Fortuity (Transcend 3)

Where is he? Probably downstairs.

What do I have to wear? Nothing.

Can I fix my hair here? Unlikely.

Am I willing to let him see me like this—on purpose? I’d rather not.

Preservation mode takes over. I tug open dresser drawers until I find a shirt. Any shirt. I slip it on. Luckily it hangs below my ass. It doesn’t fix the hair situation. I could tip my chin up and face him or I could sneak out.

The balcony.

I’m not sure why Mr. Hans didn’t build steps down from Nate’s balcony. Thankfully, the air-conditioning unit is right below. I climb over the railing and inch my hands down the spindles. Then I let one leg start to hang down before dropping my other leg. “Shit!” The weight of my body jerks my arms, but I keep a firm grip—dangling from the balcony.

Not gonna lie … I thought my feet would touch the air-conditioning unit. I thought this would be easy. No big deal. They don’t. Worse than that, with my arms above my head, the shirt has ridden up my body, exposing my bare ass and somewhat neatly trimmed muff. If I let go, I could collide with the unit instead of landing on it. My bare feet could get torn up if I land in the patch of rocks. Or I could just die.

Death might be preferable if I don’t get this figured out before someone sees me. My hands start to slip.

“No no no …” All the muscles and tendons in my wrists and arms start to burn.

“Good morning.”

I whip my head around, trying to see over my shoulder, but my outstretched arm obscures my view.

Nate.

“I take it you’re not a fan of stairs?”

“Help. I’m slipping!”

He chuckles. “Oh, Elvis, I’m going to help you. Then you’re going to explain this.”

Kill. Me. Now.

“Let go.” He slides his hands almost to my waist.

“I’m heavy. You might not—” My hold gives out. “HELP!” My body literally slides down his. His arms wrap around me, bringing me to a stop a few inches before my feet touch the ground.

“Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?” I ask. Maybe I can shift the focus.

He gives me a grin that makes me angry and kind of turned on at the same time. “Well, I’d say because you’re wearing it, but truthfully, I just got back from a jog. I think it’s interesting that, given the current situation, the question that’s being asked is why I’m not wearing a shirt.”

I don’t care about my ass that’s still hanging out in the breeze, or the fact that he caught me hanging from his balcony. It’s my hair.

Vain? Probably.

If we were an old married couple, committed and legally bound for better or worse, I wouldn’t be so vain. We’re not that couple.

We’re neighbors having sex. That requires a certain level of attraction and a certain level of hygienic effort.

I … am a fucking mess.

He’s not even looking at my hair. No shits given. Why the hell did I panic?

“You have some sleepy bugs on your face.”

Rolling my lips together, I nod slowly. “Thanks for noticing. Could you just put me down?” I wriggle out of his hold as he sniggers. After shoving the shirt down to cover myself, I take quick strides toward my balcony stairs, leaving a handful of my dignity in the wind.

“You’re really not going to tell me why you were hanging from the balcony?”

“Shit!” I rattle the stupid handle that won’t open because the door is locked. I slowly walk down the stairs, chin tipped toward my chest, desperate to find the nearest rock to crawl under.

He’s tailing me, but I don’t care at this point as I skulk to the deck door.

“Are you kidding me?” I whisper to myself, encountering yet another locked door. I didn’t lock it when I left. I know I didn’t. The handle must have been locked from when I went to bed, and I didn’t check it when I decided to deliver the condoms. Still holding the handle, I press my forehead against the door and roll it back and forth.

“I have some cut up fruit. Toast. Eggs. Coffee. Want to join me for breakfast?”

Keeping my head glued to the door, I mumble, “I want a shower, shampoo, and conditioner. Lots of conditioner. My own clothes. And to rethink the decisions I’ve made in the past ten minutes.”

“Did you … try to escape because of your hair?”

I don’t answer.

“There’s a huge bottle of conditioner in Morgan’s shower.”

No response. If I keep my eyes closed long enough, this moment will disappear. Right?

“Well, you know where to find me.”

After a few minutes of wallowing in self-pity, I hear voices down the way. The moment has not disappeared. I guess erasing time is not my superpower after all.

I’m still wearing a tee.

Disastrous hair.

Crusty face.

It’s time to take shelter. Easing to the edge of the deck, I glance in both directions. There’s a group of kids headed this way. I have to go now.