She shook her head and looked at the clock. “No, and now I’m going to have to unpack it all. I still have to eat, and shower, and get dressed,” she said, walking into the bathroom.
America shot a death glare in my direction, but I ignored her and walked over to the bathroom door, tapping lightly. “Pidge?”
“Yeah?” she said, her voice weak.
“You’re staying?” I closed my eyes, waiting for punishment.
“I can go if you want me to, but a bet’s a bet.”
My head fell against the door. “I don’t want you to leave, but I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”
“Are you saying I’m released from the bet?”
The answer was easy, but I didn’t want to make her stay if she didn’t want to. At the same time, I was terrified to let her go. “If I say yes, will you leave?”
“Well, yeah. I don’t live here, silly,” she said. A small laugh floated through the wood of the door.
I couldn’t tell if she was upset or just tired from spending the night in the recliner, but if it was the former, there was no way I could let her walk away. I’d never see her again.
“Then no, the bet’s still in effect.”
“Can I take a shower, now?” she asked, her voice small.
“Yeah . . .”
America stomped into the hall and stopped just short of my face. “You’re a selfish bastard,” she growled, slamming Shepley’s door behind her.
I went into the bedroom, grabbed her robe and a pair of slippers, and then returned to the bathroom door. She was apparently staying, but kissing ass was never a bad idea.
“Pigeon? I brought some of your stuff.”
“Just set it on the sink. I’ll get it.”
I opened the door and set her things on the corner of the sink, looking to the floor. “I was mad. I heard you spitting out everything that’s wrong with me to America and it pissed me off. I just meant to go out and have a few drinks and try to figure some things out, but before I knew it, I was piss drunk and those girls . . .” I paused, trying to keep my voice from breaking. “I woke up this morning and you weren’t in bed, and when I found you on the recliner and saw the wrappers on the floor, I felt sick.”
“You could have just asked me instead of spending all that money at the grocery store just to bribe me to stay.”
“I don’t care about the money, Pidge. I was afraid you’d leave and never speak to me again.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” she said, sincere.
“I know you didn’t. And I know it doesn’t matter what I say now, because I fucked things up . . . just like I always do.”
“Trav?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t drive drunk on your bike anymore, okay?”
I wanted to say more, to apologize again, and to tell her that I was crazy about her—and it was literally driving me insane because I didn’t know how to handle what I felt—but the words wouldn’t come. My thoughts could only focus on the fact that after everything that had happened, and everything I just said, the only thing she had to say was to scold me about driving home drunk.
“Yeah, okay,” I said, shutting the door.
I pretended to stare at the television for hours while Abby primped in the bathroom and bedroom for the frat party, and then decided to get dressed before she needed the bedroom.
A fairly wrinkle-free white shirt was hanging in the closet, so I grabbed it and a pair of jeans. I felt silly, standing in front of the mirror, struggling with the button at the wrist of the shirt. I finally gave up and rolled each sleeve to my elbow. That was more like me, anyway.
I walked down the hall and crashed into the couch again, hearing the bathroom door shut and Abby’s bare feet slapping against the floor.
My watch barely moved, and of course nothing was on TV except daring weather rescues and an infomercial about the Slap Chop. I was nervous and bored. Not a good combination for me.
When my patience ran out, I knocked on the bedroom door.
“Come in,” Abby called from the other side of the door.
She stood in the middle of the room, a pair of heels sitting side by side on the floor in front of her. Abby was always beautiful, but tonight not a single hair was out of place; she looked like she should be on the cover of one of those fashion magazines you see in the checkout line of the grocery store. Every part of her was lotioned, smooth, polished perfection. Just the sight of her nearly knocked me on my ass. All I could do was stand there, dumbfounded, until I finally managed to form a single word.
“Wow.”
She smiled, and looked down at her dress.
Her sweet grin snapped me back to reality. “You look amazing,” I said, unable to take my eyes off her.
She bent over to help one foot into her shoe, and then the other. The skintight, black fabric moved slightly upward, exposing just half an inch more of her thighs.
Abby stood and gave me a quick once-over. “You look nice, too.”
I shoved my hands in my pocket, refusing to say, I might be falling for you at this very moment, or any of the other stupid things that were bombarding my mind.