Better

by Carey Heywood

  I make my way to baggage claim, and I have no trouble finding my giant suitcase. There’s a queue for taxicabs right outside. I’m on my way to Adam’s apartment in no time. As we flow through traffic, I feel a sense of pride bloom within me. I realize that even though I’m still in the States, I have managed to deal with a change in plans easily, and I am on my way to where I need to be by myself.

  The cab pulls up in front of a six-story brick apartment building. I glance up and down the street. It’s congested. I can’t imagine trying to find a parking spot, but then I remember my mom said that Adam doesn’t have a car. The cab driver pulls my suitcase from the trunk and leaves before I can thank him.

  The main door to the building has a buzzer-type system to it. Adam’s neighbor, Mr. Wiltshire, buzzes me in. I heft my suitcase up four flights of stairs. Mr. Wiltshire is there, waiting for me with the key. I thank him, and once I have Adam’s door open, I practically fall into his apartment.

  Once the door is locked behind me, I take a look around, mainly in search of a bathroom. The apartment is small, studio-style. I’m curious where I’m supposed to sleep tonight.

  His style is minimalist. It makes sense, given how small the place is. I can’t ignore the photos on his walls. The wall behind his sofa has exposed brick, and the photos are wire-mounted in brushed nickel frames. They’re black-and-white photos of mountains, lakes, and lighthouses. There are also a series of objects—doorknobs, hinges, and rivets—in extreme close-up.

  I linger at each one, captivated, until my stomach grumbles. I’m poking around his kitchen when he walks in with dinner in hand. I blush, closing the cabinet I was looking in, and I wave. My mouth drops when I see him. He really should update his avi because covering that face with a camera should be a crime.

  He sets bags of takeout on the coffee table. “You must be Aubrey,” he says, reaching out his hand.

  I gulp when his hand folds around mine. He’s tall with a lanky build and light brown hair that falls into his gray eyes. I repress the urge to reach up and run my fingers through his hair. My stomach clenches, an uncontrolled physical reaction to him.

  I haven’t had or even thought about sex in years. One glance at Adam at my body seemed to be waking from some sort of hibernation.

  My hand is still in his. He seems to be appraising me. My free hand automatically moves to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. I’m wearing jeans and a black T-shirt. I’m suddenly wishing I were wearing something cuter. He drops my hand, and I push it into my pocket.

  “Italian good? I picked up some chicken alfredo on the way.”

  I cringe. I hate alfredo sauce, but I don’t want to be rude. He didn’t know.

  “Maybe just a little bit.” I sigh, and then I close my eyes and pray he did not just hear the dying whale sound my stomach just made.

  I smell garlic and hope that means there are breadsticks. He reaches up, leaning into me, to open the cabinet behind me. I hold my breath as he pulls down two plates.

  God, why did he have to get alfredo?

  I follow him to the couch and watch as he spoons a ridiculous amount onto my plate.

  Once both plates are ready, he looks up at me. “What do you want to drink? I have some beer or soda.”

  “Um…” I push the noodles around on my plate, trying not to gag. “Soda is good.”

  While he pours me a glass, I devour a breadstick. Part of me wants to ask if he has a strainer. I don’t mind noodles, and if I can rinse the sauce off of them, I know I can eat it. I stab one noodle with my fork and attempt to wipe some of the sauce off by rubbing it against the plate before lifting it to my mouth. There is something about the smell that turns my stomach. Short of pinching my nose for each bite, I don’t think I’ll be able to eat any of it.

  He’s walking back over with my drink. I can’t look him in the eye.

  “I’m so sorry. I hate to do this, but do you have anything else I could eat?”

  I cringe and look up at him. His hand is suspended, midair, reaching out to pass me my drink. He licks his bottom lip and leans down to set my drink next to me before straightening back up.

  “Something wrong with the alfredo?” He tilts his head, waiting for my response.

  “I just…I don’t know why, but I’m a picky eater. There’s something about the sauce. If you don’t have anything else…” I think of his near empty cabinets. “If you have a strainer, I can still eat the noodles.”

  “I can go and get you something else.” He sounds pissed.

  “No, don’t. I’m fine. I wasn’t even that hungry.”

  He lifts a brow at me and smirks as my stomach chooses that moment to growl.

  “I don’t want to put you out. Please, if you have a strainer, I can still eat the noodles,” I plead.

  He reaches down, lifting my plate, and sets it on his kitchen counter. I want to disappear as I watch him strain my noodles.

  He looks over his shoulder at me. “Do you want any kind of sauce?”

  “Plain is good. Thank you.”

  He gives the noodles one final shake before dumping them back on my plate. He looks beyond annoyed when he sets the plate back in front of me.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s fine,” he mumbles while opening a beer.

  I focus on eating the food in front of me. I’m starving. I can’t believe I tried to tell him otherwise.

  “So, is there a lot of stuff you don’t eat? That could be an issue while traveling.”

  I gulp down the bite I’m working on. “I don’t like seafood, and I just like plain stuff.”

  His jaw drops. “No seafood?”

  I nod.

  “No fish, shrimp, sushi, lobster? None?”

  I hate these questions. I don’t understand why it bothers people that I don’t eat certain kinds of food. It’s not like I have an issue with people eating stuff I don’t like.

  I reply with my canned response, “If it comes from the sea, it’s not for me.”

  “You’re missing out.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion,” I snap.

  He shrugs, taking a long pull from his bottle. When I’ve finished, he takes my plate. I offer to wash it, but he shakes his head and does it himself. I want to ask what our sleeping arrangements will be, but I feel awkward bringing it up. I wonder if my dad would have booked me a hotel room if he had known Adam lived in a studio.

  “Do you shower at night or in the morning?” he asks, walking back over.

  I look over at him, confused. “Morning. Is that okay?”

  “We have to get up early. I was going to shower tonight to save time.”

  “Oh, I can take a shower tonight. I just normally like to shower in the morning. It helps me wake up.” I don’t know why I told him that.

  He turns and leans against the counter with his arms crossed in front of him. “What other things wake you up?” he teases.

  I furrow my brow. “Caffeine, I guess.”

  He smirks. “I’m sure that can be arranged.”

  I clear my throat. “Not to change the subject, but where am I sleeping tonight?”

  The sofa seems like the only logical answer, but there’s only one, and if it’s his bed…

  I feel my cheeks redden just at the thought of sitting on what might be his bed.

  One side of his mouth pulls up into a half smile. I don’t like how looking at his mouth makes me feel. This trip is supposed to be about finding myself, not lusting after my babysitter.

  “You’re sleeping with me tonight.”

  Did he just say that?

  “No, I’m not,” I stammer.

  He grins, pushing himself off the counter, and he walks toward me. I feel myself sinking into the sofa, trying to further the distance between us. When he gets to the coffee table, he pulls it to the side, closer to the door. There is nothing blocking him from me now. My mouth drops. He turns and opens double doors of what looks like an entertainment center. I exhale when I see it’s a Murphy bed.<
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  He grins at me. “Which do you want—sofa or bed?”

  The idea of sleeping in his bed, laying my head on his pillow, surrounded by his scent excites me. I gulp. “Either is fine.”

  He nods. “Won’t eat seafood but has no problem sleeping on a lumpy couch. Interesting.”

  I roll my eyes at the seafood dig.

  “Can’t even get you to try fish and chips while we’re in England?”

  I meet his eyes and smile sweetly. “Sure. Just hold the fish.”

  He closes the doors to the bed and sits back down next to me. He picks up his beer to take another swig. “Seriously, when was the last time you tried seafood?”

  There seems to be two types of people in the world. There are people who, when told I don’t eat certain kinds of food, accept it and never mention it again. Then, there are people who cannot let it go, who will say that if I try their salmon dish or shrimp-something that I will love it.

  I shake my head. “Can you just let it go?”

  He shrugs, turning his attention toward my suitcase. “All right, open her up. Let’s see what you have.”

  “Huh?”

  “This is your first trip overseas, right?”

  I nod.

  “I want to make sure you haven’t forgotten anything.”

  My mouth drops. “I’m fine. Thanks.”

  What does he think I am, some little kid? I push the picture of my mom helping me pack out of my mind. I’ve only read every travel guide known to man in the last three months. I’m probably better packed than he is. Besides, I don’t want him seeing my underwear or my stockpile of tampons.

  He nods, lifting his hands. “Only trying to help.”

  I wrinkle my nose.

  He stands, walking over to the fridge and grabs another beer. “If you don’t want my help, that’s cool.”

  “I’m fine. Thanks for the offer.”

  On his way back to the couch, he pauses by my bag to lift it. I start to say something, but he puts it back down before I can.

  “Have you weighed it already?”

  I nod. “It’s under fifty pounds.”

  As he sits he’s looking at it, not me. He smiles and tips his drink back. I watch his throat move as he swallows. I gulp. He glances over at me. I look away, picking up my soda, and I take a sip.

  He leans back, stretching his arm across the back of the couch, his body facing me. “So, other than the eating stuff, what should I know about you?”

  I tilt my head to the side. “What do you mean?”

  He smirks. “What do you want out of this trip?”

  I look down at my hands and randomly pick at the remnants of my last nail polish job. “I’m—”

  His phone rings, interrupting me. He looks down at the screen before standing. “I have to take this,” he says, walking to the door.

  I’m alone in his apartment. His call is important enough to take in the hallway. The stairwell amplifies his voice. I can almost hear every word he’s saying. I stand, moving over to my suitcase that is closer to the door, to listen in.

  “I’m leaving the keys with Mr. Wiltshire. Yeah, we leave tomorrow morning.”

  There’s a pause, and I hear his footsteps. It sounds like he’s pacing.

  “Some girl.” There’s a pause. “Yeah, she’s never even been outside of the U.S. Hopefully, she won’t slow me down. All I know is that her parents are paying.” Another pause. “She’s probably spoiled.”

  My heart stops. Is he talking about me? I blink away the sting I feel in my eyes. I can’t believe he just said that. He doesn’t even know me. How alone I feel in that moment hits me. I wish I could talk to Ally. She would know what to do. A tear slides down my cheek, and I push it away with the back of my hand.

  With my pale skin, it’s impossible to hide when I cry. My eyes get puffy, and my face gets splotchy. I pull out my toiletry bag, a travel one with a built-in hook to hang on the back of a door. I march over to the door and crack it.

  “Hang on a sec,” he says into the phone.

  “I’m going to take my shower,” I huff. Then, I close the door before he has a chance to respond.

  I don’t need him, I think to myself, taking my toiletry bag and some clothes to sleep in as I head to the bathroom.

  There is a shelf with clean towels in the corner of the bathroom. I grab one and set it on the toilet before I start the shower and hang my bag from a hook on the back of the bathroom door. His bathroom doesn’t have a fan or a window to vent the steam. I quickly undress and step under the spray. I like my showers hot, borderline scalding. It takes a minute to get used to, but then it feels heavenly.

  I use some of Adam’s shampoo, not wanting to waste any of mine. He has plain old Head & Shoulders 2-in-1. His soap is Irish Spring. I lather my washcloth, holding it up to my nose and inhaling before washing myself.

  It feels weird, showering in a boy’s bathroom. I might be more excited about it if I hadn’t just heard him call me spoiled. It still feels fun to touch his things. He has a razor and shaving cream in here. Using my own razor, I borrow some cream to touch up my legs and bikini line. As I rinse the shampoo out of my hair, I wonder more about Adam. Does he ever jerk off in here? It makes me feel warm, just thinking about it.

  I turn off the water and towel off. I pull on an old T-shirt and shorts to sleep in before wrapping the towel around my head. I crack the door to let the steam out, and I jump when Adam pulls it open the rest of the way.

  “Any hot water left?” he asks, batting away some steam in front of him.

  I shrug and reach past him to grab my toothbrush from my bag. He doesn’t move, and my arm grazes his shoulder. He unnerves me. I’m annoyed at myself for still being attracted to him even after hearing what he said about me. Just because he looks good doesn’t mean he’s a nice person.

  I want to seem unaffected, so I pointedly ignore him. I use his toothpaste, not wanting to reach past him again. He leans against the doorframe and watches me brush my teeth. I do it as neatly as possible. Then, I rinse my mouth daintily instead of just spitting like I would if he wasn’t watching me.

  I unwrap the towel from my head and use it to squeeze any excess water I can from my hair. When my hair was long, it was a production to brush, dry, and add leave in conditioner to it. My hair is short enough now that I don’t have to brush it.

  The steam clears from the mirror. I lean forward to part my hair with my fingers, sweeping my long bangs to the side. I didn’t want to be the first to say anything, but I’m running out of things to do, and he’s still just standing there.

  I sigh. “Let me get out of your way.”

  His mouth twitches. There’s a long pause where we’re just standing there, staring at each other, before he nods. I turn and drape my towel over the rod. I grab my dirty clothes, leaving my other things where they are, so I can use them in the morning.

  He steps back to let me pass, but his apartment is so tight that I’m still almost chest-to-chest with him. Part of me wishes I had put on a sports bra. Moving past him without one on leaves me feeling exposed.

  I have an interior travel bag just for socks and undies. I leave my jeans out, deciding I’ll just wear them again tomorrow. The shirt I wore today is fine to be worn again, just on another day. Rule number one in traveling around the world is that clothes can go multiple wears between washes. I refold and pack it. I pull out a simple gray long-sleeved shirt since it’ll probably be cold on the plane. I also have a black scarf in my carry-on that can double as a light mini blanket.

  The breath that I hadn’t realized I was holding escapes when I hear the shower turn on. I sag back against the sofa, noticing that Adam has already put sheets and a blanket on it. The idea of already being in bed and asleep, whether I’m faking it or not, is a welcome one.

  I sit back up and rummage through my bag in search of a bottle of lotion. It’s institutional-sized. My skin is on the dry side normally, and traveling only makes it worse. It’s an old habit to sm
ooth some on after my shower. My mom even found this travel-safe bottle for it from a catalog. The lid resembles a childproof cover from a pill bottle.

  I haven’t gotten the trick down yet to open it without trying a couple of times. Maybe if I hadn’t been fighting with it, I would have noticed that the shower stopped. Instead, as I’m smoothing lotion over my legs, I feel the hairs on the back of my neck prick up with the sensation that I’m being watched.

  I’m sitting on the sofa, and my back is toward the bathroom door. It finally dawns on me that I can’t hear the shower anymore. My body stills. I want to turn my head. I know he is somewhere behind me, but I need to finish rubbing the lotion in, or I run the risk of having goopy legs. So, I ignore him and finish rubbing the lotion on my legs before I put some on my arms.

  I can hear him moving around—a closet door opens, the sound of a drawer, and the rustle of clothes. I’m thankful my back is toward him when I feel my face redden.

  “Why is your neck all red?”

  Shit. Damn fair skin. If my hair were still long, he wouldn’t have been able to see that.

  “It is?” I hedge, turning to face him.

  Damn. My tongue suddenly feels too small for my mouth. I have to resist the urge to let it hang out while I pant.

  Adam, still damp from his shower, is standing by a closet next to the front door. He’s not wearing a shirt, and I’m finding it impossible to not stare at his chest. He’s beautiful. It’s impossible to ignore the definition of his muscles so clear on his lightly tanned skin.

  There’s a ceiling light behind him that catches the tiny beads of water clinging to the tips of his hair, giving him a strange halo. It also makes it hard to see the expression on his face. I watch, transfixed, as one bead of water expands and then falls from his hair to the top of his shoulder.

  I don’t even know him, and I want to lick it off of him. I gulp and turn away, fiddling with the cap of my lotion bottle until it is on right. It doesn’t help that my fingers are still slick.