Future Husband:You are doing great.
Future Husband:I’m so glad you are okay.
A surge of butterflies surprises my stomach. Aran doesn’t really curse or swear or use profanities. It’s part of his stoic charm, so he must’ve really been worried.
I knew something must’ve happened, because when we agree on something, he usually makes sure he’s on time, no matter what. But he’s running late. That in itself is fine, but just like I had a weird feeling about Mrs. Lynx today, he must’ve had it too. It couldn’t have been easy for him to leave me to my own devices, but the fact that he did must mean he trusts me enough to handle things by myself.
And I am, like a boss.
“Hex, dear, is everything okay?” Mrs. Lynx knocks on the door of the spacious bathroom.
It’s mind-bogglingly huge, probably the size of our entire cabin. In the middle of it is a marble bathtub propped on a pedestal-like thing with two steps. A massive vase with bamboo and lilies stands next to it, matched on the other side by a bathroom cart with oils, shampoo and soaps. The walls and floors are white marble with golden decorations that resemble cracks, and the toilet I’m sitting on, the faucets, and the shower installation behind the frosted glass in the corner are all gold.
“Uh, yes!” I dart over to the sink and turn the water on. “I was just coming out.” After I’ve waited a couple of seconds, I turn it off and join Mrs. Lynx in the dim corridor. “I’m ready for round two and three now.”
She giggles at my stupid joke and loops her arm around mine. “Our lovely server seems to be running late. That’s a little unusual.”
Uh-oh, so she noticed. I need to divert.
“I bet there is a queue at the bar, and he had to help out,” I explain, wow-ing and aw-ing as we pass by the paintings hanging on the walls. “I recognize this one! It’s the Space Needle in Seattle, isn’t it?”
We pause in front of the work in question, and she ruffles my hair. “Not quite. It’s the CN Tower in Toronto, dear. They look similar, but the tower is much taller.”
Of course, I knew that. But she didn’t know that I knew, so it offered the perfect opportunity to distract her from Aran’s failure to show up on time.
For the next few minutes, we play a game of ‘guess the place’ and I intentionally get all of them wrong so she can explain to me each and every painting we walk by. She seems happy to do so too, patting me on the head while humming to herself.
“You are so right. The two churches look nothing alike. I don’t know how I even confused them,” I agree with her as we enter the Skellig room.
Aside from Mr. Lynx and the two people whose names I’ve already forgotten, two more have joined our private party. They are about the same age as Mrs. Lynx, and they both seem very excited to see me. We shake hands as I introduce myself, but I find their grips unnecessarily firm and long.
You can usually tell when it’s okay to let go of someone’s hand during a handshake, but they are either worse at reading social cues than even me, or they just ignore them.
It makes me uncomfortable. The room, which is of decent size if a little narrow, closes in on me, suddenly suffocating. The first prickles of worry raise the hairs on my nape and arms, but I do my best to keep smiling. I did fine at the party the other night, and I will do fine now, too.
Yes, Hex, just think about how proud Aran will be. You are fine, you got this.
“Let’s sit down, dear,” Mrs. Lynx invites me, sinking onto the leather couch and patting the spot next to her.
I am more than happy to oblige if it means putting some distance between me and her two friends. I can be a bit weird about physical contact when it comes to people I don’t know, that’s normal for me, but with those I’m familiar with, I don’t usually have such an issue.
So when she places her hand on my thigh after I’ve sat down, I’m caught by surprise by my body’s knee-jerk reaction. Everyone’s eyes are on me as I jump up from the couch, all conversation halted. Okay, uh, I’m not too sure what’s happening, but I’m suddenly on high alert, as if I’ve walked into a den of lions ready to eat me alive.
Aran, where are you?
I’d feel a million times better if he was here with me.
“Sorry. My… leg cramped,” I say awkwardly, channeling my most innocent and cute smile. I groan and grunt a bit, massaging my perfectly-fine thigh. “I think I might’ve overdone it with the swimming yesterday and pulled a muscle.”
Can you even pull a muscle swimming?
Mrs. Lynx lifts an eyebrow, but after a torturous heartbeat in which the suspense rises to unbearable levels, she waves me off. “You poor sweetie. Why didn’t you say so earlier? I’d have booked you in for a spa and massage procedure.”
Spa and massage… does sound good, especially as images of Aran kneading my body with essential oils invade my brain. We could have sex on the massage table, or in the jacuzzi. I’m down for it anytime, anywhere.
I forcefully cut off my daydream and focus back on the present. All eyes are still on me, and that only makes my discomfort and anxiety grow. Being the center of attention is usually not a problem for me—in fact, I enjoy it. But there is something I can’t pinpoint about the way these people are looking at me. It tugs on my instinct for self-preservation, and before long, I feel like a mouse caught in a cheese trap.
“So, Mrs. Lynx tells me you have a surprise for me?” I say in hopes of breaking the tension and distracting myself.
