Page 37 of The Bodyguard Affair
Another pause. “Okay, but the pajamas I brought are hideous.”
“Andi, I’m not going to judge you on your pajamas. And I bet you they aren’t even ugly.”
“They are.”
“Well, I don’t care if they are. It’s not like you need to impress me,” I remind her. It feels weird to say that, but it’s true. The woman would look good in a brown paper bag. I consider saying that, but it feels like an overstep for our very, very new friendship.
Her sigh is audible from behind the door. “Can you turn the lights out and close your eyes?”
“Fine.” I sit up and turn the lamp off. “Lights are off. Eyes are closed. It’s safe to come out.”
A couple seconds pass before she opens the door. I can hear her footsteps shuffling to the bed, and I crack my eyes open, just a little, catching a blur of red before she dive-bombs under the covers. Her pajamas aren’t nearly as bad as she claims. They’re an old, oversized T-shirt with a logo I couldn’t make out, with an old pair of sweatshorts. She looks like the Michelin Man, wrapped in that puffy white duvet. It’s pretty adorable, actually. “They aren’t ugly, by the way.”
She gasps and tosses a pillow down at me. “You were supposed to close your eyes!”
“I know. I’m sorry. You made such a big deal about them being hideous, I had to see for myself.”
“What if I’d been entirely naked?”
“I’ve basically already seen you naked, so…” I say honestly. The words hang between us in a thick, lingering silence. Shit. She isn’t responding. Not that I blame her. I promised I wouldn’t bring up that night. Why am I the way I am? The panic sets in and I scramble to fix it.
“Not that it really counts. I don’t remember it—you. Your body. Naked.” I press my pillow to my face to stop more words from coming out of my mouth. It’s a total lie, of course. I’ve thought about her so much over the years, the image of her in front of me, topless on the dresser, is permanently tattooed onto my brain, stored with my oldest formative memories. I’ve never wanted to punch myself in the face more.
“Right,” she says, tone laced with what sounds like relief. “It was a long time ago.”
It’s quiet again for a few beats, and I lie there, staring into the dark, debating whether to just flop onto my other side and go to sleep. We both have a packed day ahead of us. But after so many years of wishing for one more moment with this woman, just to talk, it feels ridiculous not to take advantage of any time I get with her. There’s so much more I want to know.
“Hey, so I was thinking, if we’re going to be a believable couple, we should know some basics about each other. In case people ask questions,” I add pathetically.
“Good thinking.”
“Ask me anything. Question for question?”
We go back and forth, getting the basics out of the way, likeour ages (she’s twenty-eight, I’m thirty-one), coffee orders (black for me, vanilla latte for her). She’s from Toronto (though her mom now lives in Oakville), while I’m from all over the general Ottawa area. She loves it here, whereas I’ve been desperate to leave since I was a kid.
“Favorite music?” she asks.
“I’ll listen to anything, except country,” I note.
“Do you like Nickelback?”
“It disturbs me that the lead singer is namedChad, but yes, I’m a fan,” I reply without hesitation.
Her eyes cut to me. “Shut up.”
I shoot upward from my makeshift bed. “Do not tell me you’re a hater.”
“They’re just not my thing.”
“I bet you know all their songs,” I wager.
“I do know that one…Never made it as a wise man,” she sings, entirely off-key, before snickering to herself.
I smack the edge of the mattress, vindicated. “See? Admit it. ‘How You Remind Me’ is a banger.”
“Okay. Fine. It’s a banger. But don’t tell anyone I said that.” The mattress shakes above with her giggle and it’s fucking adorable.
“Wouldn’t dream of damaging that hard street cred of yours,” I assure. “Favorite candy?”
