She made a face at me. “I have one, but I’m not about to wear it.”
“Long jeans?” I suggested.
“It does look weird.”
“It’s fine.”
“How about if I do this?” She rolled the sleeves halfway up her forearms. Then she turned her back to me, unfastened her cut-offs and tucked in the tails of her blouse. Zipped and buttoned, she faced me again. “Better?”
Pulled tight and smooth, the blouse showed every contour. The smooth mounds of her breasts were tipped with stiff nipples.
“You look fine,” I said.
She frowned. “What?”
Before I could say anything, she turned around and looked at herself in the mirror. Her frown deepened. Her hands came up and she touched her nipples. “Can’t go around like this,” she said.
In the mirror’s reflection, our eyes met.
I shrugged.
Her hands slid down below her breasts, clutched her blouse and pulled it upward, dragging its tails out of her cut-offs. When she stopped, it was still tucked in but now had plenty of slack in it. No longer taut against her breasts, it draped them but didn’t reveal every detail.
Her eyes again met mine in the mirror. “Better?” she asked.
I nodded.
She turned around and came to me, a smile spreading over her face. “Are you all right?” she asked.
“Fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sure.”
“You seem awfully nervous.”
“I do?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m okay.”
“Do I make you nervous?”
“Maybe a little.”
Reaching down, she took hold of my wrists. “These?” she asked, and lifted my hands and placed them on her breasts. Through the thin fabric of her blouse, I felt their heat and smoothness. I felt how springy they were. I felt the push of her nipples.
Chapter Thirty-three
In Slim’s bathroom, I tried to clean myself up.
“Are you okay?” she asked through the door.
“Fine,” I said. I tried to make my voice sound calm even though I was so embarrassed I wanted to cry.
“Can I do something to help?” she asked.
“No. Thanks. Everything’s okay.”
“Oh, sure.” She didn’t sound very chipper, herself.
“Just ... I’ll be out in a minute.”
“I’m sorry, Dwight.”
“Isn’t your fault.”
“Of course not.”
I blushed furiously.
What did she think had happened to me?
She hadn’t asked.
Does she know?
My hands leaping away from her breasts, I’d blurted, “Gotta go,” then run from her bedroom and down the hall to the bathroom.
Maybe she thinks I got hit by the trots.
From the other side of the door, Slim said, “It’s fine if you want to take a shower or something.”
A shower might be the best solution, but I said, “No, that’s okay.”
“Come on, Dwight. You take a shower, and I’ll throw your stuff in the wash. It won’t take that long. We’ll get everything nice and clean.”
“I don’t know,” I muttered. The wads of toilet paper had taken care of the worst of it, but I was still very sticky and my jeans ...
“Why don’t you just hand your pants out through the door?” Slim said.
“Nah.”
“Come on, Dwight.”
Slim opened the door, but only a few inches. Her arm reached in. “Just hand them to me.”
“They’re a mess.”
“It’s all right. Come on.” The fingers of her upturned hand waved back and forth, gesturing for me to approach.
“Can’t you just leave me alone for a while?”
“Give me your pants, Dwight.” This time, she sounded serious.
“They’re gross.”
“They are not.”
“That’s what you think.”
“I know what happened,” she said, her voice suddenly going soft. “And I know why it happened. I know all about that sort of stuff. Thanks to Jimmy.”
“Oh, God,” I muttered, and hoped she hadn’t heard me.
“He was gross,” Slim said. “Everything about him was gross. But nothing about you is gross, Dwight. Nothing. There’s nothing for you to be ashamed of or embarrassed about. Okay? So just let me have your pants and I’ll wash them for you. Please.”