Hand-Me-Down. Lee Nichols
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“Actually, it’s mostly men who take figure drawing,” Wren blurted.
“He meant the models, Wren.”
“Oh, right! I did drawing for a while, but I like clay better. You shouldn’t be embarrassed, though. You’re a model. So your clothes are off. So you’re nude. Buck naked.” She offered a tinkly little laugh that ended in a snort. “Undraped, I mean. Not that I—I mean, you might as well be a fruit.”
“Bowl of fruit,” I said, grinding into her foot. “Wren loves doing still life.”
“I’ll try to remain motionless, then.”
“Oh, no!” Wren said, clutching his arm. “Move around all you want. Well, not all you want. I mean—no dancing. Unless you like dancing. But I mean—”
“Was that Claire?” I asked, glancing toward the classroom.
“I didn’t hear anything,” Kevin said.
Wren giggled horribly. “Neither did I.”
“And I do like dancing,” he told her.
“Me, too! Anne and I took ballroom dancing for a while—she dropped out, though, because she kept forgetting to let the man lead.”
“And you?”
She simpered. “I never forgot.”
“Wren—” I started. And, seeing her expression, words failed me. A full-throttle simper is not an expression which encourages conversation.
“Wren?” he said, smiling. “As in Ren and Stimpy?”
“Wren with a ‘W,’” she said. “Like the bird. The drab, brown bird.”
“But you’re not drab.”
Fortunately, before Wren gave herself a hernia from simpering, we were called back into the classroom.
“Not gay!” I said.
“Gay,” she said.
“He was flirting with you.”
“Pity flirting. He couldn’t believe what a dork I am. Why did you let me talk to him? I snorted. Did you hear me snort? I snorted. Like Miss Piggy.”
“And Kevin’s your Kermit.”
“Gay,” she said.
“Not gay. He likes you.”
“He doesn’t. He couldn’t.”
“He thinks you’re cute. Not drab, not brown, but cute.”
“He’s gay,” she hissed.
So I accidentally spilled the contents of my water bottle onto her white shirt. And you know what? I was right. He wasn’t gay.
CHAPTER 06
I woke with a splash from a dream of falling and wrestled with the blanket. We were evenly matched, but I finally prevailed and shoved it away. I lay back, flush with triumph, and for a moment thought I was still asleep and the sound of running water was leftover dream.
Then I realized: Rip was in the shower.
I groaned, wishing Rip hadn’t spent the night. He’s unforgivably perky in the morning. Whatever happened to strong, silent men who grunt over the paper? Plus, he always woke up looking like the same guy he was the night before. I woke up looking tangled, puffy and ten years older.
And to top it off, there was only enough hot water for one shower. Judging from the steam billowing through the bathroom door, I was in for a cold shock.
I stumbled out of bed and parted the curtains. Another day in paradise—warm and clear, with a light breeze that floated in and kissed me good morning. It made me crankier. Weather should match your mood. This morning, for instance, should be dark and gloomy.
“Morning!” Rip called.
I turned, and he was in the bathroom doorway with a towel wrapped around his waist. His hair was wet and mussed, his skin wet and glowing. He didn’t just look like the same guy this morning, he looked better.
“Muh,” I said.
He smiled. “Coffee’s going.”
“Guh,” I said, meaning good. I’d take a man who made coffee over strong-and-silent any day. Still, I stayed by the window. If I was properly backlit, he wouldn’t notice my sleep-puffed face.
“Six months,” he said. “I know what you look like in the morning.”
I finally managed to croak out a real word. “Godzilla.”
“More like Cameron.”
“Cameron?” As in Diaz? Maybe not entirely true, but if that’s how he wanted to see me—
“No. Gamera. Remember the Godzilla movie? Gamera’s the big puffy turtle he fights.”
Forget the lighting, I shot across the room and ripped his towel from him. He raced, laughing, to the safety of the bed before I could whip him with it. I fell in next to him and started smacking his bare skin. He caught my hands and kissed me. “You’re beautiful in the morning.”
I stopped struggling and pressed my face against his chest. My mood was beginning to match the sunshine.
He absently ran his fingers along my back. “What time is Charlotte’s thing tonight?”
Charlotte’s birthday party. Dark clouds gathered—I didn’t want to talk about it. “You used all the hot water.”
“Uh-huh. What time is it?”
I checked the clock. “Almost seven.”
“I mean Charlotte’s party,” he said.
I stood and shrugged into my robe. “Six or something. I don’t know.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Anne.” He grabbed me by the sash. “What’s wrong?”
“You sleep over, and you—you use all the hot water, and there’s none left for me and I’m—what am I supposed to do? You never think. What about me? I’m stuck with a cold shower, that’s what.”
He mumbled something that sounded like, “You need a cold shower.”
“Oh, I’m not the one who needs a cold shower!” I tightened my robe in a meaningful manner.
Rip pulled his boxers and pants on. He reached for his shirt and I considered slamming the bathroom door, but decided against it. I put my head on his shoulder instead.
“I hate Charlotte’s birthday,” I sniffled.
“We don’t have to go,” he said.
Of course we did. “So now you don’t want to go?”
“Baby…”
“It’s just—she’s all perfect, and her kids are perfect and her husband’s perfect and her life is perfect, and everyone loves her.”
“And nobody loves you,” he said, straight-faced.
“They don’t. Not like—”
I realized where this conversation was going and sobered fast, suddenly terrified he’d think I wanted him to say he loved me. We’d never said “I love you,” and I saw no reason to start now. Especially not if he thought this was a desperate bid for commitment, when it was clearly just a desperate bid for attention.
“I mean she’s, um, loved by one and all,” I said, flailing around for dry ground and sinking deeper. “And I, on the other hand, am, um…”
“Anne,” he said.