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“Hey.”
Rain pours down outside, and Claire’s normally frizzy hair lies flat wet against her head, mascara running more than she would ever wish. Black stains the back of her left wrist, similar to the smear of black running from the corner of her left eye, and red rims her eyes. She doesn’t look up. “It’s the rain,” she insists. “I’m not—” She crosses her arms, averts her gaze. “Are you going to let me in or not?”
You can tell that her voice sounds strained, and you step back, holding the door open. “What happened?”
“Nothing happened.” Claire pushes past into your apartment, soaking wet sleeve of her beige shirt brushing against your arm. “It wasn’t supposed to rain. That’s all.” She shivers, rubbing her hands up and down her arms. “How cold do you keep this place?”
“Not that cold.” You resist taking her hand in yours and instead rub it awkwardly on the back of your neck. “You should take a shower. Get warm. I can throw your clothes in the washer, and—”
“No.” Claire shoots you a glare. She gestures to her dress with one hand. “One of a kind. Dry clean only. You cannot put it in the washer—”
“Then I’ll hang it up to dry, then.” Your head tilts to one side. “That would be okay, wouldn’t it?”
Claire stares at you. It doesn’t matter how much shorter than you she is – she isn’t a short woman by any means, but you’re taller by a couple of inches and never let her forget it – she’s still able to intimidate you into the ground. Probably because she was taller for most of your life; probably because you’d only gotten taller in your final growth spurt. It’s been years, but it still leaves you lanky and uncomfortable in your own skin. Not as uncomfortable as Claire used to be by a long shot, but around her, you still feel too tall. Maybe that’s why she likes being around you so much. Sometimes, you make her feel small.
Finally, Claire lets out a sigh. She rubs her forehead with her fingertips. “If you ruin it, Birdie can find a way to fix it.”
“So….” You hesitate. “Yes to hanging it up?”
Claire sighs again. “Yes.” She presses her lips together and then reaches over, squeezes your shoulder. “Thank you.”
You raise your eyebrows. “For what?”
“For actually being here and not at a bar,” Claire says as she heads to your bathroom. “The next closest person is Duke, and you can imagine how that would go.”
You can, actually, imagine exactly how that would go. Nothing against Duke, but his brain regarding a woman coming in soaking wet from the rain? Not the greatest. Probably wouldn’t be a problem if it was Claire, but the kind of jokes he might make about the whole situation later – he would mean them good-naturedly, but Claire wouldn’t be comfortable.
Something tells you Claire would have gone right past Duke’s place and walked a couple of hours to Andi’s or Birdie’s instead – and walking that far for that long in the rain? She would have gotten sick. Of course, she could have called you to make sure, but—
“No problem.” You shove your hands into your pockets. “Can’t go to the bar on Thursdays. Have to get up too early tomorrow. Hangover before work is not fun.”
Claire opens the door, hesitates, turns to look at you, and then says, “Don’t peek.”
“I never do.”
You wait until you hear the shower running – and, again, you wait until you hear Claire’s husky voice humming under the sound of the water – before you sneak into the bathroom, carrying some soft pajama pants, your favorite hoodie, and a fluffy towel. Her humming stutters as the bathroom door creaks open, but returns as her hands begin to push through her hair. There’s already so much steam that you can’t see your reflection in the mirror, and when you straighten after picking up her crumpled soaked dress, you can’t even make out your outline.
When you leave, you shut the door behind you, but you catch a glimpse of the shadow of her – of Claire behind both shower curtains, not paying you one wink of attention.
Claire pads out of the bathroom later, fluffing her hair with her towel. You note how she rolled up the edges of your pajama pants so that they don’t pool around her feet (and how the tips of where they’re rolled are wet anyway), and you smile at the bright pink paint on her toenails, the tips of each onyx black. “Spa day with Birdie?”
“Andi, actually,” Claire corrects as she curls up against the arm of your couch, her toes curling underneath her so that her nails are barely visible, if at all. “Birdie hates black edges on pink nails.”
You nod. “Ah.” Then you offer her a smile. “Feel better?”
Claire pulls the sleeves of your hoodie down around her hands, covering her barely painted fingernails. “You hung the dress up?”
“Yes.”
”Then yes.” Claire stares at you absentmindedly. She tilts her head to one side, resting it on the tips of her fingers. “I told you not to peek.”
You try not to flush. “I didn’t.”
Claire just continues to stare at you, and while averting your eyes, you can’t tell if it’s a glare or if it’s just idle curiosity. “When you closed the door,” she says, “you hesitated.”
“No, I didn’t!”
“The door didn’t creak.” Claire keeps an eye on you, trying to gauge your reaction. “You were slower. You peeked.”
It doesn’t matter how much you try not to flush. You can feel your cheeks growing warm. “It’s nice,” you say, choosing your words carefully. “Your voice, I mean. When you hum. You should sing more often.”
Claire snorts. “No one wants to hear their governor sing. They’d just think it was a political stunt.”
“It would be a good political stunt,” you murmur as you scoot closer. It’s not a move. You’re not trying to make a move. In fact, you pull the blanket off the back of the couch as a cover for your actions. “Here.” You hold one edge of the blanket out to her. “So you don’t get cold again.”
“I’m not cold anymore,” Claire counters, but she takes the edge of the blanket anyway, runs her fingers along it. It’s one of those cheap velvety ones you can get at Walmart, but you’ve always thought it was super soft and worth the cheap price. Her lips curve into an almost smile, but it’s so fleeting that you don’t think it’s really there at all. You caught it, but with Claire—
Claire glances up. “Scoot over.”
“What?”
“I said scoot over.” Claire shoves you to the other side of the couch, drags the blanket with her, and curls up against you. “Just like when we were kids. Remember?”
You hesitate before wrapping your arm around her waist. “Yeah,” you say, finally, hoping your voice doesn’t sound too tight. “I remember.”
Claire chuckles as she rests her head against your chest.
“What?”
“Your heartbeat sounds like a jackrabbit.”
“Well, you shoved me—”
“Mmhm.” Claire makes an affirmative sound of sheer disbelief. “I did do that.” She leans up and kisses your cheek. “Take what you can get.”
You keep your arm around her waist but let the fingers of your hand begin to run idly through her hair. At her words, you can’t help but snort. “I can do that,” you say, more to yourself than to her. “I can definitely do that.”