After the knob clicks open, I cautiously push my way inside.
I wouldn’t say I’m a cautious kind of guy by nature, but over the years, I’ve learned to hasten my bull-in-a-china-shop ways. Basically, there’ve been a few occasions I’ve gotten a little overzealous in an environment I didn’t know and knocked over a valuable or two, and it goes without saying that no one wants to take the chance on having to pay damage fees on a rental.
Clear of hidden dangers, I step through the rest of the way and close the door behind me, tossing my bag on the floor and strolling inside. The kitchen is big and inviting with bright white cabinets, and the light marble countertops are sleek and clear of clutter. Only one vase of flowers sits on the corner and a bottle of wine on the island.
I step forward to the bottle, checking out the label and whistling audibly. The price sticker is still on the bottom, proclaiming a cost of $59.99. Dayum, that’s a pretty good bottle of fermented grape juice.
Right beside the wine sits a note scrawled in black Sharpie that reads, Enjoy your time!
Well, well. I think I will. When in Tokyo, you know?
I scoop up the bottle from the counter and round the island, opening each of the cabinets until I come to the one with the glasses. I don’t bother holding out to find a fancy wineglass—it won’t hold nearly enough anyway.
I only have to dig through three drawers before finding a corkscrew, and the sound of the cork popping is so satisfying, my smile climbs all the way to my eyes. Oh yeah. The sweet sounds of vacation.
Once crimson liquid rises up the sides of the glass and reaches three-quarters of the way full, I place the bottle back on the counter and take a swig. “Ahh,” I hum. It’s a little too rich for me, but seeing as I’m not that big of a wine guy, I’m not going to be picky. It’ll do just fine for getting me in the mood to relax.
Boozy fruit juice in hand, I stroll away from the counter to the living room and admire the view of the ocean through the windows. It’s amazing how expansive the world seems at the coast. How much it reminds you of your exact insignificance in the universe.
Using my toes for leverage, I kick off my Converse and dig my bare toes into the plush carpet. It feels like a sensory tease for the sand that’s to come.
Moving along, I make my way down the hall and stop at a closed door.
Immediately, I’m intrigued, so I test the knob. It turns with ease, and I grin as I push my way inside. Bright-yellow walls give way to a daisy-comforter–covered bed and a bench seat window with a view of the beach. It’s a cute little girlie setup, and my gaze travels the space smoothly, but a pause is all but inevitable as I reach a wall of much…interest.
Trophies, medals, and photos of fellow Savannah High School teacher Kimmie Ward in some sort of manly-looking leotard litter the space, and my eyebrows shoot up to kiss my hairline.
Oh, man. Talk about a weird and wonderful discovery.
Kimmie is at least twenty years younger than present in the photos, but that doesn’t do anything to lessen my enjoyment.
Good God. I cannot fucking wait to razz her about this shit.
I don’t even pause before taking my phone from my pocket, snapping a quick photo of the wall of Kimmie, and sending it off with a text message.
Me: Sweet unitard, girlfriend. I’m going to suggest Principal Walker relaxes the dress code on Fridays even more so you can wear what you’re comfortable in.
Her response is instantaneous and only heightens my enjoyment.
Kimmie: SHUT UP! Why did I forget you were going to my parents’ house this weekend?
Me: Because you foolishly removed me from the center of your world? Understandable, I guess, given your relationship with Jim and all, but still…
Kimmie: Jim is my husband.
Jim is, in fact, Kimmie’s husband, and he’s an awesome, big-ass burly dude whom I’ve gotten to know over the years while attending various school functions.
Me: Exactly. And it really unbalances the universe when more than one spouse loves me, and since Jim’s already called dibs on fanboying, I figure this is for the best.
Kimmie: You’re ridiculous.
I tuck my phone back into my pocket with a laugh and smile, but not before snapping a couple more pictures of the Kimmie Shrine for, you know, future reference and such.
Well, hell, I guess staying at a friend’s family’s house is going to be even more fun than I thought it was.
I walk back into the hall, leaving the door open to let some of the beach light into the hallway and peek briefly into a bathroom. A final closed door sits at the end, beckoning me, and I take a swig of wine from my glass as I open it.
The bedroom is big and sunlight shines in through every window, and I silently hope the curtains have enough blackout properties to keep me from waking up at the crack of way-too-early. Pretty nice digs, though, even if they’re bright.
After a couple moments of no movement, the sound of rushing water makes my eyebrows pull together, and a sudden sense of urgency lights a fire under my feet.
Shit. Did a pipe burst or something?
The previously cracked bathroom door bangs open with a crash when I hit it at a run, and a shrill, frightening scream shatters the air.
“Ahhhhh! Oh my God!” a wet woman cries from the shower at the top of her lungs. “Who are you?!”
It’s uncontrolled chaos for several moments as she gets louder and louder, and my body fights to make sense of what’s happening. My defenses are alert, and my grasp on reality is shaken.
Is that…could that be fellow teacher Katy Dayton…naked?
The very woman whose classroom is right-next-door to mine?
No fucking way.
Her hair is wet and soapy, and her body is covered in a sheen of water as the showerhead continues to spray toward her.
I mean, it really looks like her…but how?
She turns and whips her arms across her chest, and her forehead creases in the center with uncontrolled disgruntlement. It’s a look I know well from experience and one I can’t mistake when it comes to her. She’s the only woman I know who can make a stink-eye look downright beautiful.
Sweet Mary, mother of Jesus, it’s her. And she is, in fact, naked.
Holy shit. My eyes threaten to bug out of my fucking head.
“Why are you in here?!” she screams again, and the shrill volume is enough to yank me out of my dazed state of mind.
I turn around as quickly as I can, but I have to admit that the vision of her bare—perky and perfect—right breast will likely be burned into my brain forever. If it weren’t for the tile half-wall on the bottom of the ornate shower blocking my view of the lower half of her body, I might be dead right now, in all honesty.
“Katy, it’s okay, it’s okay, calm down, it’s me. Mack. Mack Houston,” I ramble, my back still to her, and I hold my hands up above my shoulders in some sort of weird message of innocence.
“Mack?!” she shouts at the top of her lungs, louder than she did when she reacted like I was an ax-murdering intruder.
“Yes. That’s me.”
“What in the h-e-double-hockey-sticks are you doing here?”
I almost laugh over the fact that she can’t even say hell under these circumstances. Always proper and professional, that’s Katy Dayton for you.
“I’m—”
“You know what?” she cuts me off before I can explain. “Never mind. Just get out. Get out. Get out!”