Right. Well. This isn’t going to be easy. I’m not surprised by their reactions. They don’t know everything that’s transpired between Noah and me in the last week, it’d be impossible to fill them in on everything via text message, and, clearly, they can’t be trusted on FaceTime. Also, it seems a little early to be waxing poetic about Noah. We haven’t even gone out yet. How dumb would I look defending him now and then getting played? I mean…I really don’t think he’s out to hurt me, but still, it’s not worth making myself look like an idiot in front of my friends.
So I tell them what they want to hear.
Audrey: Don’t worry. I know who I’m dealing with. My eyes are wide open.
* * *
Melissa: You believe her, Kristen?
* * *
Kristen: Nope. Famous last words if I ever heard them…
I sigh and turn my phone over so I can’t see the screen anymore. If they’re going to keep texting me, I don’t want to know about it. Besides, it’s getting late and I need to get ready for bed. I take my toiletry bag and pad down to the communal bathroom.
Someone’s showering when I go in. It happens often enough with five of us sharing the bathroom, but still, everyone seems to stick to their own schedule. Early birds can’t comprehend why people shower before bed and vice versa. I have no stake in the game. I’m an equal opportunity shower-taker.
I make it to a sink and plop my little bag down on the counter just as the water cuts off and a muscled arm reaches out for a towel.
Interesting.
Guess Noah’s back from his run…
I’ve never had the pleasure (or displeasure, depending on if you asked me this week or last week) of getting to be in here while Noah’s showering.
I busy myself with my toothbrush and toothpaste. Was the cap always this hard to untwist? Focus, Cohen!
The curtain rings clink together as he pushes the curtain to one side and steps out. Now, listen, I’m going to paint this picture to the best of my ability, and I’ll probably still come up short, but here we go: Noah wears nothing save for one of the school’s white towels slung low around his hips. Drops of water sluice slowly down his abs. His body? It’s a masterpiece. Someone revive Michelangelo and tell him we’ve got his next muse. He’s chiseled and…wait, did someone just dim the lights and turn on ’90s R&B or am I losing it?
My body temperature shoots up ten—no, twenty degrees. I don’t even bother trying to hide it; I straight-up fan my face.
Noah sees my reaction right away. It’s not like I’m being coy about it. My chin is on the floor. I’m gripping the edge of the sink and hunched over like I’m mid-heart attack.
“You okay over there?”
I shake my head no, then yes, then no again.
Apparently enjoying the effect he has on me, he decides to set up shop at the sink right beside mine with a toiletry bag of his own.
“Clothes,” I eek out the same way a dying person begs for water or air.
“In a second.”
He’s in no rush, just going about all his little post-shower duties, getting ready for bed. He has all the time in the world to torture me.
I should get back to my duties as well. And to my credit, I do try.
“You’re holding the toothpaste upside down.”
“Really? You’re kidding,” I quip. “Guess I’ve been doing it wrong my whole life. The paste goes on the brush?”
He laughs.
I start brushing my teeth.
“How was your run?” I ask around the bristles.
“Not bad. What’d you do while I was gone?”
“Talked to my friends back home. Told them about us.”
He hums, encouraging me to go on.
I finish brushing, spit, and rinse.
“They think you’re playing me and this is all some big manipulative ruse.”
“Do you think I’m playing you?”
“Jury’s still out.”
He turns and smiles, leaning his hip against the side of the sink. “I could show you how into you I am if that’s what you want. Clear up the confusion…”
Sheesh. What’s he trying to do? Kill me?
I gulp and stare at his mouth. “I’ll probably regret telling you this, but I haven’t been with anyone in a while.”
It feels important that he know that in case we’re about to go there right here, right now in this bathroom.
He studies me carefully. He’s hanging on my every word. “How long’s a while?”
It occurs to me that I would have never dreamed of giving Noah this information a week ago. Voluntary facts about my nonexistent sex life? Not in a million years.
I mimic his stance, leaning my hip against the sink too. “Why don’t you tell me how long you think a while is…”
“Since Jeff? You broke up with him just after school started last year, right?”
God, he really does know everything.
I nod almost imperceptibly, but he still catches it. “Jeff.”
“Huh.” He says it like that’s the most interesting thing he’s heard all day.
“You?”
He shrugs. “I don’t keep track. A while.”
He crosses his arms. So do I.
All right, so we’re both a little rusty. We’ll have to get back in the saddle together.
“Are you going to kiss me then?” I ask, needing to know. It’s something I’ll want to prepare for.
He mulls it over. “Not tonight.”
Suddenly I’m distraught. “Why?”
“Remember what I told you last night? My promise?”
“Promise? About proving yourself this week? Not poking me with a stick or whatever?”
He likes how exasperated I’ve become. He’s smiling when he replies, “Exactly. I’ll be good until Saturday.”
He holds his hands up as if to prove he’s going to keep them to himself, but my brain doesn’t get the memo. All I see is potential. Big potential. I’m calculating the length of his fingers and multiplying by two. Equations are swirling. On the outside, I’m Ms. Cohen, cutesy English teacher. On the inside, I’m a sexual deviant.
I swear he can read my mind. He knows my thoughts are in the gutter.