Page 36 of Afterglow
Bruised, Naked and Tangled
Behraz
Leaveit to me to ruin a practically perfect date.
Fletcher held my hand. I got splattered with sludge, but still. He held my hand. And it made me so nervous, my stomach couldn’t handle it. I almost soil myself before booking it to the washroom and nearly destroy the toilet.
A steamy shower does wash away the grime and relaxes me a bit, but when I turn off the water and slide open the glass, this particular shit smells so awful, I need to close the toilet lid. My two left feet slip when I lean over to do so, and I fall right out of the tub. In a split second, one knee lands on the shower door’s track, the other knee hitting the drying mat as my shoulder slams into the glass edge of the shower panel. My elbow hits the toilet seat while trying to reach for anything that will stabilize me. Instead, what I grab is the flush handle, and the toilet water swirls down what’s left of my dignity as my head slaps against the back wall, dangerously close to the toilet brush handle sticking out of its holder.
That’s gonna leave a mark.
I’m bruised, naked, and tangled, but manage to pull the towel from the bar across the shower door. I wait a few minutes to stand on my own, but ultimately give up. There’s no way he didn’t hear that. “Fletcher?”
A knock raps on the door. “You okay?”
“Not exactly.”
“Are you hurt?”
“Only my dignity. And other things.”
“Is it okay if I unlock it?”
“Yes. No, wait!” I warn. “I’m not wearing anything. Keep your eyes closed.”
The door swings open, and Fletcher blindly walks in with his arms extended in front of him, feeling out the air. “How am I supposed to help you if I can’t see you?” He peeks through one eye at my curled form by the toilet.
I clutch the corner of the terry cloth, hoping it covers enough of me.
“Oh, Bea.”
Somehow, he simultaneously wraps me in the towel and picks me up until I’m sitting on the toilet lid. I rub the sore spot on my forehead.
Fletcher inspects it with a grimace. “That might leave a bump.”
My hands tighten around the overlapping flaps of the towel wrapped around my chest.
His throat swallows audibly. “Do you…do you have any clothes in here?”
“There’s a shirt on the back of the door.”
He grabs it and slips it over my head without looking, helping my arms through the sleeves.
Then he blinks three times. “That’s my jersey.”
“Yeah.”
Don’t make a big deal of it. He’ll think you’re a weirdo. But youarea weirdo.
“Do you mind? I need to put on…something under this.”
Flustered and red, he exits the washroom.
I slip on a pair of soft pajama shorts and hang up the towel, using the sink for support before reopening the door.
Fletcher waits at the foot of my bed. “You wear my jersey?”
“Why the face? I happen to think I look pretty good in it, don’t you?” I hobble and pivot on the leg that hurts less, turning to show him the back. “Do you like it?”
