Coldhearted Boss(45)
He likes to take his sweet time putting on his workout clothes so I’m forced to avert my eyes for as long as possible. Because no, he never goes into the bathroom to change. He wants me to ask him to go into the bathroom. He wants me to admit I’m bothered by his naked torso. BUT I AM NOT.
I take extra-long showers and steam up the whole cabin, ensuring my body wash is a lingering scent that clogs his nose for hours afterward.
I bring in more wildflowers and set them up in jars around the room. That way, wherever he looks, he sees them and therefore has to think of me. It’s beautifully evil.
Tuesday night, Ethan starts chatting on the phone precisely when I’m slipping off into dreamland. He proceeds to continue talking for what feels like hours but is probably only five minutes. I can’t tell who he’s talking to—it could be just a friend, but I bet it’s Isla, which is the only reason I lean over the side of the bunk and not-so-politely ask him to hang up the call so I can go to sleep.
The next night, I borrow Mike’s guitar and strum a few chords, acting as if I’m teaching myself how to play. In reality, I produce nails-on-a-chalkboard level screeches for exactly one hour. Ethan doesn’t utter one complaint. I’m forced to give up because one of my fingers is about to blister.
The bathroom is an easy place for friction since both of us have bedtime rituals we can’t forego. Brushing our teeth has turned into a shoulder-to-shoulder standoff, our arms moving quickly, toothbrushes swirling over teeth. We floss and brush like we have dentist appointments in an hour and we’re trying to prove we’ve kept up with our oral hygiene since the last time we lied about flossing. Our strokes are hard, aggressive, like we’re buffing away years of gunk. In reality, our smiles are pearly white. We take turns leaning over and spitting then rinsing. I dab my mouth with a towel and he does the same.
That’s when I usually start to wash my face, but he doesn’t give me space. Of course he doesn’t, because I don’t give him space in the morning when he’s trying to shave. He crowds me, acting as though he still has reason to be in the bathroom.
It’s infuriating.
All of it.
I can’t crack first. I refuse to tell him again how much I loathe rooming with him.
Not only because it would give him untold pleasure, but also because it’s a flat-out lie. In reality, I would never, ever switch rooms. There is one part of life in this cabin that feels like a tiny gift, like the universe is trying to make amends with me. This is it: if I happen to wake up in the middle of the night and need to pee, I get to see Ethan asleep, quiet, nice, tucked in the bottom bunk, cast in moonlight. A bare-chested god, the planes of his hard face relaxed in sleep, he seems somewhat less intimidating but no less handsome. I’m beginning to think my body is waking me up to use the bathroom just so I can spy on him while he’s sleeping, but don’t worry—I’m not trying to get caught watching him like a creepy child in a horror film, so I cut my obsessive perusal of him down to the time it takes me to pass slowly from the bathroom to the ladder on our bunk bed. That way I never officially stop moving, maintaining plausible deniability if he happens to wake up. I’ll be mid-step. The explanation is obvious: Oh, just heading back from the bathroom, that’s all. So what if there’s drool on my chin? That could be from sleep. And my heavy breaths? Just had a night terror.
Friday can’t come soon enough, though I’m no closer to solving my issue about my ride home. Max confirms again that he’s carpooling with a group of guys and it’s a full house. I could try to ask around, but I’m not that friendly with anyone else. They’re all proving to be pretty nice and welcoming, but asking them to drive hours out of their way to drop me off at home is just not something I’m comfortable with. I could look into a taxi if I had cell service or an internet connection, but it’s probably for the best because I can’t exactly afford to pay for a taxi.
We did get paid today and my check was the full amount. My hands shook as I opened it up. It’s more money than I’ve ever earned in a single paycheck before. It might even be enough to cover the car repairs so my mom can get it out of the shop. I’m sure she and McKenna are both sick of asking people for rides.
I pop the check in an envelope and address it. Max promised he’d drop it in the mail so my mom can deposit it in our joint account.
Everything is settled except for my ride, and unfortunately, Ethan is suspicious.
“When are you leaving?” he asks Friday evening in the cabin. He’s grabbing the last of the things he’s taking with him for the weekend and I’m pretending to do the same. Ah yes, one sock, can’t forget that.
“Oh, my ride will be here any minute.”
“How do you know? You have no cell reception.”
I cast a tight, your-arrogance-has-no-effect-on-me smile over my shoulder. “Call it a hunch.”
“Then I’ll wait for you,” he says, straightening to his full height, which is annoyingly large.
“No need. I wouldn’t want to keep you from Is—your weekend plans.”
I nearly said Isla, and he still smirks, fully aware of where my thoughts were headed.
“You’re right. I do have plans I’d like to get to. Have a good weekend.”
Once that door slams closed behind him and I know he’s a good distance away, I lie back on the bottom bunk and heave a deep breath. Truthfully, I’m tempted to let out a barrage of expletives that outlines every single feeling I have toward Ethan. I want to shout every single word I’ve had to keep bottled up all week so that by the end, the walls would blush, but I just don’t have the energy.