“You find the information parts tedious, too, then?” he asks with a smile.
“I think they’re heavy-handed, yes. But the plot does move along.”
“Not into any new territory.” Oh, how I love to hear him dismiss that which I find dismissible. “It’s just interesting to deconstruct things that work in the market, you know.”
I find myself narrowing my eyes on him, and I partly close the book, saving my place with my forefinger. I tap on the author’s name on the cover.
“You want to write one of these, don’t you,” I say to him. “You’re reading these commercial books and analyzing the plots not to become an editor, but to become a writer. And you’re starting with this kind of fiction because you think it’s easier to break into.”
His face flushes, and I feel Einstein brilliant for having guessed an inner truth of his—plus the fact that I’ve seen behind his proverbial curtain wipes away all the wife stuff. I am special once again. I am on his radar once again. Even though Sandra is in town and the pair of them probably just had sex in his shower, I have secret knowledge of his inner workings. His thoughts and fears. His goals. His motivation.
“That sounds like I’m selling out, doesn’t it,” he hedges.
And his conflict.
“I don’t think so.” Short of him becoming an axe murderer, I’d support any career choice of his. “Not if you believe in what you write.”
“I’ve taken a stab at a couple of stories, actually. Much to my father’s disapproval, none of them are the great American novel. For him, it’s Scribner’s or it doesn’t count. Going on to get my PhD is a negotiated way of not disappointing him again.”
I suddenly want to read what Nick’s put to the page with an unholy desperation. “I’m sure your books are very good.”
“They’re not. But I feel like they might be good enough for commercial stuff. I’m not going to live off my father forever. I’m not a child.”
Now his voice becomes bitter, and I welcome the show of honest emotion.
“You can do it. I believe in you.”
“You’re sweet, Sarah.” Nick checks his watch, which is gold and has an alligator band that is brown. The fact that he can wear something that expensive with a sweatshirt makes me feel like he is a down-to-earth man of character. “Crap. I’ve got to go get into a suit.”
“I’ll put your things in the dryer if you like? I’m just going to be waiting down here while my stuff gets done.”
“You’d do that? Oh, my God, that would be great. I use unscented detergent, and if the clothes sit wet, they start to smell pretty quick. Just regular heat, please.”
“Absolutely. I’ll take care of everything for you.”
He takes a moment to stare at me. Then, tilting his head to the side, as if he’s seeing a new angle to my face and he likes it, he says, “You’re the best, Sarah.”
My entire body blooms from the compliment. And even though he leaves, his presence stays behind with me in the sweetly scented laundry room.
I look to the detergent dispenser. I am never using something with a fragrance again.
I get so distracted playing and replaying each syllable and every glance of the interaction that before I know it, his washing machine ceases its spin with a click and a deceleration of its drum. While my load churns on, I place his book carefully aside and rise to my feet, wiping my hands on my pants to make sure they are clean.
As I pop the lid to our machine, I glance around. There isn’t a plastic basket of his that I can see and using my bag feels too intimate, like I’m stroking the back of his neck. I decide I’ll makeshift one of his Tshirts as a net to carry his clothes across to the dryers.
Before I reach in to touch the things he wears on his body, I take a deep breath and have an uncharitable moment of feeling so much more superior to Ms. Crenshaw. Nick would never allow her to do this. No way.
For one, he’d never hear the end of it.
Bending over, I extend my hand into our Maytag and I pull out the first piece I come in contact with. It’s the Nirvana T-shirt he wore the first day we all arrived. As I spread the wet bundle out on the closed lid of the machine to the right, I allow my hand the scandalous pleasure of skating lightly over the damp fibers, the lettering, the image. The fact that I know where he saw the concert and under what circumstances—during one of our chats, he told me he went with his college roommate—gives me another secret thrill. I have personal knowledge of him. I’ve pierced his privacy boundary, and not as a trespasser, but an invited guest.
Pulling out another piece of his clothing, I blush. Boxers. In a dark color. I don’t inspect these, as that would be indiscreet. I’m quick to grab something else, teasing it free of the wet twist formed by the spin cycle. Jeans. Like the ones he’s going to change out of so he can wear a suit for his tyrant of a father who fails to recognize his genius.
As I transfer the Levi’s over to the pile I am making—and note how much I’m titillated by the incredibly sexy denim that has clad his long, strong legs—something slips free from the back pocket of the jeans and falls to the floor.
I immediately turn to pick it up. But I freeze.
At first, I cannot understand what I am looking at.
In contrast to the dark clothes, whatever was in that pocket is pink. And it’s silky. And it’s—
A pair of panties.
I take a sharp step back, like the delicate, feminine flush of lingerie is a hissing snake.
My heart pounds. I breathe in and out. I feel my head swim as if I’m a girlfriend, betrayed.
But then I remember… he has a wife. These are Sandra’s.
I need to calm the hell down. Even as irrational pain lances through the center of my chest, I know that this bucket of cold, foul-smelling reality getting dumped on my stupid fifteen-year-old girl’s head is a good thing. My fantasies have created a double life that is curated for a fulfillment that can never, ever translate.
Nick Hollis is not my boyfriend. He is a married man who is my residential advisor. Instead of feeling two-timed, I need to do what I agreed to do for him and put his clothes in a dryer. And then when my load is finished, I need to leave his where it is, even if his things get the equivalent of a permanent press’s worth of wrinkles from cooling in a jumble inside the machine.
He’s done nothing wrong, and this is none of my business, and I’m way over the line with my feelings.
This rational pep talk lasts about ninety seconds. Almost immediately, I am reassuring myself that he and I still have our special wavelength in spite of his wife. I am still important to him. I am still more significant in his life than all the other girls in the dorm who look at him all the time.
I begin to feel a little better, but I decide to stop being so nosy with his clothes. I reach into the machine, grab an armful, and walk across to the dryers. I do this two more times, and make sure I don’t look at anything. Then I peel the concert shirt off of the machine and toss Nirvana and his boxers across the space, almost making it.
After which, I’m stuck with the jeans that I’ve left draped on the lip of his washer. And the panties.
I can’t leave them on the floor.