly looking away from me.
“Yes?”
“Why are you in my bathroom?”
Crap. “Sorry. I’m so sorry. My shower isn’t working, and . . . I think there’s something wrong with a pipe, and . . . I don’t know, but I called Bob.”
“Bob?”
“The plumber. Well, a plumber. He’s coming out tomorrow morning.”
“Oh.”
“But I went for a run earlier, and I was all sweaty and smelly, so . . .”
“I see.”
“Sorry. I should have asked before. You can turn now, by the way. I’m decent.”
Liam does turn. But only after about ten seconds of what looks like a pretty intense internal debate. His expressions are never the easiest to read, but he seems a little flustered.
A lot, actually. As in, even more than I am.
Which is odd. I’m the one who got boobsposed, and Liam is probably very used to being with naked women. That is, actually naked women. Way more naked than I currently am. Let’s be real—his ex is likely a Victoria’s Secret Angel who recently quit modeling to finish a doctorate in art history and become a junior curator at the Smithsonian. She has an impeccable belly button and knows what PlayStation button to press to throw a grenade. Did I say his ex? They’re still dating, for all I know. Having a very athletic sex life. I’m talking role play and toys. Butt action. Lots of oral, which they both excel at. Okay, this train of thought needs to crash right now.
Maybe he’s just embarrassed for me? Not that he should be. I’m pretty. I mean, I think I’m pretty. Cute, in a befreckled, wish-I-was-two-inches-taller, slightly-self-conscious-about-that-hump-on-my-nose way. Sometimes, usually after Sadie has put eyeliner on me, I even think I’m beautiful. But I’ll never be as attractive as Liam. Is that why he’s doing this weird thing—staring while obviously trying his best not to stare?
“I’m so sorry I didn’t warn you. I thought you were out of town or something. Because you didn’t come home last night, and . . .” I feel a bit embarrassed that I noticed. But how could I not? Ever since the snowstorm, we’ve gotten into this weird rhythm. Dinner together at seven. Not that there’s an acknowledged agreement or anything, but I know from before that he used to eat a little later, and I know from my whole life that I used to eat a little earlier, and somehow we converged on a time that works for both of us . . . Maybe I was close to texting him last night. But decided not to, because it seemed like crossing some kind of unspoken line.
“No, I just . . . I had to be at work. Because of a deadline. I was going to warn you, but . . .” You didn’t want to cross some kind of unspoken line? I want to ask. But one does not speak of unspoken things, so I just go with: “Of course.” I clear my throat. “I’ll go to my room. Get dressed.”
“Right.”
I make to leave. Except that Liam’s still standing there, blocking the exit. The only exit, if one doesn’t count the window, which I briefly consider before acknowledging that it’s not a feasible option. Not in my current state of dishevelment. “You are . . .” He doesn’t seem to understand where he is. I’d gesticulate and point it out, but I have to clutch my towel with both hands to avoid flashing him, and— “Oh. Oh, right, I . . .” He takes a large step to the side. Too large—he’s basically plastered against the sink now.
“Okay. Thanks again for letting me use your bathroom.”
“No problem.”
I really should leave now. “And I borrowed a bit of your shampoo. Well, stole. It’s not as if I’m ever going to return it. But, you know.”
“It’s okay.”
“I love Old Spice, by the way. Solid choice.”
“Oh.” Liam looks everywhere but at me. “I just grab the first one I see at the store.”
I know in that moment, I simply know, that Old Spice is William K. Harding’s favorite brand of personal hygiene products, and that he suffers deep shame because of it. “Right. Of course.” He can be adorable, sometimes. “Hey, just FYI, I’m not embarrassed. So you shouldn’t be, either.”
“What?”
“I don’t care that you saw me naked. Because I know you don’t care. Just saying, we don’t need to be weird about it. Believe me”—I laugh—“I know you’re not going to use your annoying ginger roomie’s tiny freckled boobs as spank bank material.”
I expect him to reply with a joke, like he usually does, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t reply at all, in fact. Just presses his lips together, nods once, and all of a sudden things feel even more awkward. Crap.
“Anyway. Thanks again.”
“You’re welcome.”
I step out with a small wave and notice two things: he’s staring hard at his feet, and his left hand is a tight fist at his side.
Seven
Three months ago
There’s nothing wrong with the waveguide. That, I know for sure. The transformer and the stirrer seem fine, too, which has me thinking that the problem is in the magnetron. Now, I’m not really an expert, but I’m hoping that if I tinker with the filament the assembly will fix itself and—
“Is this because last night we watched Transformers?”
I look up. Liam, a soft smile on his face, is standing on the other side of the kitchen island, taking in the microwave oven parts I meticulously laid out over the marble countertop.
I might have made a mess.
“It was either this or writing Optimus Prime fan fiction.”
He nods. “Good choice, then.”
“But also, your microwave isn’t working. I’m trying to fix it.”
“I can just buy a new one.” His head tilts. He studies the components with a slight frown. “Is this safe?”
I stiffen. “Are you asking because I’m a woman and therefore unable to do anything remotely scientific without causing radioactive pollution? Because if so, I—”
“I’m asking because I wouldn’t know where to start, and because I am so ignorant about anything remotely scientific that you could be building an atomic bomb and I wouldn’t be able to tell,” he says calmly. As though he doesn’t even need to be defensive, because the idea that me being a puny-brained girl never even entered his mind. “But you clearly can.” A pause. “Please don’t build an atomic bomb.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
He sighs. “I’ll make room for the plutonium in the cheese drawer.”
I laugh, and realize that it’s the first time I’ve done it in hours. Which, in turn, makes me sigh. “It’s just . . . Sean is being a total dick. Again.”
His expression darkens with understanding. “What’d he do?”
“The usual. That deco project I told you about? I was explaining this really cool idea about how to fix it, but he only let me talk for half a minute before telling me why it wouldn’t work.” I fiddle with the magnetron, then start reassembling the oven. The second both my hands are occupied, a strand of hair decides to fall into my left eye. I blow it away. “Thing is, I’d already considered all of his objections and found solutions. But did he let me continue? Nope. So now we’re going with a much-less-elegant method, and . . .” I trail off. At this point, Liam gets two to four Sean-related rants a week from me. The least I can do is keep them short. “Anyway. Sorry for being defensive.”