I laugh, bobbing my head along to the music, as they start performing some sort of terrible can-can routine side by side.
“You must imagine it with all four legs, you see!” Robert shouts to me over the song. “And also the feathers and jewels and whatever else,” he adds, gesturing to his torso.
Bo kicks him hard with his prosthetic foot, and Robert gapes at his son, wincing as he laughs.
“Seems like it kicks just fine,” Bo says, shrugging away from him and going back to the kitchen as he smiles to himself.
I twist the lid of my nail polish closed and begin blowing on my nails. Robert lingers next to the record player, tracing one finger along his wife’s collection, pulling out a few and inspecting them as he goes.
Once the music ends, Robert and Bo join me in the living room. After a few stories about the jazz band he’s playing with back in Paris and a handful of suggestive comments alluding to the relationship between Bo and me—or lack thereof—Robert excuses himself for bed. Claiming he’s evaded his jetlag long enough.
Which is exactly the moment I spot the extra pillow and blankets laid out on the corner chair and realise Robert has Bo’s room for the next few days. Until now, I haven’t thought of our sleeping arrangements for the visit, but there’s no way Bo should be on the couch. He won’t fit.
“You’re not seriously considering sleeping on the couch, right?”
“Don’t act like you haven’t discovered the magical sleeping powers of this couch.”
“For a nap, maybe, but it’s not at all big enough for you to sleep on. You’ll mess up your back.”
“I did find myself wishing I could detach both bottom halves of my legs.” He laughs, bringing his glass of water to his lips.
“Seriously, though, you’ll be miserable.”
“I’ll go to the store after our appointment tomorrow and pick up an air mattress.”
“I can take the couch tonight,” I offer.
“What? No way.”
I roll my eyes at his immediate dismissal. “Why not?”
“I don’t know,” he says, dripping with sarcasm, “maybe because I’m not making my pregnant—” He stops and tenses, then with a quick shake of his head, starts again. It was less than a second for the whole series of movements, but I noticed it all in agonising detail. What was he going to say? My what? “I’m not going to make a pregnant woman sleep on the couch,” he says firmly.
C’mon, Win. Three seconds of bravery. An innocent enough offer. You can do this.
“Well, we could share my bed…” I say, forcing my voice to sound indifferent. But then Bo studies me far too intently. His brows knitted together and his head tilted. And I feel myself struggling to not take it back or chase it with some overwrought disclaimer.
“We could,” Bo says, nodding, his eyes still narrowed on me. “Are you sure? You wouldn’t mind?”
I think I can find the kindness in my heart to share a bed with you, sure.
“Yeah, why not?”
“Totally sure?”
“Yep,” I say, clearing my throat.
“At least until tomorrow, when I go to the store.”
I shrug one shoulder. “Sounds good… I’m going to take a shower before bed. Um… feel free to set up your stuff in my room. I’ll sleep tucked against the wall—I like it better that way.” I have to consciously stop my feet from running to the bathroom Road Runner style once I’m done speaking.
CHAPTER 27
I brush my teeth twice and do a far longer skin care routine than I usually do in order to buy myself some extra time to calm down. The only thing that gets me out of the bathroom is the concerning thought that the longer I spend in here post-shower, the higher the chance that Bo thinks I’m avoiding sharing a bed with him.
Which I am, but not for the reasons he may think.
I knock on my bedroom door hesitantly, even after scurrying across the hall in nothing but a towel.
I hear a mumbled “uh-huh” from the other side of the door, and so I walk right in, summoning as much confidence as I can.
My bedroom is lit dimly by the lamp on the nightstand, casting the room in a soft, glowing hue. Bo is laid out on the bed next to the nightstand, resting above his pale grey comforter. One hand is holding his sudoku puzzle book and the other is in his hair, scratching above his ear. A pencil is between his teeth, causing his lips to form a straight, thin line. He’s wearing a dark purple T-shirt, black basketball shorts, and his glasses. Fuck me, those glasses. I notice that his prosthesis is leaned up against the wall, next to my dresser and the mess-heap of clothes I forgot to pick up this afternoon.
I hope he didn’t judge me too harshly for that.
“Sup,” he says, his voice exaggerated as he brings the pencil out of his mouth, jots something down, then places it back between his teeth. He’s yet to look up to greet me, and I smile to myself, seeing him in my room so comfortable. As if it’s completely natural for him to be here.
But I do enjoy what happens the moment he does look up to find me, probably wondering why I’m so quiet as I slink into the room. The pencil drops out of Bo’s mouth and clatters to the floor as he stares, slack-jawed, and his eyes practically double in size. Shaking himself, he shuts his lips tight, unable to keep his eyes still, switching between the towel wrapped around my body and the one on top of my head. “Do you need me to…？” He points to the door, vaguely looking over my shoulder, as if he’s in some sort of self-imposed dissociation.
“No, you’re good,” I say, straightening my shoulders. “Just, uh, close your eyes for a second.” Once he does, I drop my towel and pull out the only remotely sexy pyjamas I own. It’s just a black slip dress, but it’s the closest thing to lingerie in a drawer otherwise occupied by ripped, baggy T-shirts and biker shorts.
It’s not that I think something might happen if I wear this “nightgown.” Without a conversation first, I highly doubt Bo’s going to suddenly make any sort of move on me after such clear boundaries have been established and upheld. And I’m certainly not going to. I’m already using all my courage just to share a room with him. It’s more of a little reminder…
Hey, I have a body. You like it, right?
When I turn back around, Bo’s eyes are clenched shut and he’s repeatedly stabbing his forehead with the rubber-eraser end of the pencil that he fetched off the ground.
He likes it, all right.
“All clear,” I say, pushing my lips together in order to not laugh at his tortured expression the second he opens his eyes and takes in the nightgown. The look across his face, before he corrects it, is the tiniest, most wonderful reminder of the desirability I felt all those months ago. All I can do is hope he wants my heart just as much as he seems to want my body.
Bo clears his throat, forcing his attention back to the book in his hand, tapping the corner of it with his pencil in a quick, unsteady rhythm.
I attempt to get into bed as delicately as I can, climbing over the shallow baseboard and up toward my pillow. I lie on my left side, facing Bo, propped up on the ridiculous number of pillows I now sleep on to avoid heartburn in the night.
Pulling my duvet over my bottom half, I stretch my neck to see his puzzle. “Four…” I point to an empty spot. “Right?”