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“You have a bird.”
The bird curses. Perhaps in Rowan’s stead.
I cross my arms. “I cannot believe what you’ve taught your child. Cupcake would never.”
Rowan spreads toothpaste on his toothbrush and rolls his eyes. “I didn’t teach him that.”
When a blood-curdling garble of curses and screams ripples from the tiny black body of the bird, it’s all crystal clear. I glance at the little creature and hum. “Ah. I see.”
“Yeah.”
Setting a hand to my cheek, I fawn. “We both bring our babies to learn the family business.” Wiggling my finger in the cage, I murmur, “Who’s a good torture buddy? Yes, you are. Yes, you are.”
The last bits of Rowan’s soul flutter to the ground as he drags his toothbrush across his teeth, one slow stroke at a time, while staring at me, and judging. I don’t blame him for being done. It’s nearly two in the morning, and I wouldn’t take no for an answer when I said I was spending the night after I drove him back.
He spits in the sink. “Why aren’t you tired?”
I return to my seat on his bed. “I don’t drink coffee.”
His narrowed eyes pierce me a moment before he washes the foam off his lips. Then he starts to shave.
I’ve never seen a man shave before.
It’s a tiny bit hypnotic. Each careful motion. His focus on his reflection. The way his neck stretches as blades glide down his chin… I imagine there’s a lot you can tell about a man from how he shaves. After all, it’s an excellent example of the careful precision and care one is capable of. If they wouldn’t afford the same gentleness to someone else, that’s incredibly telling. Similarly, if they are unable to even be gentle with themselves, perhaps they’ve earned some sympathy.
When Rowan is done, he wipes his face with a cloth, and the sharp, fresh scent of his aftershave drifts into my lungs. He mumbles, “Aren’t you worried about staying in a stranger’s room overnight?”
“No.”
“On account of your general lack of self-preservation or…”
I click my tongue and shake my head. “Ooh. Burn. It’s sweet that you think you’re threatening as a man, pet.”
His eyes follow me for a long moment, then—against all odds and attacks on masculinity—he seems pleased. Imagine that. He’s pleased by the notion I don’t find him threatening in the sorts of ways most women find men to be. He jerks his chin toward the bathroom. “Brush your teeth. There are extra toothbrushes in the top drawer.”
Sliding off his bed, I pass him. “You mean I can’t just borrow yours?”
Sheer dread mutates the clean-shaven lines of his face. “W…why would you want to? Who does that?”
Hopefully no one. But it is ever so fun to make someone think they’re insane. “You’re remarkably endearing.” I get a toothbrush, squeeze a pearl of his toothpaste onto it. “About as threatening as a chinchilla.”
He huffs. “If you think you’re being insulting, you should choose a less cool animal.”
“Are any animals uncool?”
“No.”
The sound of him opening the birdcage accompanies me brushing my teeth, and I peek past the doorway to find the lamp light catching the form of the tiny bird on his finger, his lips pressed to its little head.
Soft murmurs and chirping trills. The low sound of him whispering inaudible words.
My heart squeezes.
How. Cute.
When I’m done brushing my teeth, I begin going through his dresser drawers, on the hunt for a t-shirt. “So,” I say as I close his underwear and sock drawer, “what kind of bird is that?”
“Do you have to go through my things?”
