Stripping out of the tank top and leather pants, I twisted my hair into a bun and fitted the waterproof helmet into place. Three minutes into my shower, I was generally pleased with the results of my efforts. The helmet succeeded in its purpose. My hair and face were dry. The only downside was the interior acoustics, which seemed to amplify the sound of the shower tenfold. Ah well. I would have to make notes for a second prototype, should the need arise.
Toweling off, I studied my image in the mirror as best I could given the limitations of the helmet, and debated how to best dry the contraption. Leaving it outside was the obvious choice, just not in direct sunlight. I didn’t want the plastic to melt. The small balcony off my room should work and had the added bonus of giving me an excuse to access “Mona’s room” whenever I wanted.
Decision made, I pulled on my underwear. I left the helmet on—enjoying the novelty of feeling like a Storm Trooper, or perhaps a member of Daft Punk—wrapped an oversized towel around myself, and opened the bathroom door just in time to almost collide with Abe. But we didn’t collide, thanks to my eyeholes and his veering to the left at the last minute.
“What the hell?” he said, staring at me aghast. “What are you doing?”
Bah! I forgot my prunes.
Lifting the towel closer to my neck, I met his stunned gaze through the plastic sheeting of my helmet, and debated how best to answer. In the end, I decided the truth would have to do. “I’m walking to my room. What are you doing?”
“No, I mean, what are you wearing?”
I glanced down at myself. “A towel and underwear.”
“No. On your head.” He touched his temple and I mimicked the movement, my fingers coming in contact with the plastic outer layer. “What’s that thing on your head? Is that aluminum foil?”
“Oh. It’s for the shower. To keep my hair dry and, you know, my face also.” An image of me, of what I looked like in the helmet, flashed into my brain. I guess I looked silly. Removing it, I gave him another of my tight smiles. “Is that better?”
I could see him more clearly now. His forehead was scrunched, like I, or my shower helmet, or both of us together were inconceivable.
“That’s actually . . .” His expression cleared and he blinked, shifting back a step as though to get a better look at me. “That’s actually really smart.”
Now I frowned at him. The way he’d said smart irritated me on my sister’s behalf, as though the mere idea of me—Lisa—doing anything smart was outside his understanding of reality.
So I lifted my chin and said, “Well, you would know.”
He must’ve detected the undercurrent of sarcasm in my tone because his head moved back an inch on his neck, his gaze flickering over me. “What?”
“Clearly, you’re a foremost expert on what qualifies as ‘smart.’” I tugged my towel higher.
“Are you”—his eyes narrowed—“are you giving me shit for complimenting your—your—”
“Shower helmet.”
Abe pressed his lips together in an obvious attempt to curb a smile, but the presence of faint indents on either side of his mouth, the beginning of dimples, betrayed him. “Shower helmet,” he said, eyes— which I’d just this second realized were the color of amber when he wasn’t irked—glinted with amusement.
“Yes, I’m giving you shit regarding your paltry compliment about my shower helmet, because it was wholly eclipsed by your incredulity that I am capable of doing something ‘smart.’”
He gave up the fight against his grin. “Oh? Really?”
“Yes. Really.”
Abe huffed a disbelieving laugh, looking at me like I was a puzzle. “Well then, you know what would’ve been actually smart?”
“Please enlighten me.”
“Taking a bath.”
I opened my mouth to volley a new sarcasm, but then promptly snapped it shut, blinking in astonishment. He was right. Taking a bath would have been the simplest and smartest course of action. But taking a bath hadn’t occurred to me. I hadn’t taken a bath since Lisa and I’d taken them together as children.
“Unless you don’t like baths.” Abe’s left eyebrow tilted upward a hint, as did his mouth.
Scowling, because I wasn’t going to admit that taking a bath hadn’t occurred to me, I deflected by asking, “Why are you here? I thought you were in the basement.”
“I’m staying in one of the guest rooms on the third floor, I’m on my way up.”
“Oh. That makes . . . sense.”
We traded stares for several seconds, neither of us moving. I debated what to do or say while I watched all the good humor slowly leach from his features, leaving a mantle of renewed hostility. My stomach fluttered, startling me, and I pressed a hand against it.
You’re having butterflies because he’s pretty, I told myself. But the hurried explanation felt woefully inadequate.
Let the record show, Abe really was extremely attractive in a cool, aloof, tall, dark, and handsome kind of way—if you go for that. For some strange reason, I couldn’t help but compare him to Dr. Poe Payton, who was also extremely attractive. But although Poe was tall, dark, and handsome—objectively, perhaps even more handsome than Abe—he wasn’t aloof. He was friendly and brilliant.
That’s the problem, a voice inside my head informed me, has anyone brilliant ever been nice to you without having an ulterior motive?
Releasing a silent sigh, I wallowed for a split second in the sudden cold nausea curdling my stomach, fighting a duel with the flutters. It might have been the hastily eaten prunes, but I didn’t think so. More likely, it was the realization that I was more inclined to trust someone who disliked me than someone who liked me.
Which was probably why despite Abe’s apparent dislike for all things Lisa (and therefore me) in that moment, while standing so close to his handsomeness, I felt a small kinship with Gabby and her hoo-hah. Abe openly disliked me/Lisa, and I found him and his dislike attractive as evidenced by the increasing fluttery activity in my abdomen. How messed up was that?
Needing to break the moment, I considered saying one of my anytime phrases.
My first instinct was to use Is this why fate brought us together? but immediately dismissed it as an option. I usually employed this one when I spotted something I wanted, like chocolate gelato or fingerless gloves. So, nah.
Perhaps, Be that as it may, still may it be as it may be? Eh. No. Too random and too much time had passed with us just staring at each other.
Eventually, I channeled Lisa and flicked my wrist, moving my hand in a dismissive out-of-the-way motion I’d seen her use the last time we were together.
“Move. You’re in my way.”
His lips curved, definitely more of a smirk than a smile. Hinted at dimples made an appearance, deeper on the left side than on the right. But that might’ve been because his mouth hitched higher on that side. Licking his lips, his eyes dropped to the ground, the radiant amber irises now hidden by his long black lashes. He stepped to the side, lifting his arm in a go-right-ahead gesture.
So I did. I walked to my room. I opened the door. And then I closed it.
Not three seconds later, he knocked.
Gritting my teeth, I opened it, once again coming face-to-face with his smirking smile, dimples, and amber eyes, which—for the record—held no amusement.
“What do you want?”
“Isn’t this your sister’s room?” Abe crossed his arms and lifted a dark, challenging, irked eyebrow.
Ah! I was in my room! But that was okay because of my shower helmet plan. Which meant I didn’t even need to lie.
“This is Mona’s room.” Truth. “This room also has a balcony, which I plan to use to dry my shower helmet.” Also truth. Turning from him, I walked to the single French door leading to the small balcony and unlocked it, opened it, and placed the helmet under the small table so it wouldn’t get direct sunlight.