Despite It All

Chapter 11

Steam fills the air, hot water firmly kneading every inch of my tired, aching body. Thick, fragrant suds of soap slowly slide down my chest—cleansing me, caressing. The patterned sound of water beating against the tiled shower floor is soothing, melodic. My fingers apply gentle pressure to my scalp, massaging shampoo through my long brown hair. Its masculine smell is familiar, comforting.

I close my eyes and I just allow the stream of water to continue its exploration of my body, washing the burdens of my day down the drain.

My skin starts to slightly prune, serving as a reminder that it's time to exit this new, unfamiliar shower. Begrudgingly, I turn off the water—my sense of security—and step out of the steaming area. The modest size bathroom is minimally decorated but it is clean, organized. A light grayish color on the walls adds to the neutrality of the room, coordinating well with the dark gray stone tiles, black vanity, and carrara marble vanity top. Sleek, brushed nickel fixtures are free of smudges, and the large, black framed mirror is shiny and perfectly reflects how well maintained it is.

Atop the modern vanity lies a well-folded, clean, gray towel. Beside it sits a comb, an unopened toothbrush, toothpaste, a navy t-shirt, comically large socks, and a pair of men's athletic shorts.

Heart clenching, I utilize my given items to further compose myself. I take my time drying, brushing, stretching, and changing. I cannot get the athletic shorts to stay on my frame, despite an effort to tighten the drawstrings. Ultimately, I notice that the t-shirt's length surpasses my mid thigh. Good enough. Damp, combed hair splays across my back, chilling me.

A deep exhale.

I just, I don't want to talk about it. I'm not ready. I'm not far enough removed from my day for me to be able to talk about my feelings without crying, and I don't want to cry anymore. I just want to forget. How do I turn him down when he asks? He's been so thoughtful and considerate. I at least owe him an explanation. I close my eyes, worried. This is usually when things become complicated for me and my potential partners.

I exit the bathroom, anxiety crawling up my spine. Walking down the hall, my head whips upwards when I hear voices. Is someone else here? My heart beats rapidly. I'm in just a t-shirt and socks, for crying out loud. Do I go and wait in the bathroom until he's done... with whatever he is doing?

A door closes. Silence.

Timidly, I follow my previous path towards the open concept kitchen/living room area. Light pushes itself from around the corner, illuminating the hallway. Turning the corner, my eyes scan the room. Logan is standing at the kitchen island, busying himself with some plates. Sitting on the marble countertop are two boxes of pizza.

He looks up, scanning my body before his eyes find mine. He briefly closes his eyes and swallows, taking in the sight of me in nothing but his t-shirt. Composing himself, he offers a soft, genuine smile.

"Hey, hope you don't mind that I ordered some pizza," his voice is deep but lighthearted. He grins when he sees the look of delight that's splayed so eagerly across my face.

"I figured you'd be hungry. The delivery guy just left." He opens the closest box and the smell of greasy, cheesy goodness permeates the air. As if on cue, my stomach growls.

He laughs, "Good, you're hungry. What do you want to drink? Beer? Water? Soda?"

"I'll take a beer, thanks." My feet move towards the pizza, eager. An inhale. It smells amazing. I glance at the clock on the microwave, noting it is a quarter past eleven. I try to remember the last thing I ate. Two cups of coffee about nine hours ago... and a power bar before that. Other than that, it seems I've been running on adrenaline and frustration.