“Clay, I’m so sorry,” I apologized sincerely. “I’m being rude and making assumptions.” Using a syrupy voice I asked, “Will you look at the sink? Please?” He splashed me over the top of the curtain… again.
“Ok, ok. I’ll just leave the stuff here on the floor. If something doesn’t fit, or you don’t like it, leave the tags on it and we’ll take it back. I guessed on the shoes,” I rambled. “Some of the stuff isn’t for now, but I figured you could try it on.” Remembering the missing buttons, I quickly grabbed the flannel from the pile. The water turned off just then and I rushed from the bathroom.
In my room, I pulled out my travel sewing kit and got to work moving buttons around. The two spares on the inside seam remained intact. With those and a close match I found in the sewing kit, I solved the missing button problem. While I sewed, I listened for Clay to leave the bathroom. By the time I finished, I still hadn’t heard anything. Setting the repaired shirt aside, I got up to look for him.
I found him in the kitchen already looking at the sink. Head bent over the faucet, obviously distracted, I took the opportunity to check out his clothes. The jeans hung a little loose and the shirt a little tight, but it looked good. A little too good. Looking him over did funny things to my stomach. Glad he hadn’t noticed, I moved to the refrigerator and grabbed what I needed to make him a big breakfast: Eggs, bacon, potatoes, and yes, orange juice... from concentrate.
While I washed the potatoes under the pathetic trickle of water, he ran down to the basement. I noticed he still had bare feet.
“The shoes didn’t fit?” I asked when he got back. I moved to the table to peel the potatoes and stay out of his way.
He shrugged in response.
“So they fit, but you didn’t want to wear them?” I guessed.
No response. He continued to tinker with the sink.
“Did you like them, or should we bring them back? I wasn’t sure what style you liked. There were several different colors. They’re cheap shoes, but I figured it was better than walking around barefoot in the snow. That’s got to be cold even for you.”
Halfway through my one-sided conversation, he’d turned to look at me. I knew I’d rambled a little… again, but I didn’t want him to think we had the keep the shoes. If he didn’t like them, it didn’t hurt my feelings.
“It’s okay if we take them back,” I reassured him, hoping his look wasn’t because I’d just referred to him still living here in winter. I had really grown used to having him around. Kind of. “Just wear the flip flops for now and you can come in with me next time and pick out what you like.” It would be nice to have a guy along to discourage other men.
I got up from the table and put some butter in the pan on the stove. Turning for the potatoes I’d cubed, I saw him sitting on a chair at the table. With his socks already on, he bent forward to slide his feet into the shoes.
“No, no, no, Clay,” I hurried over and reached out almost touching his back before pulling my hand away. “I wasn’t saying you had to wear them.” He continued to tie the shoes. “It’s okay to bring them back if you don’t like them.” The plain knockoffs of a grey and blue running shoe had colors muted enough that I’d thought they’d look okay with whatever he wore in the future.
When he finished tying, he stood and looked down at his feet. I could see him wriggle his toes through the canvas and mesh tops. The length seemed to fit well enough. The loose lacing told me they ran a little snug in the width. Moving past me, he walked to the sink and then back trying out the shoes. His expression, what little I could see of it, appeared relaxed as did his stride.
“You like shoes,” I guessed, “but you don’t wear them much, do you...”
He answered with his typical passive shrug, heading back to the sink.
The sizzle of the potatoes called me back to my cooking and I got another pan out to start the bacon. He used the tools he’d brought up from the basement to try to fix the sink while I cooked. The sound of water running at full pressure heralded breakfast.
“Good to have a handyman,” I commented while I set our plates on the table.
When first staying with Sam, he’d amazed me with the amount of food he’d consumed on a daily basis. He’d explained that the werewolf’s metabolism ran a bit higher than the average person's did. So, I’d made enough breakfast for three and only served myself one portion, leaving the rest mounded on Clay’s plate.