“I—you know what I mean!” I burst out, glowering at him, desperately trying to clean up the smudges of mascara from under my eyes. “I’ve been making so much effort all week and it feels like it’s all you can do to brush your hair!”
Frowning, obviously self-conscious, he rubs the thick layer of stubble on his cheek. “Well, yeah. It’s not like I’ve got my razor or nice shirts or my other pair of good jeans. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m stuck here, with only an overnight bag, and some clothes you borrowed from next door that don’t even fit me right. Sorry if I’m not looking my best this week.”
I’m speechless for a second, because I didn’t even think about it that way.
But oh, I’m so mad with him, and that’s still not the point I was trying to make, or I don’t think it was, and besides, there’s a bunch of other reasons I’m in such a bad mood right now.
And I open my mouth to retort again, my face scrunched up, finger raised as I step forward to jab at the air, and the second I move my leg—
Phhhhbt!
—I let out the loudest fart of my entire life.
In that second, right there in my little, six-by-eight kitchen still full of steam, standing across from my boyfriend of only a month, I want to die. I want the ground to open up and swallow me whole.
Oh God, and it’s not that it was even so loud, it’s the noxious smell like rotten eggs that follows, enough to make me gag.
Danny stares at me in total shock.
I can imagine exactly what he’s seeing now. Some sweaty, red-faced girl half his size, cheeks smeared in mascara, looking angry enough to throw him out of a window for what seems to him like no good reason, letting out the world’s loudest, most rancid fart.
It is a far cry from the image I’ve been striving to cultivate: keeping my legs shaved, using the nice fancy moisturizer, doing a foot mask so even my feet seem perfect and soft, running to the bathroom first thing in the mornings to cover up any new spots, not singing in the shower so I don’t sound like some banshee, avoiding eating anything too smelly on our dates so I won’t smell or taste gross when he kisses me . . .
And to think I was worried about him finding the wine stain on the underside of the sofa cushion, or my Little Mermaid music box.
Everything I’ve done in the last month—the last week—has been for nothing.
I’ve destroyed it all in a single moment.
So I do the only rational thing I can. I flee the kitchen and shut myself in the bathroom.
Danny isn’t far behind, running after me and calling my name, knocking on the door even as I press my hands to it, like little ol’ me can barricade it if he does try to open it.
“Isla,” he pleads, knocking. “Come on, open up. Please? Isla?”
Oh God, I can’t even avoid him, can I? We’re stuck in here together and I can’t pretend that didn’t happen (both the fart and me blowing up at him like that). I can’t hide in this bathroom for the next four days until he’s allowed to leave again.
I’m going to have to . . . ugh, deal with it.
I give myself a few seconds, eyes shut, trying to compose myself.
I’m not losing my mind. I’m just freaked out because this is an extraordinary situation that we’re in, and it’s a lot of pressure. I’m not losing my mind. I just have to explain myself, even if the idea sends a shudder through me.
It’s okay, Isla, you can do this. You’re a total badass, and you’ve got this.
He knocks again, and I steel myself before wrenching the door back open.
“Look, I gave it a shot, Danny, but this isn’t working out.”
He looks at me like I’ve slapped him, turning ashen. He gasps, as though all the air has just been kicked right out of his lungs.
“What?” he asks me, breathless.
“I’m a morning person. I’m an early bird! I like starting my day with a workout. I like getting up early and taking fifteen minutes to meditate when the sun’s coming up, and having a cup of tea or a smoothie out on my balcony before I start my day! Not rolling out of bed barely in time to pee before my first meeting of the day! And I hate cooking. I mean really, really, don’t like it.
“And you know what else? It’s a total slap in the face to feel like you’re not making an effort and like you’ve given up already, but . . .
I can’t keep this up! I keep trying to—to be the perfect girlfriend for you, to make so much effort, but I can’t keep it up. I can’t do this forever. Sometimes I like it when my legs are all fuzzy and I don’t have to spend a small fortune getting my nails done and eyebrows threaded.
And you know what? Sometimes—yeah, sometimes I fart too! But this is who I am, Danny, and I’m sorry, but you’re just going to have to deal with that. Okay?”
Danny stares at me with those big, dark eyes, and his lovely long eyelashes, mouth hanging open, before bursting into laughter so suddenly that I jump back.
“Uh . . . ”
Catching his breath, he steps toward me, putting his hands on my arms, drawing me into him.
“Isla, honestly. ‘This isn’t working out.’ I thought you were talking about us for a minute, not—not your workout schedule! Jesus Christ.
You scared the life out of me for a second there.”
All the pent-up anger I’ve been holding on to for the last few minutes (and, all right, all the tension that I’ve let build up over the last few days) suddenly rushes out of me, and I’m laughing, too, brushing his hands away when he strokes some wispy hairs back from my face, pulling me toward him for a kiss.
“Don’t,” I say, still giggling. “Danny, I’m all gross and sweaty.”
“I don’t mind,” he murmurs, kissing all over my face and making me laugh again before his hands are around my waist and he draws me close, his lips on mine, and I can feel myself positively melting into him.
I’d never had that feeling when I kissed a guy, before Danny. There was always too much tongue or bad breath or that one guy who didn’t so much as kiss as just suck on my upper lip. (Which, honestly, I’d tried to work past, because he was really hot and I’d met him through tennis and on paper we were a great match, but . . . ) Danny, though, takes my breath away.
I don’t even care anymore that all his stupid noise while he cooked and his stupid podcast blasting through the Alexa speakers was grating on me, or that he said he can’t watch a movie with me this evening because he has to do some more work after dinner, or even that he’s seeing me so gross and sweaty, midworkout, when he’s barely even seen me without makeup on, before this week.
I don’t care, because he’s kissing me, and the way his tongue drags over my lower lip and the way his body is pressed against mine feels so goddamn wonderful.
“You know, you ruined my workout,” I mumble against his lips, when we finally part for air. My hands press against the bare skin of his back, warm and smooth. “You should definitely have to make that up to me.”
Danny laughs. “Aren’t I already cooking dinner for you?”
“Hmm . . . ”