He doesn't appear surprised or upset by my hasty entrance. There's no embarrassment at being caught half-naked, nor does he preen for me. I have no idea what he's thinking, as usual.
"I'll be done in a couple of minutes." He moves toward the shower.
I try not to notice the pull of muscles in his bicep or the curve of his backside in that towel when he leans to reach the handles to turn on the water.
"Okay." I want to ask if I can just watch him do whatever he’s in the middle of doing because, damn, it's about to smell like soap and shaving cream and all sorts of manliness in here, and I can't seem to bring myself to walk out. His arms are a sculptural delight and bracing my hands on his chest as I straddle those hips would feel—
He cuts his intense brown eyes toward me and says, "Nice shirt."
I look down at my oversized gray Yankees tee that covers me to about five inches above my knees. It's from their 2009 championship season and tiny holes are beginning to wear in the shoulders. The mention of what I'm wearing breaks me from my horny fixation on his body.
"Right, you hate the Yankees."
"No offense. You must be used to it. They're the most reviled team in baseball." He looks me up and down in a way that could be arousal or loathing. I check his towel. Hmmm, maybe a bit of both.
"People hate us because we win all the time. They're just jealous."
"I think you've summed it up nicely. Now can I get back to my..." He gestures toward the shower, but I'm not finished with him yet.
"What do you mean?"
"That attitude. That's the reason people hate the Yankees."
Hot anger spreads through my belly. No matter how fun it would be to slip and slide around a shower with this man, that type of disrespect will not be tolerated.
I take a step out the door and say, "Hard to be humble when you have twenty-seven World Series titles."
He takes a step toward me, and I feel my heart speed up.
"You're just proving my point."
I reach toward him, and his mouth falls open slightly, like he thinks I'm going to touch him. Instead I grab the door handle, and my exit from the bathroom is punctuated with a slam that rocks the house. Immediately, I regret doing it. There's no dignity in acting like a spoiled brat, but there's also no way to take it back.
"Please knock next time," he calls out calmly from behind the closed door.
"Lock the damn door." I'm screeching like some kind of hormonally charged teenager who's fighting with her parents, but I can't help myself.
"Sorry, I can't hear what you're saying," he calls back.
What, are we eight years olds now? In that case, I wish I could flush the toilet and send freezing water raining down on him.
While Seth is showering, I try to read my emails, but I can't focus. I'm seething with anger and coming up with the punishing one-liners I should have used on him. I hate that he got the last word. I hate that he hated on the Yankees. I hate Seth.
I'm kind of surprised he didn't have any tattoos on that expanse of skin I saw just now. No. Do not think about Seth's skin or any other part of him. Focus on the hate.
Promptly five minutes after he turned on the shower, he turns it off again. Hasn't he ever heard of the joys of a long hot shower? He's so predictable and rigid. No, dammit! Do not say rigid or stiff or any other words that suggest sex talk. Disgust must triumph over lust.
The bathroom door on my side swings open, and, before I even leave my bed, I hear the door on his side shut firmly. Perfect. It's better if we don't even speak. Still, it's hard to know if he and I are really in a battle or I've worked this whole situation up in my mind because of my sexual attraction to him. Either way, I need to get over it.
By the time I shower, wash and dry my hair, and get dressed, Seth appears to have left the house. All is silent as I make my coffee and eat a carton of Renata's Greek yogurt. I decide to head to the grocery store later and shop for them. It's the least I can do when I'm eating their food and trying to convince my father that his choice to stay here isn't a viable one.
* * *
Since I got here,I've been curious to see what constitutes downtown Foster's Creek. Plus, I need tampons and enough chocolate to drown my fears that Dad isn't coming back to New York anytime soon. Dad gives me directions to the municipal parking lot, which, he informs me, has all of twelve parking spaces, and explains where I can find the local shops.
On the drive to the parking lot, I figure out that the main streets of the downtown are laid out in a pretty straightforward grid. Even someone with my poor sense of direction would find it hard to get lost. Coming into town, I pass through a roundabout that surrounds a stately red brick courthouse. There are several interesting stores, including a clothing consignment store called Twice Nice, an eatery called Ye Olde Sodashop, and a movie theater showing the classicOne Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. All they need is a random wandering troubadour, and this could be the Gilmore Girls' Stars Hollow.
The parking lot is on a residential street, and I have to slog through the heat to get back to the shopping area. The houses are all old, some in a stately way and others a few years past rundown and headed toward dilapidated. One house has a hand-drawn sign in the window that says "Readings by Rita (walk-ins welcome)." The sign isn't lit up or colorful, almost as if the person who hung it there doesn't need people to notice it. Or maybe everyone who lives here already knows about Rita. I've always believed that some people have a connection with the spirit world, and I've never been in greater need of a psychic's advice than I am now, but I can't imagine knocking on a stranger's door and asking what she sees in my future. Maybe I don't even want to know what's in my future because there are several areas of my life that are potentially going to hell in a handbasket.
