Page 32 of Fundamentals of Being a Good Girl
I can’t blame them. This is not a good day.
“Did you spill your lunch?” Berry asks quietly.
“No,” I tell her. Though maybe having something in my stomach before that disastrous class would have helped me not lose my temper. “I spilled a very delicious drink on myself.”
Letty looks up to me, her little hand sweaty in mine. “Was there anything left?”
I shake my head. “Nope. It all landed on my clothes.”
“I would have cried,” Berry says.
“She would have,” Letty confirms. “One time she dropped a meatball on the ground and Hester Prynne ate it before Dad could pick it up and Berry cried.”
“It was the last meatball,” Berry explains.
“Very understandable,” I tell them as we stop in front of Aniq’s house.
They’re quick to run inside past Aniq’s mom and I tell her to call me if there are any issues.
She promises that she will and then she closes the door and I’m left by myself.
Without a car, my only option is to go to Bram’s until the girls are done.
BACK ATBRAM’S,I gulp down two glasses of ice water and eat three Oreos and a handful of baby carrots. Sometimes a girl just needs to hydrate and eat a snack.
The time on the microwave reads three fifteen, which means I have nearly two and a half hours before I have to pick up the girls. Bram isn’t usually home until five thirty or six, and Fern has school newspaper tonight until seven.
I could be a good girl and tidy up the house and get started on dinner.
Or I could strip out of these coffee-drenched clothes and wash them while I treat myself to a hot shower.
With no chance of getting my car back tonight and no clue what I’ll do after I get off work, I decide that the clean clothes and the shower take priority, especially when I think about the kind of shithole hotel I’ll be able to afford for the night. Let’s just say it’ll be the sort of place where the shower curtain is just an Uber pickup line for mold and bacteria.
Bram’s room is upstairs just across the hallway from the laundry room, so I quickly strip out of my clothes and start the machine.
I don’t know why I thought Bram’s room would be stuffed full of books and plants, but instead it’s minimalist and tranquil. The dark green walls are bare and the only furniture is a wingback chair next to a fireplace and his king-sized bed with a fluffy white feather duvet. There are a few books stacked on the nightstand next to a framed photo of a much younger Fern holding the newborn twins, their sweet little faces red and scrunched up like they might be on the verge of crying the moment after the photo was snapped.
In his linen closet, I find stacks of fresh towels. Bless this man for having clean towels.*Gentry always had clean towels thanks to his cleaning service, but all my college hookups before that were deeply unhygienic. It’s a wonder I didn’t contract tetanus or impetigo. Or staph.
His shower is the shower of a grown-ass man and I didn’t realize how badly I needed a shower that wasn’t in a locker room and didn’t require shower shoes and a travel toiletry bag.
As the room fills with steam, I open up his body wash and shampoo—and conditioner! Bram is a shampooandconditioner man. No all-in-one for Professor Daddy. It’s immediately clear that these are the source of his cedar and eucalyptus scent.
My nipples immediately pebble as the cedar bodywash suds between my breasts. If I weren’t exhausted and if I weren’t in my boss’s shower, I might take better advantage of this moment, but the scalding hot water feels too good for me to do anything other than stand under the rainfall showerhead.
I take my time shampooing and conditioning my hair and when I’ve stayed in the shower so long that it’s probably time for me to put my laundry in the dryer, I finally turn off the water and reach for my towel.
The towel is luxe and oversized and after squeezing the water out of my hair, I wrap it around my chest. The moment I step out of the bathroom, goose bumps tickle my skin and I am not looking forward to the wait for my clothes to dry.
Just as I’m about to open the bathroom door, it swings open and Bram’s eyes are wide and frantic. His voice is clipped when he asks, “Where the hell are the twins?”
His pupils bloom the moment he realizes that I’m standing here, water rolling down my shoulders and nothing but a towel between us. But then it’s gone and he’s a parent of three again.
“Were you just in my shower?” he asks, like he doesn’t have a fucking PhD. “Are the twins okay? Where are they?”
There’s something about the tone of his voice. It’s deep and stern, and startling. And I immediately feel like I’m in trouble. Like I’ve been irresponsible with the kids. Like I’m a horrible nanny and a terrible adjunct professor and a shitty adult. Because it’s all true. All of those things are true, especially today.
So I cry. I finally cry.
