“That was—” I have no words to describe it. “Thank you.”
“It’s nice to share it with someone.” I nod, my throat tight. “C’mon,” Hawthorne says, “I could use a shower.” My eyes widen. “I don’t mean together.”
“Oh.”
We make our way back up to Section Black. At my locker, Hawthorne asks, “Have you put on your combat armor yet?” I shake my head no. “Okay, when you’re finished with your shower, put these on.” He indicates the tight black shirt and leggings that go beneath the armor. “I’ll show you how to armor up.”
Hawthorne walks away. I gather the special shampoo and detangler that Emmy had requisitioned for me, a razor and shaving cream from the shelf of supplies available to everyone, and a towel from the stack. Then, following Hawthorne, I find that his locker is two rows over from mine.
I peek around the corner. Hawthorne strips off his sweaty T-shirt. His broad shoulders and back muscles bear witness to his intensive training. His skin is perfection. His training trousers hang low on his narrow hips—so low I get a glimpse of the two dimples just above his rounded backside. I back away, my cheeks burning. He’s right, I am weird, and right now, I wish he had an ugly mole.
An empty shower closet isn’t hard to find at this time of day. I step inside one, close the door, and lock it. I strip off my clothes and turn the water on by scanning my moniker. I only get five minutes.
But five minutes isn’t long enough. I finish shaving one leg, sans water. After towel drying my hair, I wrap the damp cloth around my body, exit the shower closet, toss my dirty clothes in the clothes chute, and run my fingers through the tangles in my wet hair. Rows of sinks are located near the lockers. Putting toothpaste on my toothbrush, I begin brushing my teeth in front of one. Two buttons are on a panel near the side of the mirror. Above them, a label reads “dryer.” I push the top one. Warm air blows down on me, drying my hair. Soft waves form as I run my fingers through it. On a shelf behind me are grooming supplies—razors and shaving cream. I take a new razor and some shaving cream to finish shaving my leg properly.
I set the items on the edge of the sink. With my toothbrush still in my mouth, I bend over at my waist, flipping my hair over so that the underside can dry. Running my hands through it, I feel the curls loosening. Reaching for the shaving cream, I rub some on my ankle before pulling the razor across it. I rinse the blade in the sink without looking up, and then drag it across my skin again. Large feet stop right next to me. I flip my long hair out of my face and look up. Hawthorne is there, with just a towel wrapped low on his hips. He is knee-weakeningly handsome.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Bruwshing my teef,” I reply, my mouth full of foam. Beyond him, a group of male soldiers watches in fascination. I turn and spit. “What?” I ask Hawthorne’s reflection in the mirror.
“I meant what were you doing with that razor?”
“Shaving my legs. I don’t have wax to remove the hair, so—”
“I thought only Diamond-Fated women shaved their legs—models, and you know, feminine women, not soldiers.”
“No one here shaves their legs?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t. Hammon doesn’t.” Putting toothpaste on his toothbrush, he turns around and scowls at the males still watching me behind us. “Show’s over. Go on now.” The men laugh, telling him to lighten up. They push each other around before dispersing.
“I didn’t know,” I mutter, embarrassed. “We do things differently at home. Every woman shaves or waxes her legs and her armpits—all the aristocracy does it. Do you find it disgusting?”
“No.”
“They think it’s disgusting though, right?” I wish someone would tell me these things before I make an ass of myself.
“Roselle, you just made their top-five lists,” he says, pointing in the direction of the other soldiers. “Honestly, you were probably on that list anyway, but now it’s a safe bet you’re number one.”
My nose wrinkles. “What’s a top-five list?”
“You don’t want to know. Rest assured, they find you the opposite of disgusting.”
I gesture with my thumb over my shoulder. “All right. I’ll just go—”
“Change in the bathroom—yeah, that’s actually a good idea.”
Hawthorne is in his uniform when we meet later at my locker. Tossing my long hair into a ponytail, I tuck it into the neckline of my undershirt. My clingy under-armor attire doesn’t leave much to the imagination, and Hawthorne’s eyes rove over me. My cheeks flush with color. He looks away, reaching past me to retrieve the armor from inside my locker. His arm brushes up against my breast. I bite my lip and move back, giving him more room.
“Excuse me,” he says.
“It’s fine,” I assure him. “Thank you for doing this.” My fingers tangle together nervously. “I’ve never used this kind of combat gear before.”
“It’s no problem.” He inhales deeply, then leans close and sniffs my hair. “You don’t smell like a soldier,” he jokes. His nose brushes my neck.
“Oh.” My blush turns to one of embarrassment. “They gave me this special detangler because they wouldn’t let me cut my hair.”
“Why wouldn’t they let you cut your hair?”
“Oh, you know—I need permission from Admiral Dresden, Clifton Salloway, or Agent Crow in order to change how I look.” Admitting my total lack of freedom regarding my own body is humiliating.
Hawthorne’s jaw ticks.
“So, how does this work?” I ask, gesturing to the combat suit, changing the subject.
He shows me, and it’s ingenious. A catheter lines the interior of the armor for long missions. He describes how to position the collector so that I don’t wet myself and how to change it when it becomes necessary. I step into the suit, sans catheter. Armor plates run over my calves, thighs, torso, and arms. Hawthorne tightens my elbow buckles, tugging on my armor like he’s trying to protect me. I want to lean into him, gently brush my lips against his. He has no idea.
Hawthorne pulls the armor breastplate from my locker. “You can put this on a couple of different ways,” he explains. “I usually unclip the right buckle of the waistband, shrug into it, putting my head through this hole, and secure the waistband clip. Some soldiers lift the breastplate over the head, and then tighten both the waistband clips. Whatever works for you.”
I do it the way he does it. The wide armor-plated straps hang on my shoulders, holding the armor in place. I secure the right clip of the waistband. He tugs on the belt to cinch the waist, hands me a headset, and passes me a helmet. It fits me like it was made for me. The visor clicks out in sections to cover my face.
Hawthorne hands me elbow-length gloves and a fusion-powered rifle. He steps back from me and admires his handiwork. “Goodness, Roselle. You look like a soldier!”
“I am a soldier.”
He pulls a tin of wax from his pocket. “Rub this on all the shiny parts of your armor. Some of the clips need to be dulled down so that they don’t reflect light and give away your position. Don’t go using it on your legs. I only have this little bit.”
I nudge him with my shoulder. “Very funny.”
“Ration rotation happens in ten. I’ll wait here for you while you change.” He leans against the lockers and crosses his arms.
Dining in the air-barracks is as informal as you can get, just bins of premade food in foil packages. We line up for the bins. There isn’t much to choose from. I pick up a red foil package and begin to read the label, but Hawthorne snatches it out of my hand and tosses it back in the bin. “Don’t eat that. Remember: ‘Red for a reason.’ Here.” He thrusts a green foil package into my hand.
Hawthorne takes two of everything except the red package.