“Mom?” I call out, before spotting her outside on the back lawn, talking on the phone as the sun sets behind her. I head upstairs with my tote bag still over my shoulder. The huge house is silent as I walk up the steps and down the hallway. Nate must still be at his internship. My mom told me he got one at some think tank downtown.
I drop my bag as I walk into my bedroom and push the door almost closed behind me with my foot. I can't wait to get this skirt off. It's my one pencil skirt, and it's a little itchy around my waist.
I step into the bathroom and turn on the elegant faucet in the sink. I tie my hair behind my head with a loose elastic and splash some cool water on my skin. First days are always exhausting, but I think today was unusually so. As I look back up to my reflection, dripping with water, I see something move in the mirror. I stare at it blankly, not understanding what I'm seeing. The mirror above the sink is reflecting the mirror above my vanity in the bedroom, which is in turn reflecting an image from my partially open bedroom door. It's Nate, I realize. He's standing outside my door, and he doesn't realize I can see him.
I look down at the sink, pretending to watch the last of the water as it swirls down the drain. A shiver of excitement runs through me at the idea that Nate could actually be interested in me—I mean, he's there, right now, watching me. Before I process what I'm doing, before I can think of all the reasons not to, I slowly move my hands to my lower back and undo the clasp at the top of the zipper, then unzip my skirt. I let it fall in a pile at my feet, then step out of it. I look up carefully and Nate is still there in the double reflection.
Allison's warning echoes through my mind but I keep going. I feel high, high on the feeling that I'm actually desired. I catch hold of the back of my rather shapeless blouse in my hands and pull it up over my head, then toss it onto the floor. As I look back in the mirror, I try to imagine what someone else might see when they look at me, without my constant negative interior monologue telling me nasty things about myself. Do I have the kind of body that someone like Nate could find attractive?
Now down to my bra and underwear, I begin to feel nervous, but I reach up to unclasp my bra. I feel the straps loosen on my shoulders and bring my hands forward to catch it as it falls.
“Brynn? You home?” I hear my mom call from the foyer. I freeze, holding the bra against my breasts. I glance up. Nate is gone.
“Yup, I'm home!” I yell back.
“I saw your shoes! I'm coming up—I want to hear all about your first day.” I hear her footsteps on the staircase and hurriedly refasten my bra. Nothing like your mom's voice to kill your libido.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The next couple weeks of my new life seem to pass rather quickly, mostly due to the fact that Nate is always out with his friends after work, and our run-ins have been few and far between. I've settled into a routine of sorts, even if I still don't feel like I'm at home here.
I’d gone to bed early last night, with the intention of sleeping in this morning before visiting museums with Allison later in the day. However a loud noise from downstairs awakens me—I stare bleary eyed at my alarm clock, it’s only 6:15am. Who'd be awake this early on a Saturday morning?
I get out of bed and tiptoe to my door. I open it a little and hear something shuffling around downstairs. I tiptoe out into the hallway and see everyone’s bedroom doors are closed. I know there's an alarm system—I had to memorize the passcode. Maybe an ungainly mouse is exploring? I creep down the staircase and through the dining room. The noises sounded like they were coming from the kitchen. The swinging door is open, and I peak my head around it, my heartbeat blasting in my ears.
Suddenly, Nate steps out in front of me.
“Fuck!” he exclaims, and I jump back, startled.
“Oh, god, I thought you were a burglar.”
“Then you should have called 911,” he retorts brusquely, turning his back to me and walking to the island.
“Well, you should be glad I didn't.” Sheesh, does he have to find something wrong with everything I say? “What are you doing up so early anyway?”
“I was just working out.”
“Wow. This early?” I ask, moving around him. He's fiddling with something in front of him.
“Yeah, every morning. I need to stay in shape during the off-season.”
“I'd be exhausted if—” I break off, as I see blood dripping from his palms onto the granite countertop. “Oh my god, you're bleeding!” I gasp.
“Yeah, I just can't get this fucking tape to…” he struggles to wind a bandage around his palm.
“Let me,” I say, spying a first aid kit on the counter by the window. From the blood smeared on it, I can see Nate's already gone through it.
“You don't have to,” he protests.
“Come over here. The light's better,” I instruct him.
“Do you know what you're doing?” he asks, less than thrilled to accept my help.
“More than you,” I reply with a smile, nodding at the mess of tape around his palm. I wash my hands in the sink and then open up the kit. I take a pair of surgical scissors and cut off the tape that he's already applied. I glance up slightly, and for the first time it hits me that he's shirtless, wearing only a pair of gym shorts and sneakers. He's covered in sweat. “How'd this happen?”
“I over-trained a little. Got dizzy, tripped on a rock and held out my hands to break my fall,” he replies, eyes downcast as he watches me work.
“Over-training for what? Lacrosse or crew?” I ask as I pull out a piece of gauze and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide.
“Both. Either,” he murmurs.
“This is going to sting,” I warn him, as I pat the gashes on his hands with the soaked gauze. He hisses slightly as the liquid stings him, but doesn't move. I slide my other hand under his, to stabilize it as I cleanse the wound of dirt. I've never touched him this long before. “Other hand.” He switches hands and I go to work cleaning the other one. “Maybe you should take a little time off from training,” I suggest quietly.
“Or I could just work out my leg muscles,” he says, and I look up to see a wry grin on his face.
“Mmm,” I murmur, smiling too. “You know,” I go on, a bit more bravely, “I heard that only one varsity athlete got a Lawn Room, because sports are such a time commitment, much less a two-sport athlete—”
“Don't do that,” he grunts. “I don't want your pity.”
“It's not pity, it's facts.”