Page 18 of Clinically Delicious
THE TOWEL SHIFTED.
My face went hot. Then hotter. I was pretty sure I was approaching core meltdown temperatures.
“No! Nothing! I just—I thought—” I gestured wildly at nothing, at everything, at the universe that had conspired to put me in this situation. “I wanted to check on Megan. Make sure she was okay. After yesterday. The arm. The broken one. That she has now.”
“She’s fine. Still asleep.”
“Great! Wonderful! Sleep is important. For healing. And... existing.”
And existing?What did that even mean? Why was I like this?
He was staring at me. I was staring at his collarbone because looking at his face felt dangerous and looking anywhere else felt even more dangerous.
“Cate,” he said slowly, like he was genuinely concerned for my mental health. “Are you alright?”
“Perfect!” I squeaked, hitting a pitch that probably shattered wine glasses in neighboring counties. “I should go. You’re clearly... busy. With your... towel situation.”
TOWEL SITUATION?
I didn’t wait for a response. I spun around so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash and speed-walked down the driveway like I was competing in the Olympic mortification event.
Quickly hopping the fence, I walked into my parents’ house, ran upstairs to my room, slammed the door, and slid down to the floor.
“Towel situation,” I whispered to myself. “You said ‘towel situation.’”
I was never going back. I had to move to Canada. Change my name. Become a hermit. Anything was better than facing Gabriel Lyon ever again.
My phone buzzed. A text from my mom.
Mom:Sweetie, I’m at the store. Do you need anything?
I stared at it for a long moment, then typed back.
Me: Yes! A suitcase. I’m moving to Canada.
She sent back a confused emoji.
I sent back a coffin emoji.
She called immediately, but I just sat there, watching it ring, replaying the entire catastrophic encounter in my head.
The towel.
The abs.
Thetowel situation.
Yeah. Canada was looking really good right about now.
The phone rang again. And again. And again.
I watched the screen light up with my mom’s contact photo—a picture of her making an exaggerated kissy face that she’d insisted on using despite my protests. Under normal circumstances, it was mildly embarrassing. Right now, it felt like the universe was personally mocking me.
I let it go to voicemail for the fourth time.
“Catherine Marie Brennan, I’m coming home right now,” her voicemail said, her mom-voice in full effect. “And you better be alive.”
Great. Now I’d worried her. Perfect addition to my day of perfect decisions.
