He opened his eyes and took in the sight of me with a look I could really only describe as blissed out.
“Come on, man! You’re going to get me fired!” I stepped to the bathroom to run the shower, and when I came back in, he was just standing there, again, still, totally naked, fumbling for his pants. “Oh my God,” I said, slapping my hand over my eyes. “You’re so naked.”
“That tends to happen when you take off your clothes.”
I peeked through my fingers. “Do you want to know how many naked men I’ve had in this room?”
“Not really.”
“Zero!”
“Until today.”
“Until today.”
“You’re naked, too,” he pointed out as he buckled his pants. “Under that blanket.”
“We’re going to be late,” I said, back to business, “both of us, at the same time. They’ll totally know what happened.”
“They will not. I have a legendary poker face.”
“I don’t!” I was panting just a little. “Neither of us is ever late! Both of us late—together? We’re screwed.”
“Don’t panic,” he insisted, all chill. “I’ll text the captain. I’ll tell him your car broke down and I’m giving you a ride.”
Actually, that was a good idea.
Plausible, at any rate.
“Go take your shower,” he said then. “I’ll make coffee.” I started to turn, but then he said, “Wait! One quick thing!”
And then he was beside me, no shirt, no shoes, and he was wrapping his arms around me and the blanket. He pressed his face into my hair at the crook of my neck. “Thank you,” he said then. “For everything.”
THE GUYS DIDnot suspect us.
If they had, they would have teased us mercilessly. I waited for it all day, but it never happened.
So I just did what I do best: ignored the rookie and did my job.
It was a week before Owen would have a chance to talk to his dad, so we’d have at least two full shifts of doing this before anything changed. Whatever “this” was. It wasn’t dating, that was for sure. I’d forbidden him to come near me again until this whole situation was resolved. I guess we were just keeping a shared secret. Or maybe nurturing a mutual crush. Or having flashbacks—luxurious, shocking, delicious flashbacks—of that glorious night in my attic room and the way the breeze had ruffled the pom-pom curtains.
Or maybe quietly, without even doing anything at all, we were just making each other happy.
It was weird to feel happy—especially when there was so much trouble and sorrow around us. But I just couldn’t seem to help it.
So I let it be what it was. I let it alter my experience of being on shift in ways that didn’t matter and ways that did. I was supposed to be a robot, but I’d become the opposite of that. Instead of metal and machinery inside my rib cage, it was music and motion and color. It was grief about my mother, and euphoria about Owen, and hope for the future and regret for the past—all swirling together in some relentless symphony.
Distracting.
I wasn’t sure it made me bad at my job, though.
If anything, it seemed to make me better—more committed, more alert. More alive.
It wasn’t easier. It was harder.
But it was better.
I made it through a whole week like that, trying to let everything that had happened soak in and start making sense in my head. It did and it didn’t, and my mom insisted that was okay. That’s just how the heart worked, she said—more in circles than straight lines.
