The toothpaste foam filling my mouth is blue. Bright, neon blue.
I wrench forward and spit into the sink. Blue, everywhere. Another glance at my reflection reveals what I fear. My lips, my teeth, my tongue. Blue. Everything is stained blue. I try to scoop water into my mouth, swirling it around and letting it out, only to see a stream of light blue liquid coating the porcelain and leaving a stain behind.
"Fuck!"
I slam my palm against the edge of the sink, feeling the burn of the impact on my skin. My interview is in two hours and I look like I just ate out Smurfette.
I tear out of the bathroom and storm into the kitchen. Julia is sitting at the table, just as I had been when I played the prank on her.
Surprise registers on her face as her eyes drag down my bare chest to where a towel clings to my hips. For a minute, I forget how angry I am because her eyes reveal an unrelated struggle I know she doesn't want to admit.
"Why so blue?" Her gaze turns down to the container of yogurt in front of her as if she might burst out into laughter at any moment.
My jaw tightens and I try to sound calmer than I feel when I say, "I have somewhere important I need to be."
I don't think she believes me. She shrugs, drawing a spoon full of yogurt up to her lips. Imitating Luke, she says, "Damn. That sucks, bro."
"What am I supposed to do now?"
Her hand flies to her mouth and she struggles to hold back a snicker. I can only imagine what I look like, bright blue tint all over my lips and teeth.
"Rub some cream cheese on it?" she offers, half laughing from behind her hand.
Ignoring her, I head into the kitchen and search through the cabinets until I find a box of baking soda. Washing my mouth out with this might be able to take out most of the color.
Instead of going back to the bathroom, I head in her direction, box in hand. She eyes my lips and even though I know it's because of tint, I get the urge to storm right up to her and kiss her, smearing her own lips blue. That would teach her.
I grab a chair and set it down right in front of hers. She eyes it with confusion as I plop myself onto it and lean toward her. I'm the one wearing nothing but a towel, but she's the one that scratches her nose and looks away.
"I'm impressed," I tell her.
She raises an eyebrow, but in a lazy way like she's thoroughly unconcerned by my praise. "How so?"
"For a minute there, I thought you were too pussy to get your hands dirty. But it's nice to know I have a worthy adversary. I never saw this coming."
"Too pussy? Really? Is that the weakest body part you can think of?"
"It's just an expression," I point out.
"How about this for an expression. Your weak balls can't handle it."
"Fine," I say, running my hand over my mouth and chin. "I thought your weak balls couldn't handle it."
She's smiling. "I can't take you seriously right now. You look...ridiculous."
I get to my feet and enjoy a new vantage point. Her sitting there, peering up at me, lips as tempting as ever, and my mind floods with images of what they'd look like taking me in between them.
"You look like you're enjoying this," I say.
"I can't lie, I am. But you'd better hurry." She nods, indicating the baking soda in my hand. "The longer you wait, the harder it will be."
The harder it will be, indeed.
I hold up the box as I walk backward out of the room. "Don't expect mercy from me."
Her lashes flutter with an eye roll.
"Bring it."
Chapter Fifteen
Giles
I'VE BEEN AVOIDING THIS TRIP for some time now, but I've officially run out of excuses. On a good traffic day like today, the drive to Bellefonte Assisted Living facility is forty minutes from campus. I park in the visitors lot and approach the immaculate front lawn, admiring the architecture overhead. The warm-toned brick building has white pillars framing its arched entryway. On either side of the large double doors runs a patio, lined by a short, wrought iron fence. I expected the facility to resemble a hospital, but this place looks more like a mansion.
Several gray-haired residents fill the patio chairs, some talking amongst themselves, others clutching their canes in silence and staring out over the lawn, contemplating. All eyes move to me as I approach. I return several nods of greeting and small smiles. My gaze sweeps the length of the porch, but I don't see my aunt out here. Ava did mention to me that the part of the building she lives in has its own outdoor space, contained and safe, not open to the road like this.
Once inside, I hesitate by the doors, not having expected to walk into what resembles a vast living room, adorned in an antique style that lends the perception of both comfort and opulence to its furniture, curtains, and carpeting. I wonder how much Ava has to pay for her mother's care here.
It takes me a few seconds to spot the front desk, which is straight ahead but set off to the side, most likely to avoid immediately disrupting the sensation that this building is someone's home. It's home to many, many people.
The fresh-faced receptionist eyes me with interest as I sign in to receive a visitor's badge. "You're a new face. First time here?" she asks.
Her innocent question trips my guilt valve. "Yes, it is."
When I tell her my aunt's name, she smiles warmly and says, "Oh, she's a sweetheart," then directs me down the hall to the right.
I'm surprised she used the word sweetheart in such a genuine way. I'd expect my aunt to be difficult in general, but especially in her condition. Then again, I've yet to really see her since it got bad, I only have Ava's anecdotes to go on and those have painted my aunt in a disturbing light. That's one of the reasons it took me months to come out to visit her. I've been afraid of what it will be like.
Past a heavy set of double doors, which require me to ring a bell and wait to be buzzed in, I reach a section of the building with its own sitting area and yet another desk. Once there, I am directed to my aunt's room.
From the outside, it looks like a hotel room. But when I step inside, the decorative style of the facility falls away to my aunt's own, personal style of decor. The room is reminiscent of what I remember her room to look like in her own home. Frilly bed covers, pictures hanging all over the walls, an assortment of products on her dresser.
My aunt sits in an armchair, facing a wide window, which looks out onto back gardens. She's reading a book and when I tap my knuckles on the doorframe to catch her attention, her gaze swings to me. At first, her brows furrow in confusion, but a slow smile builds on her face and she sets her book down.