by Reid, Penny
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I took several deep breaths. I went to the invisible closet space in my head and went through the motions of wrapping up the panic in the beach towel, somehow fumbled with the lid of the box, finally found the damn key for the box, and inserted it into the lock. I tried to ignore the shaking of my hands as the pretend me in my head put the box on the top shelf of the closet, quickly turned the light off, and ran screaming from the make-believe closet.
I needed to focus. I really needed to.
I had to get out of here before the mystery person emerged from the bathroom. My memory was drawing a complete blank. I had no idea if the mystery person was a man or a woman. At this moment, I wasn’t sure if I really had a preference in their gender, but I drew some hope from the fact that I saw no discarded monkey suits by the bed or littering the floor.
I raced to the chair, grabbed my dress, and quickly pulled it over my head. It felt just as inadequate in daylight as it had the night before. I shimmied into my shoes just as I heard the water cut off in the bathroom.
“Oh, God.” I couldn’t find my handbag.
My gaze swept over the desk and the chair, but they proved to be purse-free zones. My eyes darted to the brown leather couch and side table—again, no handbag. I tiptoed to the queen mattress and lifted the sheets. The box spring was lying directly on the floor; otherwise, I would have crawled around looking under the bed.
I gave up my search for the bag and instead started hunting around the room for a phone. However, before I could initiate my first sweep, I heard the handle on the bathroom door turn, and I sucked in a sharp breath.
This was it.
This was going to be my second walk of shame in two weeks. I just hoped that whoever was on the other side of the door didn’t insist on a no-eye-contact breakfast. The worst part wasn’t just the fact that my stupidity had resulted in a one-night stand (and maybe a plethora of incurable venereal diseases) or my immediate embarrassment at the situation. It was that Jon and Elizabeth had been right: I needed an escort. I had reclusive tendencies for a reason; I couldn’t be trusted to live in the world and make decisions on my own.
I swallowed again, my hand on my stomach, as I turned to face the door.
When he emerged, I thought I was hallucinating or, at the very least, still passed out from my night of drunken disorderliness. I had to blink several times to understand, and several more times to accept that McHotpants was standing in the doorway, clothed only in a white towel wrapped low around his waist as if it didn’t matter to him whether it stayed in place or pooled on the floor.
I vote for the floor!
Even through the lingering, pounding pain of my hangover, I couldn’t help but gape at the perfection of him, of his bare chest, arms, and stomach. Every part of him looked Photoshopped.
Finally, after what felt like an hour, but what actually might have been four seconds, I realized I’d been staring at not his face and moved my gaze to his eyes. He wasn’t smiling. In fact, his expression wasn’t cool or warm or disgusted or pleased; it was completely unreadable. We stood, watching each other; me with a burning unfamiliar mixture of lust, mortification, and complete astonishment, him with a marble mask of calm. This stalemate lasted for an indeterminable amount of time.
He was the first to break the stare, his eyes moving over my now-clothed form. I shivered involuntarily.
Finally, he removed his attention from me and walked farther into the room, crossing to the bookshelf. “I believe you are looking for this.”
I watched him, how the muscles in his back moved, still struck dumb by his sudden appearance. He easily reached to the top of the bookshelf and retrieved my bag. His bare feet made hardly any noise as he moved to where I stood and handed it to me. I took the offered purse and tucked it under my arm.
“Thank you.” My voice was surprisingly calm given the fact that my brain and heart and lungs and stomach and lady bits were all rioting. I was determined to stay off the seesaw of crazy; I was going to be unaffected by him.
“You’re welcome.” He replied, his eyes skimming over my face. Without warning, he brazenly reached out, pulled a thick puffy tendril from my mass of bedraggled hair, and looped it around his forefinger. “You have a lot of hair.”
Suppressing a swarm of butterflies in my stomach, I nodded and cleared my throat. “Yes. I do.” Before I could stop myself, I continued. “Hair is one of the defining characteristics of mammals.” I quickly bit my lip to keep from telling him that there were only four species of mammals still alive that laid eggs; among them were the platypus and the under-publicized spiny anteater; everyone always forgets about the spiny anteater.
He released the lock of hair and crossed his arms over his chest. “What are the other characteristics of mammals?”
I watched him intently for a minute, about to tell him about sweat glands and ear bones, but then a flash of memory from the previous night penetrated my consciousness. I suddenly felt sure that he was making fun of me. I remembered the absurdity of my innate response to him; I remembered the way my brain and body were in complete discord. I remembered his words to me just before the first time I left the club—that someone like me didn’t belong there. I was determined to remain in control, detached, invulnerable to his glittering physical perfection and soul-baring blue eyes.
I focused on his teasing. I didn’t especially enjoy being teased when I couldn’t be certain of the person’s intentions, so I shrugged. “I don’t know.”
His eyes narrowed for the briefest of moments as he studied me, his mouth curving into a frown; he looked displeased. Then he said, “What do you remember about last night?”
I lifted my chin, gritting my teeth. “I remember you making me leave the club.”
“Can you remember anything after that?” His tone was guarded.
My attention drifted to the left, and I blinked, trying to figure out precisely what I did remember from the previous night. I had been so preoccupied with my hangover and my escape that I hadn’t stopped to think about how I’d ended up in his apartment, in his bed, in my underwear. I was talking as I was thinking, and before I realized it, I said, “Not much. You were there, and I remember leaving the club.”
“Which time?” he interjected.
“With Elizabeth—I left with Elizabeth, and she put me in a taxi. I asked the driver to take me back. When I got back, sunglasses man waved me in; then I…” My eyes lost focus as I tried to pull the memories forward. “When I walked in, I bumped into a man; he said he was looking for me. He…” I cleared my throat and squinted. I felt sure that I had bumped into someone I knew, a man I recognized, but I couldn’t remember his face. “I think someone took me up some stairs; it actually looked like a tree at first, with a tree house in it, but it was a room.”
“The Canopy Room.” Quinn’s voice was matter-of-fact, but a veiled sharpness in his tone brought my attention back to him. He moved his hands to his hips, his blue eyes dark with some unreadable thought. “What else do you remember?”
I studied him for a moment, and my own thoughts, before I continued. “Not much.” I licked my lips. It was the truth; I didn’t remember much. I remembered being offered and then drinking a shot of something that burned, but I couldn’t really make out the size or shape of the room or any of its tangible, physical characteristics. I knew that several people had been present because I remembered hearing them laughing, but I couldn’t remember what they looked like. It was like I walked into the tree-house room and was swallowed up by a black fog.
A sudden thought occurred to me, and I quickly wrapped my arms around my center. “Does that happen a lot? After drinking?”
“What? Losing your memory?” he asked.
“Yes.” I nodded.
“No, not after drinking. When I found you upstairs in the Canopy Room, not long after I thought you’d already left, you were still awake, but you weren’t making any sense, so I carried you out.”
“Wait, y
ou carried me?” My body responded strangely to that information.
He nodded. “Yeah, one of our…” He seemed to struggle for the right words. “One of the club patrons was dancing with you, but you weren’t exactly cooperating so much as critiquing his dance moves. I think someone must have slipped you something.” He surveyed me as though he were carefully studying my reaction, or bracing for a freak-out.
“You mean someone gave me bendothi… bethnzodiath… benzodiazepid…” I huffed, gritted my teeth, took a deep breath, and sounded out the word slowly. “Ben-zo-dia-ze-pines?”
“Yes, I think someone slipped benzodiazepines into whatever you drank up in the Canopy.”
“Oh.” I twisted my mouth to the side and thought about someone giving me a date-rape drug. It seemed far-fetched but not out of the realm of possibility, especially considering my lack of memory. I felt it would be best to be certain. “Do you have any pharmacies nearby?”
Quinn nodded his head. “I imagine you could use some aspirin. There is some in the bathroom.”
“Oh, thanks, but I was thinking I’d pick up a test. Did you know that pharmacies will sell you over-the-counter tests to detect whether you have benzodiazepines in your system?” He lifted his eyebrows in what I interpreted as confusion, so I felt the need to clarify. “It’s a urine test, not a venipuncture.”
He frowned deeply, his tone incredulous. “How do you know this? Has this happened to you before?”
“No, no, I’ve never lost my memory before, and I’m not much of a party/club/bar person. One time my sister spiked my orange juice before the SATs, but that was just vodka; the other time I got drunk was also an accident.”
“The other time? You’ve been drunk two times?” His frown eased, and he blinked at me. I noted again that his eyes were very blue, and his chest was very naked.
I didn’t respond immediately, as I was not really sure what to say, especially because I was feeling mounting discomfort under his bared-chested scrutiny. At last, I shrugged, using a tactic introduced to me by Sandra, the psychiatry intern in my knitting group, and I answered his question with a question. “How many times have you been drunk?”
He smiled faintly. “More than two.” His gaze was inscrutable. I wondered how he could be so comfortable in nothing but a towel in front of a complete stranger. “Do you remember how you got here?” Quinn tilted his head to the side; the movement reminded me of our bar conversation and the way he’d tilted his head last night.
I searched my memory, my head starting to hurt with the effort, before I slowly shook my head. “No, I don’t remember coming here or,” I said, and then swallowed before adding, “or anything else.”
He shifted closer to me, his voice low. “Nothing happened.” My eyes widened, not immediately understanding his meaning. “Nothing happened last night.”
I blinked at him again, opened my mouth to speak, and then closed it again.
Nothing happened.
My eyes moved to his chin then lowered to his chest.
Nothing happened.
Of course, nothing happened.
I licked my lips involuntarily and nodded. “I know.” My voice sounded like a croak.
“Really?” he asked.
I nodded again; my heart twisted painfully in my chest, and I shifted on my feet. I couldn’t meet his eyes. I couldn’t understand my reaction to his statement. Nothing happened. Why did I feel suddenly disappointed when I should have felt nothing but relief? I didn’t understand myself. I should have known that nothing had happened between us as soon as I saw him coming out of the bathroom door. Why did I feel surprised?
Of course, nothing happened. Of course, he wouldn’t be interested in me. Of course, he is ten thousand leagues out of my league.
“How do you know?” he countered, sounding defensive.
I took a step back and tried to run a hand through my hair, but my fingers encountered stubborn tangles again, “I get it, ok? I, uh, I need to get out of here. What time is it?” I turned from him and started walking toward the couch, looking for the front door.
“You don’t look like you believe me. This is my sister’s apartment. I promise; nothing happened between us.” I heard his voice close behind me, and knew he was following me.
I turned to face him, not quite meeting his gaze. “No, I really believe you. I know with certainty that nothing happened.” I added under my breath. “Of course nothing happened.”
He didn’t seem to hear the last part. Quinn came to a stop in front of me again, standing at least several feet away this time. “Good.” He nodded, his hands gripping the towel at his waist. “Let’s go get some breakfast.”
“You want to go get breakfast?” I couldn’t keep the surprise from my tone as I finally met his eyes. He nodded again, and I stammered. “Like—like this?”
He gave me a small sardonic smile. “No, obviously I’ll get some clothes on.”
“But—” I blinked again in confusion. I needed to stop blinking so much. “But, why?”
He shrugged, and before he walked back to the bathroom, he said, “I’m hungry. You need eggs and bacon for that hangover. And, I’m hoping you’ll tell me more about the defining characteristics of mammals. I’m pretty sure you know more than you’ve let on.”
Chapter Six
Giavanni’s Pancake House was an extremely small, open-air eatery with no tables. An L-shaped, waist-high, speckled gray countertop ran the entire length of the establishment, and short, circular stools upholstered with red vinyl were bolted in place on the wooden floor along the counter’s edge.
The place was packed.
A line extended down the block, around the corner, and out of sight. People stood patiently, sipping Dunkin’ Donuts coffee and reading papers as they waited for a spot to eat breakfast. Rather than find the back of the line, Quinn walked up to two conspicuously empty stools at the farthest end of the counter, pulled a RESERVED sign from the top of each seat, and motioned for me to sit on the stool adjacent to the wall.
Before I complied, I asked, “Did you call and make reservations?”
He shook his head no. “Come. Sit,” he said, and he placed his hand on my arm above the elbow and pulled me to the red vinyl seat. “I want to know more about mammals.” His mouth hooked to one side in a poorly hidden smile.
I complied, frowning at him and his teasing.
Before we left the apartment, but after Quinn finished dressing, he suggested I look through his sister’s clothes if I wanted to wear something to breakfast besides my little black club dress. All her personal things were located in a room adjacent to the bathroom, but it was really more like an oversized walk-in closet. I had to walk through the bathroom to get to the closet. I didn’t feel especially comfortable digging through someone else’s things, so I grabbed the first casual outfit I saw: a blue cotton knee-length skirt and a V-neck black T-shirt.
Her feet were a full size smaller, so I wore my zebra print stilettos out to breakfast. Thankfully, the skirt fit perfectly. The shirt, however, was snug over my chest. The strapless bra I wore was surprisingly supportive, but it was also a push-up.
Therefore, paired with the snug fit of the V-neck, my usually well-concealed cleavage was brazenly, visibly ample. I thought about removing the strapless push-up bra, but I was never one of those girls who could go comfortably braless; there was too much jiggle in my wiggle.
I washed my face and used my finger to brush my teeth then paused to look in the mirror. My Northern European mutt-heritage coloring was especially pastel under the bright, fluorescent bathroom light: pale skin that burned instead of tanned, a light smattering of freckles, and red-brown hair, eyebrows, and lashes.
I felt marginally better after the brief ministrations; my hair, however, was a complete disaster. I thought about asking Quinn if his sister owned any hair ties or barrettes or rope or anything I might be able to use to tame the wild beast. In the end, I just wore the fuzzy mess of knots loose down my back, over my shoulde
rs, and at times in my face. I figured that, worst-case scenario, I could use it to cover my ample bosom.
As we walked to the breakfast cafe, however, Quinn brushed it back from my cheeks when it became too unruly, which invariably caused my skin to burn from pale pastel to scarlet, and I would lose all semblance of thought or focus. Directly following these interactions, I prattled on about the concept of leap seconds, nanotechnology, and the inevitable space elevator that would allow the moon to rival Disney World as a tourist destination.
Quinn didn’t talk much but seemed to listen with interest as I expounded on these various and sundry topics. He asked questions periodically; the moon space elevator in particular drew an avalanche of questions. When I didn’t have all the answers, I promised I would email him a link to the NASA update page for the project.
And now here we were, seated quietly at the counter. I was trapped between him and the wall, and stared at the menu without seeing it. Maybe it was the fact that I was silent for the first time since leaving the apartment, but I found myself attempting to ignore the sudden, uncomfortable, yet omnipresent self-awareness that was alternatively giving me goose bumps and making my neck hot.
His thigh brushed against mine; his elbow grazed mine lightly. I leaned against the wall to gain as much distance as possible, but I couldn’t avoid the small touches in the tight space. I glanced at him from the corner of my eyes; he appeared completely at ease, studying his menu, oblivious to the gentle torture his careless closeness was causing. I was so absorbed in my discomfort that when the waitress spoke to me, I was visibly startled.
“Hey-ya, Quinn. Where’s Shelly? Who’s yer friend?” A short, dark-haired woman in her late fifties or early sixties gave me a brief, friendly smile as she placed two mugs of coffee in front of us. She had the unmistakable rasp of a smoker, and, paired with her thick Midwest accent, she sounded like Mike Ditka.
