I’m doing an incredible job of focusing on some book or other—there’s an airplane on the cover, it’s probably about pilots or something—when Andi shouts my name from the bathroom. I roll my eyes when I stand, like there’s anyone here to see me, then walk to the bathroom door.
“What?” I call.
“I forgot a towel,” she says, and there’s a beat of silence. “Can you bring me one? They’re hanging by the wood stove.”
“There aren’t any in there?” I ask, folding my arms over my chest, not that she can see it.
“Please?” she shouts.
I sigh and head into the living room, grab the towel, and walk it back. It’s warm from being near the stove, the heat sinking through the sweater I’ve got on. For a moment I pause at the bathroom door, my forehead against the wood, because—I don’t know. I don’t know where I am and I don’t know where I’m going and this is familiar, too, finding myself somewhere new and unknown, side-by-side with Andi. Up until now I’ve understood relationships as a progression, as this and then that, neat steps to the next milestone. This feels like diving off a cliff.
She tells me to come in when I knock, and whatever I was bracing for isn’t what’s there. Andi’s somehow gotten the bubbles piled high, over the rim of the tub in places, head poking out of one end, the pale knobs of her knees barely visible underneath suds. The room’s warm and humid and smells of something fruity and floral that I can’t place.
“Thanks,” she says. “I let it warm up and then forgot it.”
I nod, settling it over the towel rack. Behind me, I can hear the gentle splash of water as she moves and it makes my heart beat out of rhythm. My face heats. My pants don’t fit right any more, and the only thing louder than the old, constant voice in my head saying this is wrong and you shouldn’t is the new one saying are you so sure it’s wrong?
“I could,” I tell the wall, but at the exact same time Andi says, “Would you mind,” and we both stop.
Then she starts laughing, and I turn, and she’s got her arms folded on the edge of the tub and suds piled on one shoulder and she’s pink from the heat of the water, and I don’t forget that this is wrong for unspecified reasons, but it suddenly seems so much less important.
“Want me to get your back?” I ask.
“Would you?”
It’s a ridiculous question and whatever words I had dissolve in the fluffy bubbles and disperse any way, so I grab a washcloth from the sink, fold the bathmat in half, pull my sweater off, and kneel next to the tub so we’re face-to-face.
“Hi,” Andi says, and her hair’s wet and secured on top of her head in some kind of bun and she’s naked under the water, her skin shining and slick, faint freckles on her cheeks and along the tops of her shoulders and she’s smiling at me like we’ve got a secret.
“Hi,” I echo, the only word that comes to mind.
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