Kiss and Cry

He emerged from the bathroom talking as if we were in the middle of a conversation before flopping onto my bed. “So I dared them to shoot tequila instead of vodka.”

I had to be dreaming. He was not really here in my room with his dress shirt now unbuttoned down to his chest and hanging out of his trousers, his tie unaccounted for. Sprawled on the bed I’d been using. Still wearing his leather dress shoes. Dark chest hair peeking out of the wide collar of his aforementioned shirt.

On. My. Bed.

He gave me a dazed smile. “Don’t you think?” When I didn’t answer, he added, “That the Russian ice dancers aren’t as good as that new hot Italian team, but they’ll probably win anyway. And they can hold their tequila surprisingly well.”

“Your shoes are on my bed.”

“Oh. Sorry!” He looked at his own feet as if surprised to see them. “I figured you’d take the bed by the window. It’s funny how most of the rooms at this hotel have two beds even if you ask for only one. I used to get a roommate to split the cost, but I made great money touring Japan last spring. But you know, these coverlets are probably covered in jizz, so don’t worry about shoes.”

Correction: this had to be a nightmare.

He bolted up to sitting. “Not my jizz. I didn’t, like, jerk off on your bed.” He laughed. “Wait, you were in here, so you know that. You would have seen me jerking off. Not that you would have just watched.”

Our eyes met, and his laugh faltered. My face was hot.

His Adam’s apple bobbed, and he laughed again. “What I mean is, I saw this thing on TV where they brought one of those UV lights or whatever—like they use to find blood splatter that’s been cleaned up—and they examined hotel rooms. The bedspreads don’t get washed very often, and it was cum city.”

Which was disgusting, but hearing him say “cum” sent entirely inappropriate desire bolting through me. That word should have been distasteful, yet…

Glancing around the room, I had to look anywhere else but at his parted thighs.

“Gross, right? The remote is apparently super germy, which makes sense.”

He rattled off more repulsive facts, and though I’d known hotel rooms weren’t as clean as I’d like them to be, they’d been a staple of my life for years. I hadn’t wanted to think about it. I’d taken off my running shoes by the door, and now I was glad to be wearing socks on the carpet.

“I need to shower,” I blurted.

Theodore’s gaze dragged up my body. “Oh, right. You were running. Why didn’t you stay to celebrate?”

I spat the word like poison. “Celebrate?”

“Yeah. I mean, I know you came second, but…” He winced. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have brought that up.”

“Neither of us has anything to celebrate. We’re lucky the rest of the field was weak.”

He shrugged. “It wasn’t my best, that’s for sure. But I still won. And I won Skate America last week, so I’m through to the final for sure. That’s definitely worth celebrating.”

“But you were sloppy. Your transitions were barely there. If you’d show up to practice on time and do your run-throughs and stop being lazy, you’d—” I broke off. Why was I trying to help him?

With an eye roll, he said, “Yes, Mom. I still beat you.”

I clenched my jaw at the reminder. “Don’t you care that you didn’t perform as well as you could?”

“Why do you care? It’s not very killer of you.”

I had no idea how to respond to that. He was laughing to himself in that way drunk people did sometimes.

Apparently my confusion was evident because he said, “Oh, I mean you’re supposed to have the killer instinct. My mom is always praising how ruthless you are.” He wrinkled up his face. “But I dunno. You could have left me in the hall, but you’re helping me. Here I am.” He motioned to himself and the bed. “I don’t think you’re as cold as people say.”

It hurt, but only a twinge. I’d much rather everyone thought I was ruthless and steely than betraying the truth about my weakness. I said nothing.

Theodore eagerly filled the silence. “Anyway, it’s done now. No point in beating myself up about today. Who cares about one Grand Prix event? It was good enough. It’s the Olympics that matter.”

Good enough? Who cares? I clenched my fists, a tide of fury rising. How could he not care? He could be truly great—perhaps the greatest of all time—if he put in the effort instead of the minimum. With his natural talent, he’d be unbeatable. He almost was already. It was such a waste.

“Do you care about anything? Don’t you want to make Mr. Webber proud?”

Face paling, his smile vanished. He opened and closed his mouth. “I…”