Page 31 of Jump

Groaning in the back of my throat, I open my eyes again… but I lie impossibly still when I catch movement in the hall.

Her bare feet, padding along the hardwood floor. Her scent, soft perfume and sweet lilacs, filtering into my room as she comes closer.

Since I kind of expect her to move into hers, my stomach dips when it’s the bathroom door that closes. When the light from the ceiling heater flickers on and passes through the gap at the bottom of the door. Then the water starts.

She’s preparing to shower after a long day. Peeling away the shapeless hoodie she shrouds herself in for eighteen hours of every twenty-four. Slipping out of her sweats, and tossing the fabric that smells of dogs and dirt and dry food into the hamper, which she’ll eventually sneak off to the laundry room, the way I do, and take care of as she hides out for two hours like it’s entirely normal for a person to avoid their housemate.

The creak of the shower stall door echoes into the hall, then the pattern of water hitting tiles changes as she steps under the stream and interrupts its flow.

Taking this moment for the opportunity it is, I jump out of bed while she’s otherwise occupied, and dash into the hall.

My feet stick to and release from the hardwood floors with every step, but I emerge into the living room to find the television still on. An empty glass on the table. The remote on the arm of the sofa.

“Oh!” A gasp. “Shit. Sorry.”

I spin and catch sight of Vivian in her towel, her hair dripping, and water beading on her bare shoulders. Her cheeks burn a fiery red, and her hands clutch at her towel like she worries it’ll fall.

Though we both know turning away changes nothing, she still does so. She steals from me the view of her front, and gives me her back.

“I’m so sorry!” Her voice is pitchy and loud. Nervous and strained. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I knew you were in bed. I was going to get in the shower, then I remembered the TV was still on, so I just…” she squirms on her feet and glances over her shoulder to study me.

And while she panics, I merely look. I drop my hands into my pockets and rock my weight back on my heels.

For the first time since our night together, I get a glimpse of her body. Her long legs, muscular at her thighs, which is surely a result of her physical job. Her shoulders, delicate and perfect. Her collarbones, sticking forward, not because she’s scarily thin, but because of her awkward stance while she fights with her towel to maintain coverage.

She swallows so hard, I see the movement of her throat, and when a long, moist lock of hair dangles across her face, she reaches up and shoves it back. “I’m sorry,” she repeats. “You can have the living room. Watch whatever you want.”

“I just wanted a snack.” I chew on the inside of my cheek and loathe the way Ainsley grins in the back of my mind. I can hear her playful laughter. Her teasing banter.

If she was here today, watching this shit, she’d call me an idiot for being so awkward. I never said you can’t look at other women, Matt. That’s your own issue. That’s your self-imposed guilt.

“I’m heading back to my room in a sec,” I tell Vivian. “Then the place is all yours again.”

“Okay, well…” She practically tiptoes her way through anxiety. Coming. Going. Unsure of what the hell she should do, because I remain silent, she simply nods her acquiescence and mumbles, “Alright.” Then she darts back into the hall, leaving the TV running, and depositing wet footprints on the floor as she passes.

Finally, she slams the bathroom door shut so the sound likely echoes into the neighbor’s apartment. And just like that, she’s gone again, and I get to continue my existence in isolation.

I live with someone, but I may as well reside in a cave in the hills, hundreds of miles from civilization.

Shaking my head and turning on my heels when I’m reasonably sure she’s not coming back, I grab a shaker cup from the cupboard, and a bag of protein powder from another. I pour water into my cup and drop two scoops of powder in after. Then tossing everything away, I screw the lid on and start shaking the contents as I cross back into the living room.

I check the window to make sure it’s closed, then switch the television off as I pass. I double-check the front door is locked and, sipping my drink, wander back into the hall. Past the bathroom door, and into my room.

I don’t peek into hers, no matter how tempting the idea. I don’t push my nose into the air and take a sniff, though I’m desperate to. Instead, I set my shaker cup on the nightstand and flop back onto my bed.

Because this is my life. Existing in this one small space, thirteen feet one way, and thirteen feet the other. I live amongst dumbbells and weight bars, because I’d prefer to sweat in here than use the makeshift gym we have at the firehouse. And I don’t want to go to one of the facilities in town and risk making friends. So I lift in here, and leave my windows open to make sure I don’t stink up the entire apartment.

It’s the polite thing to do.

Ten minutes pass in silence but for the rushing water of the shower. For the soft hum of a woman who likes a little noise while she rinses the soap off her body. Outside the complex, vehicles come and go. The sirens of a cop car carry through the air, but it’s not my problem. Not my issue.

Until we’re back on shift, whatever emergencies are happening out there have nothing to do with me or my crew.

So lying back and closing my eyes once more, I search for some kind of zen. A place of relaxation where I’m not picturing Vivian just ten feet away, naked and wet and, in some faraway world, beckoning me to join her.

But when the shower stops, and a minute later, the door opens so the heated scent of sweet flowers races into the hall, I fail miserably in my task and groan deep in the back of my throat.

Pressing my eyes and lips shut, I refuse the temptation of taking a look at a woman who doesn’t particularly want to be seen.

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