Keith shakes his head, as if my nightshirts are a huge annoyance to him.
Putting my sketchbook back on the table, close to where he is rubbing a stain of tomato sauce, I comment, “And why do you roam naked and grop—” I stop at the last minute for Mere’s benefit. “And grab the first thing that comes to your hand in the dark?”
“Dad, when are you naked?” Mere makes a gross face.
Keith ignores his daughter but gives me a pointed look. “Pants, Clementine!”
“I can’t.” I shift my weight from one foot to the other. “My laundry isn’t done.” When they both continue starting at me in confusion, I say, “I haven’t used a washing machine before, okay?” My face heats at the stupid confession.
“Really?” Mere’s eyes bug out when I nod.
I’d planned on watching some videos on the topic during my ride to work, but today turned out unexpected, wrecking all my plans.
“Get your laundry and I’ll show you how to use the machine.”
“Really?” I ask, almost breathless. I’m sure he can hear my heart thwacking against my ribs. “I’ll be right back.” I grab my notebook before making a run for the loft.
I close the door to my room and lean against it before taking a few deep breaths.
Once my heart rate is somewhat normal, I quickly load my things in a laundry bag and amble down the stairs to find Keith sitting at the dining table, reading something on his phone.
“Where’s Mere?”
“She went to bed.”
I nod as he leads me to a small laundry room. “This is the washer and this is the dryer.” Keith points to the two machines, before asking, “Have you already separated your whites?”
I shake my head.
“First do that.”
I empty the bag on the ironing board and hold out my white tee with a pineapple printed on the front. “This will go in white or colored?”
When his eyes widen, I ask sheepishly, “What?”
Keith shakes his head. “White.”
I look down at the sunglasses-donned, smiling pineapple printed on the tee. “So, what’s the rule? Thirty percent or less color is white or what?”
“I’m now questioning this idea,” he mutters under his breath. Grabbing the T-shirt from my hand, he places it on one corner of the ironing board. “That’s the white load, okay?”
He then helps me in sorting and I follow his lead.
I’m putting my jeans in the colored pile when I almost faint at the sight of my pink thong with the I taste as good as I look print in Keith’s hands. I make a grab for it and meet his wide gaze.
“I’ll take it.” My cheeks burn as I hide the thong under the colored bundle of clothes, and resume sorting. “It’s not what you think. A friend gifted it to me.”
“You don’t have to explain,” he says in a gruff voice, though he is no longer touching my clothes.
“No, seriously. My friend Em, she gifts me these crazy gifts all the time. I never wore it before. But this week, I had no clean panties.” He rapidly blinks as my explanation makes the whole situation worse. “I mean…”
“I get what you mean,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Let’s not talk about it, okay?”
“Yes. Okay. But I just don’t want you to think that I’m telling people—”
“Clementine!” He squeezes his eyes shut, then looks up at the ceiling. “I believe that you are not parading around, telling people that you or any part of your body tastes good. Let’s just finish this.”
After that he didn’t touch any of my clothes during the entire washing and drying cycle.