Chapter 8: The Towel
The walk did nothing to calm her. Each step squelched, a rhythmic counterpoint to the hammering in her chest. The town car’s headlights cast her elongated, wavering shadow ahead on the glistening pavement, a silent escort. She could feel the ghost of his mouth on hers, a phantom pressure that made her breath catch. Real. She’d said it was real. Now she had to live in the reality of it.
Claire was, predictably, perched on the windowsill of their second-floor living room, a silhouette against the warm lamplight. Dee saw her sister’s face disappear as she approached the brownstone steps. By the time she pushed open the heavy front door, Claire was at the top of the interior stairwell, leaning over the banister.
“You look like a drowned rat,” Claire announced. “A drowned rat who left here five hours ago for ‘one quick drink.’ Phone silent. I was two minutes from calling the precinct.”
“Sorry,” Dee mumbled, kicking off her soaked sneakers in the tiny foyer. The familiar, comforting chaos of the house wrapped around her: the smell of dried lavender from a sachet on the radiator, the faint citrus of Claire’s cleaning spray, the ever-present hum of the ancient refrigerator. “It… got complicated.”
“Is that him?” Claire hissed, eyes wide, pointing vaguely toward the street. “In the scary black car? Is he coming up? Do I need to put on a bra?”
“Yes, maybe, and for God’s sake, yes.” Dee padded up the stairs, her socks leaving damp footprints on the wood. “But give me a second. He’s just coming to dry off. To talk.”
Claire’s expression shifted from frantic to intensely scrutinizing. She took in Dee’s flushed face, her swollen lips, the way her hands wouldn’t stay still. “You talked with your mouths.”
“Claire.”
“You did! You’re all… glowy. And wrecked. And wet.” She grabbed Dee’s shoulders. “Details. Now. Condensed version.”
The doorbell chimed, a soft, old-fashioned ring that echoed through the house. Both women froze.
“No time,” Dee breathed. “Just… be normal. Be cool.”
“Cool,” Claire repeated, nodding stiffly. “I am a glacier.” She promptly yanked her sweater down over her yoga pants and fluffed her hair.
Dee descended the stairs, her heart thudding against her ribs. She opened the door.
Matt stood on the stoop, haloed by the misty rain. He looked… absurdly beautiful and completely ruined. His usually perfect hair was a dark, dripping mess. His charcoal sweater clung to the planes of his chest, and his jeans were soaked to mid-calf. He held a leather folder he must have grabbed from the car. In his other hand was a bottle of wine, procured from somewhere. A peace offering.
“Hi,” he said, the word tentative.
“Hi.” She stepped back. “Come in.”
He crossed the threshold, bringing with him the scent of night rain and cold air. He stood awkwardly in the small foyer, water pooling around his shoes. The domestic normalcy of the space seemed to momentarily disarm him. A child’s crayon drawing was taped to the wall; a pile of unopened mail covered the side table.
“You can leave those there,” Dee said, pointing to his shoes. He bent to untangle them, his movements careful.
Claire descended the stairs with a strained semblance of calm. “Matt. Hello. We meet in drier, if not less dramatic, circumstances.”
“Claire,” he said, straightening up and offering a genuine, weary smile. “I apologize for the intrusion. And for the…” He gestured at his own state.
“Nonsense. It’s just water. Mostly.” Claire’s eyes flicked to the wine bottle. “You brought libations. A man after my own heart. I’ll get glasses. Dee, get the man a towel before he ruins the antique heart-pine floors I absolutely do not own.”
Claire vanished into the kitchen, leaving a thick silence behind.
“Follow me,” Dee said, turning toward the downstairs bathroom. It was a small, tidy space painted a soft green, littered with Claire’s skincare products and a single orchid on the windowsill. She opened a narrow linen closet, pulling out a large, fluffy bath towel. It was warm from the radiator pipe that ran behind the wall.
She turned and held it out.
He took it. His fingers brushed hers, and the contact was a live wire. He didn’t let go. His eyes locked on hers, the blue darkened to slate. The only sound was the drip-drip-drip from his sweater cuff onto the tile floor.
Slowly, he drew her closer by the towel, stepping into the small room. He kicked the door shut with his foot. The click was definitive.
“Two minutes, you said,” he murmured, his voice low. “It felt like two years.”
He didn’t kiss her. Instead, he unfolded the towel and, in one fluid motion, draped it over her head, enveloping them both in a soft, terrycloth cave. The world outside blurred. The light turned golden and diffuse. They were hidden.
His hands came up under the towel, framing her face. His thumbs stroked her cheekbones, wiping away stray droplets. Their breath mingled, warm and quick in the confined space.
“This is insane,” she whispered, her words swallowed by the fabric.
“I know.”
“We’re hiding in a bathroom.”
“I know that, too.”
He leaned in, his nose brushing hers. “I just need… I need to do it without the rain. Without an audience. Without seven years of baggage. Just this.” His lips were a breath away. “Just us in a towel tent.”
He closed the gap.
This kiss was nothing like the one under the awning. That had been a wildfire, explosive and desperate. This was a deep, sustained burn. It was slow. Deliberate. His mouth moved over hers with a heartbreaking tenderness, exploring, learning, apologizing, claiming. He tasted like the faintest hint of the diner’s coffee and the clean, cold rain. She melted into it, her hands finding his damp waist, clutching the wet wool of his sweater.
The towel slipped, pooling around their shoulders. He didn’t stop. One hand slid into her hair, cradling the base of her skull. The other pressed flat against the small of her back, holding her so close not even the towel could fit between them. It was a kiss of surrender, from both of them. A silent negotiation of all that had been said and unsaid.
When he finally pulled back, they were both breathing as if they’d run a mile. He rested his forehead against hers, his eyes closed.
“Okay,” he breathed. “Now I’ve annotated that.”
A wet laugh escaped her. She felt dizzy, unmoored.
A loud, deliberate cough sounded from the other side of the door. “The wine is breathing!” Claire called, her voice muffled but unmistakably amused. “It’s developing a full respiratory system out here! Just a friendly update!”
Matt’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. He opened his eyes, and the look in them was so open, so unguarded, it stole her breath all over again.
“We should go out there,” she said, not moving.
“We really should.”
He picked up the towel from their shoulders and began to gently dry her hair, his movements careful, almost reverent. She let him, her eyes closed. Then he scrubbed it roughly over his own head, turning his perfect hair into a chaotic, dry mess.
He looked at her, damp and rumpled and more handsome than any red-carpet photo. “How do I look?”
“Honest,” she said.
They emerged from the bathroom. Claire was at the butcher-block island, pouring three generous glasses of red wine. She didn’t turn around. “There you are. I was about to send a search party. Or a snack. I wasn’t sure which was more appropriate.”
“Wine is perfect,” Matt said, taking a seat on a stool. He took the glass she offered. “Thank you, Claire. For this. For not asking the fifty questions you’re entitled to ask.”
Claire finally looked at him, then at Dee. Her sharp eyes missed nothing: the peace between them, the new quiet intimacy. She pushed a glass toward Dee. “I’ll cash in my question tokens later. At a premium.” She raised her own glass. “To… unexpected weather.”
They drank. The wine was deep and rich, spreading warmth through Dee’s core. For a few minutes, they talked about nothing—the brownstone, Claire’s latest graphic design project, the relentless Brooklyn rain. It was a fragile, necessary breather.
Matt’s phone, sitting on the counter beside his leather folder, buzzed. A name flashed on the screen: Julian.
The light mood evaporated. Matt stared at the screen as if it were a live grenade. The buzzing continued, insistent.
“You should get that,” Dee said, her voice quiet.
He shook his head. “It can wait.”
“It’s Julian. He probably knows we bailed on the double date. You should talk to him.” She meant it. The outside world was pressing in; they couldn’t live in the towel-tent forever.
With a reluctant sigh, Matt picked up the phone. “Hey. Yeah… I know. Listen, something came up.” He stood and walked toward the living room archway for a semblance of privacy. “No, she’s fine. We’re both fine. It’s just… complicated.”
He listened, running a hand through his hair. “I owe you a major explanation. And an apology. Natalie too… Yeah, tell her I’m sorry. It was a terrible thing to do… No, it’s not like that. Well. It might be exactly like that. I don’t know yet.”
Dee watched him, the easy way he talked to his friend, the burden of guilt in the slope of his shoulders. Her own phone lit up with a text. From Natalie.
Natalie: So. I just got the most fascinating debrief from Julian. You are a dark horse, Dee Waldorf. And Matt Bomer is an idiot. A lucky, lucky idiot. Call me tomorrow. We need words.
Dee put her phone face down.
Matt finished his call and returned to the island, the weight of the conversation still on him. “He was cool. Surprisingly cool. Said he figured it out the second he saw us together. Called me a ‘oblivious moron’ and told me to buy him dinner at Carbone next week.” He managed a weak smile. “Natalie?”
“Also knows. Also has opinions.”
Claire sipped her wine. “So the fake double date was a success, then. It facilitated the dramatic realization. I’d call that a win.”
The laughter that followed was real, easing the last of the tension. They finished their wine. The rain tapped softly against the windows. The cozy room felt like a lifeboat in a churning sea.
Matt looked at the clock. It was past midnight. “I should let you both sleep.” He didn’t want to go. It was plain in every line of his body.
He gathered his folder, his still-damp sweater tied around his waist. Dee walked him to the door. Claire tactfully disappeared upstairs.
On the stoop, the night air was clean and cold. The rain had stopped. The town car waited, a patient dark shape at the curb.
He turned to her