Snow On The Beach // R.C.

1.10

Getting out of the shower (after wearily examining my shampoo bottle for any signs of foul play), I wrap a towel around my torso and wipe condensation off the mirror. Staring at my reflection, I think about my options.

    When Rafe and I got back to Tannyhill, the entire house was asleep. Even Sarah. Something really bad must have happened between her and Topper for her to be home and in bed before me. I thought about sneaking into her room to sleep, but her door was locked. Then I investigated every other guest room in the house, Rafe on my tail. I could feel his grin burning into my back as each one appeared more damaged than the last: broken windows, tree limbs, mildewed carpet from the rain that poured in during the hurricane. Most of the rooms are in the midst of repair, but none are exactly ready for guests.

    "You're sleeping on the floor," I spun around and told Rafe. Without waiting for an answer, I marched off to take a much needed shower.

    Now I'm realizing I have nothing but my dirty clothes from the party to change into.

    So instead of trying to come up with a plan—considering my only other clothes are in my room (which I can't get into)—I brush my teeth. Then I comb my hair, water flying off the ends and landing on the tile floor. I'm gonna get you back, I think to myself, over and over. Figuring out how to pay Rafe back for this actually seems like a more productive use of my remaining brain power.

    Cleaning my hair off the floor, toothpaste out of the sink, etc., I decide that I could always throw his golf stuff in the pool again. Maybe the ocean this time. I could take everything out of his closet and throw it all out the window. Then I start to wonder which drawer he keeps his socks in, because I could soak them all in water and then put them back. Or—

    All the air leaves my lungs when I open the bathroom door, Rafe standing there.

    "Fuck."

    "Jesus."

    We speak at the same time.

    His arm is lifted in the air like he planned to knock. I track it with my eyes as it slowly falls to his side. He's still wearing his clothes from the day. And in his other hand is what looks like a small pile of folded clothes.

    Gulping, I hold tighter to the towel around my body, woefully aware of how furiously my heart beats. "Are those for me?"

    "Uh...yeah," he says, practically shoving them into my arms. Immediately, I'm overcome by the smell of him: sage and sea salt. The fabric is soft against my skin.

    These are his clothes.

    "Thank you," I blurt.

    "Yeah."

    Then he's gone. Shaking my head, I change as quickly as possible into a giant t-shirt and  a pair of green basketball shorts that I have to roll four times at the waist to get them to fit. Not once do I stop to look at myself in the mirror. Instead, I exit the steamy bathroom, turning off the lights behind me, and head down the hall.

    As I approach Rafe's room, I slow my steps. I don't know what to do. In all of my years of being friends with Sarah and spending time with the Camerons, I've never once set foot in Rafe's room. I've never even so much as seen it. So when I approach, discovering the door to be wide open (where it's usually shut), I feel like I'm doing something bad. The couch downstairs suddenly sounds like a better idea—but then I'm standing in the doorway, and my jaw drops.

    I've never seen anything like it. His room is basically the size of my entire house! One slow step at a time, I enter, trying, and failing, to close my mouth. Across from the door is a wall of windows, gauzy white curtains drawn across them. To the right is a sitting area with cushioned white chairs and a couch. There's a small table stacked with books in the center.