Faucet

(Note: These characters originate from a former short fiction piece of mine titled Grief Spiral. I was very eager to work with this trio again and elaborate on the aftermath of one pivotal moment. Hence, this bonus scene inspired by the 'Unspoken' challenge!)

//

Connor is zipping up his jeans, glancing at the bathroom doorknob intermittently. He's in a hurry, but not frantic. My hands are shaking.

I watch his blue eyes dart back and forth from the antique doorknob to his disheveled state of dress. His button-up is still stained from where I'd sloshed boxed wine on the hem shortly before we'd come in here and removed our clothes and, well, you know...

I can't say it just yet. The air is too charged. I have to turn off the heat, sit back, and let our impromptu hookup simmer.

When we're both sufficiently dressed, Connor looks underneath his feet and chuckles. I follow his gaze. The bath rug reads "Get Naked." Just the kind of cheeky decor I've found peppered throughout his Aunt's rickety yet charming home. Her entire cape is resolutely outfitted to resemble a 20-something-year-old's college dorm. I'm slightly envious. My husband, Cameron (Connor's brother), would never let me buy stuff like this.

As we both grin in acknowledgment of the bathmat's stupidly befitting command, our eyes meet. He looks nothing like Cameron, I consider. Maybe it's all in the chin. Cam can't grow a beard for shit, so his face is rather bare and boyish.

Connor, on the other hand, reminds me of Penn Badgley with facial hair. Long-ish locks with a slight curl. No trucker hat - a welcome deviation from the uniform of all the other men in the family. Unlike his cousins, he seems to know better than to dress like a frat boy well into one's 30s.

He's also skinnier than Cameron, but not lanky. His torso honestly reminded me of those nude Classical Greek sculptures. I guess what I'm saying is he embodied what my pre-teen brain always pictured a man was. Back when my vague sense of sexual attraction began and ended with a glimpse of a happy trail and library books of Hellenistic art.

I look away first, disoriented. The faucet audibly squeaks as I fidget awkwardly with the handles, trying to get the water warm. The blue tinge of the bathroom has painted my skin foreign and lifeless. Who am I and what the hell am I doing?

Connor ambles toward the exit, at last. I need a moment without his eyes on me. A lengthy, bemused sigh is brewing. I swear I can still feel his breath on my neck.

As I listen to the scuffle of his boots, his fingertips brush my lower back playfully, affectionately, and for a moment, I wonder if he's going to let his hands wander. I hold my breath in anticipation, slowly gathering the courage to look up and face our reflections in the mirror.

Finally, I take stock of the scene: my streaked mascara reaching out toward my right temple, a half-undone ponytail, chapped lips. Then, Connor, hovering by the bathroom door; eyes beseeching permission to leave.

I give him an amused nod. Almost giddy. Like two actors waiting to step out from behind the curtain. Go on, you goof. You'll miss your cue.

He understands. Taking one last gander at the two of us together in the mirror frame, a part of him must surely know that we created something in haste, something beyond words. Further, that we're now knotted together in a beautiful, ruinous appreciation for secrecy.

I lock the door behind him and undress from the waist down. Then, I sit on the toilet to relieve myself and let the remains of him leave me. We didn't use a condom, so, unavoidably, I'm left to meditate on the efficacy of IUDs anxiously.

There's a fresh bruise taking shape along my shoulder blade from where Connor pinned me to the wall. A towel hook was the culprit - in the shape of a cat with a lolling tail no less. It was the only time we stopped, breathless. I'd winced and he'd stepped back, moving me away from the floral wallpaper, warily touching the hem of my bra clasp. Shortly after, I removed it myself, in assent. When had I ever been so bold? The next thing I knew, he had me bent over the sink.

On some sort of twisted instinct, I turned on the tap, so as to drown out the sound of our bodies. The point of no return.

//

When I finally meandered back outside, the tables of family potluck sludge were nearly empty. It was dusk. Surely, there was now a dessert spread in the kitchen, but I didn't want to be caught one-on-one with the eccentric Aunt I'd only met in passing. What was her name, anyway? I'd only ever heard them call her Aunt B.

I found Cam by the fire with wet lips, looking like a child. Though I saw his eyes pass across me, he didn't acknowledge my presence. One of his cousins attempted to move incrementally to the side so as to let me into their banter. A futile effort, though appreciated.

Cameron's girl, I kept thinking with a sour taste in my mouth. When did I become that and nothing else?

I wonder if I'm scowling as I loiter on the outskirts. No matter. Cam doesn't know how to read my face, even after all these years. And yet, his brother does...

Shit. I must be smiling now. I feel silly and exposed in a playful rather than paranoid way. Like I'm wearing my shirt backward and only I know it or I'm trying to hide a hickey from my friends in high school.

Unsure of how to flatten my facial expression and return to indifference, I scroll through my phone trying to appear busy. I realize I have Connor's number. I'd sent him an overly formal text shortly before my wedding to his brother nearly five years ago. It reads:

Hi, Connor. It's Val. Just checking in per Cam's request about the boutonnieres. Are you swinging by to get them tomorrow morning? The shop closes at 2. It'd be a big help. Thanks!

Then, I start typing and deleting. Typing and deleting.

Hey lol, that was probably a mistake

HA! what just happened

shall we agree never to speak of this...

are you going to tell Cam?

I'm going to block your number.

Then, finally, I land on:

What cologne do you wear?

It's so easy to press send. Just five little words. An innocent enough inquiry, something I could fabulate a story for if forced to.

For a minute, I wonder if my drink was spiked. Am I delirious? Out of my wits? I swear my feet aren't touching the ground.

Then, my phone buzzes and I know exactly what I'm doing.

It's strong huh?

No hesitation. He knows I don't really want an objective answer. I only sought to allude to how his scent has followed me.

My God, I want to really talk to him, study his face in conversation. But no, not here. I have to be more circumspect. After all, this is probably just a fleeting phenomenon, a fluke.

I mean, I didn't even fully understand what "chemistry" between two people meant, what it felt like, until 12 minutes ago when I found myself in a cramped bathroom with Cameron's tall, dark, and handsome brother, breaking a sweat despite the creeping November air.

I've never had a lover, I remember with crushing clarity. All I've ever had is Cam, who simply made use of me since I was seventeen because he knew I'd always play along.

Out of my own self-loathing, I reply:

You're better than your brother

Scanning the yard, I look for a glimpse of him among the sea of extended family, perhaps swooping a toddling nephew away from the dessert table before a grimy little hand dives into the cake.

Finally, I think I catch a glimpse of his bearded smile through the kitchen window, but the whole evening has become too hallucinatory.

Even Cam, standing so close to the fire, looks more like a quivering hologram than a real person. I know our whole bedroom will reek when we get home. His cousin Brendan offers him a drag of his cigarette and seeing his face shrouded in smoke, I'm suddenly transported back to our first few hiking dates. Specifically, an underage me, being dragged through the woods like a dog on a leash, as Cam chain-smoked and talked about hunting trips with his uncle.

He always liked making me uncomfortable - pretending to leave me behind so as to turn around and play protector. It was the only dynamic he knew. Frail, queasy girl and unfazed, coaxing caregiver.

Yet, there's something oddly paternal about his arms that I've grown to treasure over the years. The way he clings my head to my chest after we bicker. The freckles on his shoulders and the mole below his right kneecap.

I know my Cameron, I really do, and still, I loathe what he turned me into. I curse my delayed epiphany. My stunted self-actualization.

Thus, with the cologne of his brother still hovering around me, I succumb to this first true, nauseating impulse of betrayal - largely because I've been betraying myself for far too long.

I stare at the embers spit up from the fire, kneading my shoulder blade. Connor has augered transformation and with transformation, doom.