“What the hell are you doing?” I’d yelled when I heard the door open and shut.

“Relax, I’m just getting my toothbrush,” he’d replied and then I heard him rummaging around in the medicine cabinet.

“If you don’t get out of here, I’m going to pull back the curtain and flash you.” I said, feeling squirmy about the fact that the curtain was very thin and nearly clear, almost see-through.

The water turned on and then he busted up laughing. “Okay, best punishment ever.”

My stomach fluttered with butterflies as I smoothed back my wet hair and cracked the curtain back, peering out at him. “You know just as well as I do that you do not want to see me naked.” I’m not even sure why I said it—whether I’m challenging him to admit something I hope exists or if I really do believe he doesn’t want me that way.

He was wearing a pair of plaid drawstring pajama bottoms and no shirt. He had a toothbrush in hand and he was leaning over the sink, staring at the curtain. “Do you not know me at all?” He cocked an eyebrow as he stuck his toothbrush, coated with toothpaste, into his mouth. “I love seeing naked women.” His voice sounded funny and he waggled his eyebrows, completely cool and casual.

I narrowed my eyes, wondering just how much he could see of me through the curtain, and wondering if I cared. “Yeah, but you made the friend line between us for a reason.” I was being blunt and I didn’t know why. I blamed it on withdrawals because I was learning quickly that they could make me insane and turn me into a crazy, emotional mess. “And you…” I almost bring up that night when we touched each other, but I’m scared.

His eyebrows knitted and he leaned over the sink, spitting out a mouth full of toothpaste. “No, we both agreed on that line, I thought.” He rinsed off his brush and returned it into the holder near the sink. Then he turned around, leaned against the counter, and crossed his arms. “Am I wrong about that? Do you… do you… What do you want?”

Why is he asking me this? What does it mean? Why am I asking myself so many questions?

Water ran down my eyes and face as I discreetly gazed at his body. He’s so beautiful in a way I’m not used to. A rough beauty, one that has substance, the kind that’s real, not masked by tans, perfectly sculpted bodies, and fancy suits and ties. He’s art, pure and simple—wispy hair that always falls into place right over his dark, smoldering eyes, creating the perfect shadowy look and those tattoos… dear God, the tattoos. He is the kind of art you really have to look at to get what it means—to understand what he’s thinking.

I suddenly realized just how out of character I was. I was noticing him more than I normally do and I could feel it through every inch of my body, the pulsating urge to fling the shower curtain back and beg him to take me now. Beg him to. I never do that with sex. Usually guys just take it from me and I shut my feelings off. But I was contemplating going there with him, asking him for the first time, and being sober. It was making me wonder if I really knew who I was. All these years, the person I’d become was based on pills and this crazy need to feel loved.

We stared at each other for a while, and then Ethan cleared his throat and stood up straight, heading to the door. “If you want, we can pack up the rest of your clothes and go down to that consignment store and see if you can get anything for them.” His voice sounded a little off pitch, but his expression was unfaltering.

I nodded, trying to stand motionless through the steam and the heat coiling up my inner thighs. “Sounds good.”

He smiled, and then winked, his gaze skimming to the curtain hiding my body, and then he walked out, shutting the door behind him. I released the curtain, moving back below the showerhead, allowing the water to wash the heat and want off my body and down the drain, telling myself I’d get over it—get over Ethan. But for some reason, the idea seemed unlikely and very out of reach.


“So how much do you think I can get for all of this?” I ask Ethan as he loads up the back of the truck with boxes of my clothes. My beautiful clothes I never want to let go of, but I know I need to in order to buy things like, say, food. I thought it would feel horrible to do this, and it kind of does, but there’s also simplicity in it, like I’m getting a do-over, which I know isn’t real, but at the moment everything feels real. Like the heat and the way my clothes stick to my damp skin. How my hair is in a messy ponytail, tugging at the nape of my neck. My hair has never been this messy and my cuticles never this dry. But I’m in simplicity land, where BMWs and designer purses and platinum rings don’t exist and I’m trying to figure out what kind of person I am and where I fit in all this. Can I handle being poor? Taking care of myself? Who do I want to be? Who is Lila Summers?