Chapter 15: Climbing on top of him
The scent wouldn’t leave him. It was in his car, a stale overlay on the recycled air. It was in his apartment, clinging to his clothes he’d dumped immediately into the hamper. It was in his mouth, no matter how much he brushed his teeth, a phantom taste of salt and cherry and another man’s satisfaction. For three days, Ben moved through his life like a ghost, haunted by the vivid, casual cruelty of Clara’s morning story.
He didn’t text her. She didn’t text him. The silence felt like a test.
On the fourth day, his phone buzzed. A single image, no caption. It was a close-up, slightly blurry, taken from her perspective looking down. Her bare feet, soles facing the camera, were pressed against a car’s dashboard. The morning light glinted off the windshield. A man’s hand—Liam’s, he assumed—was curled around her right ankle, his thumb pressing into her arch. In the corner of the shot, a Starbucks cup sat in the holder.
Ben stared at it until the screen went black. Then he unlocked it and stared some more. The intimacy of it was paralyzing. Not the sexual kind, but the domestic kind. The this-is-my-life-now kind. He could imagine the scene: her complaining her feet were cold, him playfully grabbing her ankle, her snapping the picture because she knew exactly who would appreciate the angle the most. He threw his phone across the couch. It bounced off a cushion and landed on the floor. He retrieved it five minutes later. The image was still there.
When she called that evening, her voice was all sunshine and casual warmth. “Hey, stranger. Hibernating?”
“Just busy,” he mumbled, the lie thick on his tongue.
“Yeah, me too. Liam’s been… insatiable. It’s adorable.” She paused, and he could hear the smile in her voice. “Listen, I need a favour. My washing machine is making a sound like a dying animal. Can I bring a couple of loads over to your place tomorrow? I’ll bring wine. A peace offering for being a neglectful friend.”
He should have said no. He knew he should have said no. The word formed in his mind, clear and sensible.
“What time?” he heard himself ask.
Her laundry basket was a large, woven thing. She dumped it onto his living room floor with a theatrical groan. Jeans, leggings, a tangle of delicate lace tops. And at the very bottom, a careless pile of socks. Ankle socks, fuzzy bed socks, a few mismatched pairs.
“You’re a lifesaver,” she said, flopping onto his sofa. She kicked off her sneakers without untying them. They thudded to the floor. Her feet, clad in thin, white athletic socks, came to rest on his coffee table. She wriggled her toes, a slow, stretching motion. “God, my feet are killing me. We walked all over the farmers market.”
Ben stood frozen, holding a detergent pod like a sacred relic. His eyes were locked on the socks. The fabric was damp in patches, darkening at the balls and heels. The outline of her toes was clearly defined.
“Well, don’t just stand there,” she laughed. “Get washing. I’ll supervise.” She pulled out her phone, scrolling, her feet still propped up. The scent of her, of warm cotton and skin and a day of activity, began a slow, inevitable migration across the room.
He loaded the machine mechanically, separating darks from lights. He saved the socks for last. When he finally picked them up, the fabric was warm. He carried them to the machine like they were volatile, dropping them in quickly. He started the cycle, the rumble filling the small apartment.
When he returned to the living room, she had pulled her knees up to her chest. Her socks were now in her hands. She was peeling them off, one slow inch at a time.
“These are soaked,” she said, conversationally. “I think I need to borrow a pair of yours.”
She balled them up. He watched, utterly hypnotized, as she leaned back and, with a lazy, underhand toss, threw them. They landed softly, directly in his lap.
The weight was negligible. The impact was seismic. They were still warm, profoundly damp. The fabric clung to itself. He didn’t move.
“Be a dear and toss those in the next load, will you?” she said, standing. She padded barefoot across his laminate floor towards the kitchen. “Now, where’s that wine? I need to tell you about the disaster that was Liam meeting my parents.”
He sat there, the damp, balled-up socks in his lap, as she clinked glasses in his kitchen. Her bare feet left faint, fleeting prints on the cool floor. The washing machine churned behind him, a dull, steady rhythm. He could feel the heat from the socks seeping through his jeans.
She came back with two full glasses, handed him one, and reclaimed her spot, tucking her bare feet beneath her. She sipped, launched into a story about awkward handshakes and political arguments over salmon. Ben heard none of it. His whole world had contracted to the warm, damp weight on his thighs and the sight of her naked soles, faintly pink, curled against his couch cushion.
“...so then my dad starts going on about microbrews, and Liam, bless him, tries to keep up but he’s a vodka soda guy, you know?” She took a long drink, then looked at him, her head tilting. “You’re not listening. You’re staring at my feet.”
He flinched. “I’m not.”
“You are. It’s okay.” She unfolded her legs, stretching them out along the couch. Her feet came to rest, soles up, just inches from his side. The arches were high and graceful. A small silver ring glinted on her second toe. “You’ve had a weird week. I get it.”
She didn’t get it. She couldn’t possibly.
“It’s fine,” he said, his voice tight.
“Is it?” She rotated an ankle, studying her own foot. “You seem… tense. Ever since you slept on my floor.” She let the statement hang, a hook baited with shared memory. Then she smiled, a slow, conspiratorial curve of her lips. “You know, if you’re that fascinated, you could just ask. We’re friends.”
His heart hammered against his ribs. “Ask what?”
“To touch them.” She said it so simply, as if offering a chip from her bowl. “It’s a thing you have. I’m not an idiot, Ben. I’ve seen you looking. For years.”
The admission, so bald and effortless, winded him. She’d known. All this time. The knowledge rearranged the entire history of their friendship, every glance, every teasing comment, every strategically placed foot. It had all been conscious.
“You… you knew?”
“Duh.” She took another sip of wine, her eyes watching him over the rim. “It’s kind of obvious. And honestly, it’s flattering. In a weird way.” She wiggled her toes. “So? Go on. You can give them a little rub. They’re sore from all that walking. Consider it a payment for the laundry.”
This was it. The moment. The gate was open. All he had to do was walk through. His hand, trembling slightly, lifted from the couch. He moved it slowly, as if through water, towards her offered foot. The air between his skin and hers seemed to crackle. He could see the fine grain of her skin, the delicate bones, the playful shimmer of the toe ring.
His fingertips were a centimeter from her sole when she abruptly pulled her feet back, tucking them underneath her again. She let out a light, silvery laugh.
“Psych!” she giggled, her eyes sparkling with genuine amusement. “Oh my god, your face! Ben, I was kidding. That’s so gross. Who just touches someone’s feet?”
The whiplash was physical. He felt his face burn, a torrent of shame and humiliation so intense he thought he might vomit. He snatched his hand back, clenching it into a fist.
“I… you said…”
“I said you could ask,” she corrected, her tone shifting to one of mild, patronizing reproach. “I didn’t say I’d say yes. God, boundaries, Ben.” She finished her wine in one gulp. “Anyway, the wash is probably done. You should switch it over.”
She stood, collected her shoes, and slipped them back on over her bare feet. “I’ll grab my stuff once it’s dry. Thanks for this. You’re the best.”
She let herself out, the door clicking shut with a terrible finality.
Ben sat in the echoing silence. The washing machine had stopped. The only sound was the frantic thud of his own heart. The balled-up socks were still in his lap. He looked down at them, then slowly, carefully, brought one to his face. He inhaled.
It was just laundry detergent and damp cotton. She had washed the memory of her out of them. She’d given him a discarded, sanitized husk, while she kept the living reality for herself, for Liam, locked away behind a wall of mocking laughter and moving goalposts.
He sat there for a long time, clutching the clean, scentless socks, understanding now that the torture wasn’t in the denial. It was in the offer. The beautiful, terrible, fleeting offer that she would always, always snatch back.