Page 36 of Storm in a Teacup
A walk sign pops up, so we cross the street. Ben laughs lightly. “No, Lin, I literally meant thefakedating. I’m needing to call in my favor sooner than I expected.”
I angle my head toward him. “Oh?”
“Oh. David has invited his boyfriend to our dinner, and you as well.”
“Why would he…? Oh, right. Because you accidentally implied we’re dating.” I swallow. “In that case, sure. I like dinner. But, Ben, are you sure you want to lie to him?”
We arrive at the tube station and enter through the gates. More people are milling around this station than I expected, speed walking in every direction. I grab Ben’s arm as an extra precaution, my eyes darting around in an attempt to see everyone all at once.
“No, but I think I have to,” he finally replies. “I believe the only reason David invited you and Callum was as a barrier. He doesn’t want to be alone with me.”
I scoff. “I doubt that’s the case. He probably wants to get to know me better. I’m great.”
Ben smiles, but not his real one. “I’m sure that’s it.” He sighs. “Either way, I’d like to have you there—just to prove that I’ve moved on.” He clears his throat. “Even though, as much as I’ve tried, I haven’t.”
“Got it. Well, I’m happy to go.” I squeeze his arm in reassurance.
“Thanks,” he says gratefully as we descend the stairs. Once we get to the platform, I release him.
The train comes, so we board, huddling in side by side. We arrive back at the hotel and run into Kensie and Jen. They both wave and say hi.
“You headed out?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Kensie says. “There’s a spot around the corner we want to check out. You both are welcome to tag along.”
I shake my head. “I am actually really excited to go to bed.”
“Me too,” Ben says quietly, causing my face to flush. He’s too good at this.
There’s mischief in Kensie’s eyes. “Got it. Well, I guess we’ll see you both at the welcome dinner?”
“Yeah,” I say, accepting the hug she’s offering. I don’t bother to explain that Ben won’t be with me for either the rehearsal dinner or the wedding. “See you soon.”
We get up to our room, and I immediately kick a trash can upon entering. “That’s in a different spot,” I grumble as I nudge it back to its rightful place. “I’m going to shower.”
Ben nods, kicking off his shoes and flopping back onto the bed. He grabs the remote and flips on the TV as I close the bathroom door.
I turn on the shower to let it heat up as I get undressed. I climb in, standing under the warm water. I wash my face and body, then nudge the water a little hotter before shaving my legs since I’ve developed goosebumps that will not be conducive to shaving. The water gets hot, but not hot enough. I turn it all the way so it’s practically boiling.
The scorching water pelts my skin, the momentary sting of pain feeling good. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. This is something I do occasionally—take a moment under the heat. Once my skin gets used to the temperature, I prop my leg up on the lip of the bathtub so I can shave. When I’m done, I turn off the shower and step out, seeing my pinked skin in the steamed mirror as I secure the thin, white hotel towel around my chest.
At the counter, I take one contact out and pop it in my case. I move on to the next, and it slips off my finger as soon as it’sout of my eye.
“Shit,” I swear, searching the counter and the ground from where I stand. I don’t see it. Annoying thing is, yes, I’ve got the whole deteriorating eye thing going on, but my correctable vision is quite poor as well—which is mostly unrelated. I kneel to get a better look, but still cannot find it.Ugh. How stereotypical. I snatch my glasses from where I had left them on the counter this morning. They’re a thin gold, metal frame with thick lenses. As soon as I put them on, they fog up. I take them off, wipe them on the towel around me, and then try again. Again, they fog. I grunt and stand to crack open the door in an attempt to level out the steam.
My glasses go back on my face as I decide to just wait for them to unfog. I bend over to continue hunting for my lost contact, but misjudge the counter’s edge. The corner of my glasses connects with the counter, slamming them back into my skull.
“Fuck!” I exclaim loudly, hand going to my face as I drop to the floor, eyebrow stinging in pain.
“Linny?” Ben calls out, his voice getting louder as he approaches the bathroom. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I reply, voice cracking. Tears are streaming out of my eyes.
“You’re crying,” Ben says as he pushes his way into the humid bathroom, feet bare and now just in an undershirt and his trousers, eyes widening when he sees me sitting on the floor, wrapped in only my towel, tears freely flowing.
“I’m fine,” I say, voice still strained. “That just really hurt.” He steps toward me, but I say, “Wait!” He pauses, regarding me curiously. “I dropped my contact.”
“You’re bleeding,” he says in response. Of course I am. He nods as he thinks. “Okay. Don’t move. I’ll find your contactfirst.” He searches for a moment, making a sound of triumph when he sees it. “It’s stuck to the side of the counter.” He scoops it up, balancing it on his finger.
