the door behind him then hurry to the bathroom. Covering my gasp, I look around the bathroom that looks more like a luxury spa and is bigger than my dorm room. But what nearly takes my breath away is that he’s run the bath and beside it is a towel and a robe. On the countertop, between the two sinks, is a pile of clothes. On top of the pile is a green and blue flannel that looks incredibly thick and thick cabin socks. But what warms my heart and makes me feel … special are the candles that smell like winter.
I quickly strip down, eager to take a bath in a tub, not a shower, for the first time in years. A tub big enough for … well, Patrick.
When I dip my toe into the water, it’s hot, and that’s the way I like it.
As I sit in the tub, water up to my nose, he knocks on the door.
“Hey, Savvy, I forgot to put some of Mom’s girly stuff in there. I’ll leave it out here.”
“Thank you, Patrick,” I call back as I grab his body soap and hold it under my nose. It smells sort of like him. A slight hint of the forest and soap, but the fresh rain is missing. Knowing that scents smell different on people due to their hormones, I wonder if using his soap will make me smell as good as him.
I hope so.
Chapter 13
“Compassion and tolerance are
not a sign of weakness,
but a sign of strength.”
~Dalai Lama
Patrick
When she comes down the stairs, dressed in my clothes, the green flannel I was going to toss, the ball shorts I found from freshman year or some shit, and socks pulled all the way up to her knees, I swear my heart expands. When she sees me watching her, I swear I see something telling me hers did, too.
Wishful thinking? I sure hope not.
I push the plate across the thirty-by-four-foot counter that’s great for all the cooking and baking Mom, Dad, and I have been doing. We’ve busted out Momma Joe’s recipes for the past few evenings. Good times, but that was so yesterday.
Savvy.
My clothes.
Hot.
So, yeah, this counter would also be good for fucking on, but Savvy … well, whatever.
I’m not going to beat myself about wanting her. I went through a Miley phase, too. Had everything to do with her riding on that wrecking ball and acting batshit crazy, and I knew I didn’t have a chance in hell of banging her. Didn’t make a difference. Jerked off to the thought sometimes three times a day.
So, what’s the damn difference in doing the same thing with Savvy?
Answer? There isn’t one.
“Looks good,” she says, gripping the cuffs of the shirt nervously.
“Sit and eat. If you don’t like it, we have tons of shit. If you’d like something else, we have lasagna, chicken parm, ste—”
“I want you to know I do appreciate every”—she stops and yawns—“thing. I know you sent the soup. And I promise”—she looks down, rocking on her heels, and lifts a shoulder—“I promise, as your friend, that I’ll do the same for you if you ever need me to.”
I feel my lips curl up in a slight smile as I nod and push the plate forward. “I know. But what I don’t know is which one you like better—the struffoli or the mostacciolo. Put me out of my misery, Savannah. The wait is killing me.”
She liked the mostacciolo more than the struffoli but said both were really good, and she did it with a smile.
I fired off question after question to get to know her better.
Savvy’s favorite way to spend a day off from school and work is hiking. Her favorite music is mostly 70’s. She prefers vinyl over digital, the lake over the ocean. Her favorite meal is breakfast. She eats the crust on bread because “otherwise it’s wasteful.” If she could pick one person to be stranded with on an island with, she just shrugged. Her prized possession is nothing; “things come and go.” What brings her peace is looking at the water after a long hike. Her favorite ice-cream flavor is chocolate and peanut butter. Her favorite day, she says they’re all the same. She has no allergies that she knows of, and that question garnered an eyebrow arch.
After every answered question, she would ask me the same.
“What’s the first thing you ever wanted to be when you grew up?”
She shakes her head. “You ask the weirdest questions.”