Jack Kilborn - Endurance

Deb unlocked her door, then turned and looked up at him. For the briefest of moments, Mal saw in her eyes the same desire he felt.

Should I try it?

Then Deb stuck out her hand.

The goodnight handshake. Ugh. That’s even worse than the goodnight peck on the cheek.

“It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Deiter.”

He folded her hand into his. “The pleasure has been all mine, Ms. Novachek. See you in the morning.”

Mal let the touch linger. So did Deb. Her eyes were big and her chin was titled up and all the signals were there, so Mal went for it. He leaned down, parting his lips, and got a faceful of hair when she abruptly turned around.

Deb slipped into her room and closed the door behind her, leaving Mal standing there like a dork. He recalled what Deb told him earlier.

“ How old are we, twelve?”

He sure felt like it.

Mal let himself into his room. Several dozen Harry S. Trumans stared at him, and they all seemed to be thinking what Mal was thinking.

Smooth move, Casanova.

Mal padded into the bathroom, stripped off his shirt and pants, and took a leak. Then he turned his attention to the shower. Unlike the rest of the room, which was decorated in late 60s Norman Bates, the shower stood apart by appearing modern. It was a walk-in, with a floor-to-ceiling glass door, and the shower head was big and chrome and new.

Mal turned the knob to scald and stepped inside. The water was rust-colored, and smelled medicinal, but the stream was strong and felt good on his body. He opened the little box of soap in the soap dish and worked up a lather. Also in the soap dish was a mini bottle of shampoo. Mal unscrewed the top, dumped the brown contents into his hand, and raised it to his head.

That’s when the smell hit him.

A foul, rotten smell, like meat gone bad. He brought his hand to his face, sniffed the shampoo, and almost puked.

It’s not shampoo. It’s blood. Old, decaying blood.

Revolted, he pawed at his head, trying to get the gunk off. He could feel little pieces—clots—become tangled in his hair. Mal felt his stomach twist again, the partridge sandwich struggling to get out like it still had fluttering wings. Doubling over, Mal took deep breaths, watching gunky, brown blood swirl down the drain. He put a hand on the glass door to steady himself, wiping off a streak of steam—

—and saw someone standing in the bathroom.

Startled, Mal backed into the corner of the shower, watching the figure approach. Once he got over the initial shock, his mind tried to make sense of what was happening.

Deb? Coming back for that good night kiss?

Another guest, who walked into the wrong room?

Eleanor Roosevelt’s son, the one with the truck who was supposed to take them back into town?

Someone trying to do me harm?

Mal hollered above the water spray, “Who’s there?”

The person didn’t answer. He came up to the door and stood there.

Christ, he’s huge.

“Who the hell are you?”

The giant didn’t reply.

Mal’s heart went into overdrive. This whole situation felt like it was happening to someone else, and it was so far removed from reality that he wasn’t sure how to react. That he was naked made the vulnerability even more intense.

“What do you want?”

The man stayed silent, continuing to stare.

“Get the fuck out of here, asshole!”

More silence. More staring.

Mal felt like his legs couldn’t support him anymore. He’d been in confrontations before. Shoving matches in bars with men who’d had a few too many. Once, a fist fight in high school, that resulted in a black eye.

But this was something different. Something very bad.

This isn’t someone in the wrong room. This is someone who wants to hurt me.

Mal reached up, wiping his palm across the glass so he could see the man’s face.

Holy shit! What’s wrong with his—

The door jerked open, the giant’s hand reaching for Mal’s neck. Mal danced under the grab, making a fist, letting it fly.

His fist hit the man in the face—

—and sunk in to the gaping hole between his upper lip and his nose.

Mal’s knuckles were engulfed in something warm and wet; snot, saliva, or both. He recoiled, pulling his hand out of the giant’s harelip, and got shoved back against the shower wall.

Then a wet towel was pushed over Mal’s face. When he tried to breathe, his lungs filled with an acrid stench that Mal knew all too well. From his cop days, busting huffers—kids who inhaled chemicals to get high.

Ether. He’s trying to knock me...

That was Mal’s last thought before he spun into unconsciousness.

# # #

I should have kissed him.

Deb sat on the Teddy Roosevelt bedspread, staring at the door, willing Mal to knock on it. She had wanted to kiss him. She had really wanted it. But when he went for it she chickened out, no doubt humiliating him.

He’s not going to knock. He’s not ever going to try it again.

Deb closed her eyes and fell back onto the bed, sighing deeply.

I can run triathlons, but I don’t have the guts to kiss a guy I like. Pathetic.

She thought back to Scott, her last boyfriend. He patiently waited during her months of recovery, and when they finally tried to have sex again for the first time since her accident, he couldn’t get it up. Her cheeks burned at the memory.

“ I’m sorry, Deb. I can’t.”

“ Why, Scott? I’m the same woman.”

“ You’re... grotesque.”

Mal didn’t seem to find her grotesque. And Deb doubted he’d have any sort of problems in bed.

But Deb knew she had problems. Body image problems. Mobility problems. Self-confidence problems.

She wasn’t comfortable letting another human being see her bare stumps. How was she supposed to get completely naked with somebody?

I’m so sick of hating myself.

Deb opened her eyes, struck by an intriguing thought.

I could go to his room.

Not to sleep with him. Deb knew she wasn’t ready for that. But she could at least kiss the guy good night.

It had been so long since she’d kissed a guy.

Deb pushed herself off the bed, and walked to the door. When her hand rested on the knob, she paused.

Now I’ve gone from being a chicken to being needy.

She thought about what was worse, cowardice or insecurity, and decided cowardice was worse.

Deb stepped into the hall and walked over to Mal’s room. Surprisingly, his door was open a crack.

Is he expecting me?

Deb hesitated again.

Knock? Go back? Or go in?

She knocked lightly.

No answer.

Deb lightly bounced up and down on her Cheetahs, trying to decide her next move. If he left the door open by accident, going in would be a bad move.

But who leaves their door open accidentally?

Deb went inside. Immediately, she realized why he didn’t respond when she knocked. She heard the shower, and saw steam coming out from under the bathroom door.

He isn’t expecting me.

For a moment she debated walking into the bathroom and joining him in the shower. It was purely fantasy—she just wasn’t the type to do that, legs or no legs. But she let herself imagine how it would unfold. Maybe she could say something clever, like, “Is there room for two?” Or maybe she’d just slip in behind him, and start washing his back.

Damn it, I should have just kissed him.

The shower cut off.

I could wait here. Surprise him when he walks out. “Your door was open. I thought maybe we could give that kiss another try.”