More Than Water (25 page)

“So, should we get started?” Foster questions, refocusing our attention to the task at hand. “I have a class and need to leave in about an hour.”

“Yeah, of course.” I set the gift on the desk. “I don’t want you to be late. Thank you again so much for doing this.”

“Sorry to rush you, and you’re more than welcome,” he says, removing his glasses and resting them next to the gift on the desk.

“I hope you aren’t missing anything to be here.”

“Just a club meeting, but it’s not a big deal.”

“You didn’t need to do that. We could have arranged to meet another time.”

“I don’t mind.”

Foster pulls the blue knit sweater and gray T-shirt with a comic book character print over his head and then shoves them into his bag. When he rises, a sudden sense of discomfort whips through me from the sight of his skin, and I avert my attention toward the stack of supplies laid out for the mold.

Don’t let Chandra get into your head.

Foster proceeds to strip off his pants, leaving on only a pair of form-fitting underwear that I requested he wear for this moment.

“Do I need to take these off, too?” he asks, pointing to the gray cotton covering very little of his body.

“No,” I barely squeak. “You can leave those on. I only plan to plaster to your hip bones. We can roll them down a little if needed.”

“K. Where do you want me?”

Pointing toward the center of the room, in the middle of the plastic sheeting on the floor, I tell him, “Right here.”

Foster takes his place, standing where directed. Crouching down, I sift through my stack of supplies, pilfering a small jar of petroleum jelly.

Holding the lubricant in his direction, I ask, “Did you want to put it on or have me do it?”

“You should.” He pauses, humor dancing along the edge of his features. “Lube is more your specialty.”

“Right,” I state plainly, surprising even myself. This is banter 101, and I’m failing miserably.

Popping off the lid, I submerge my forefinger and middle finger into the gelatinous substance and extract a heaping glob.

“This might be a little cold.” I show him the thick pile of goop. “Sorry in advance.”

He nods.

Foster flinches slightly when I dab the cool jelly onto the warm area of his body just above his pectoral, but he soon relaxes to my touch as I draw tiny circles over a two-inch diameter. When he appears to be used to the temperature, I gently begin to spread the protective barrier over the rest of his recently shaven skin.

I had advised him to remove the hair from every place the plaster would touch, and I’m glad he took my suggestion. Otherwise, the disengaging process could be painful.

It doesn’t take much time for me to cover his shoulders, arms, chest, ribs, and abs in the jelly substance until I reach just below his hip bones. I make sure not to neglect a single cell of skin.

He says nothing during the process.

Neither do I.

“There,” I utter just above the quiet as I cover the last few inches below his navel. “All set.” Reattaching the cap to the small tub of lubricant, I ask, “Do you want to take a minute to move around before we start? I’ll need you to be still for about half an hour.”

Foster shakes his arms, shifts the weight between his feet, and then cocks his head from side to side a few times. “I think I’m good.”

“Right.”

One-word sentences? What is wrong with me?

I move the tray of water along with the prepared strips of plaster cloth to the center of the room. I circle my fingers around his hand and place it directly over his heart, and then I arrange his other arm at his side, but I leave some space between it and his torso.

“I’ll only be doing your shoulder on this one,” I comment, referring to his vertically resting arm. “Are you comfortable?”

“I’ll be fine,” he reassures me.

“Okay, I’ll be as fast as possible.”

“Like a quickie?”

I faintly titter. “Not quite. I doubt you’ll enjoy this as much as you would a quickie.”

“I guess we’ll find out.”

I soak the first cloth in the tub of water, lightly squeeze off the excess liquid, and then gently apply the tiny sheet across the length of his shoulder, smoothing out all the wrinkles so that it takes on the shape of his body.

“Have you done many of these?” he asks quietly, his exhale fluttering along my cheekbone.

“No,” I reply, my voice soft and airy. “You’re my second. I did one on Chandra years ago, but that’s it.”

“So, you’re a novice?”

“A little.” I reach down, repeating the wetting process of a new cloth. “Why? Are you nervous about my skills?”

“Not really. I’m sure I’m in good hands.”

“Thanks for the confidence.” My fingertips gently draw the wet white plaster sheet along the form of his bicep. “I just hope it turns out the way I’ve envisioned it in my head.”

“I’m sure it will be great.”

“We shall see.”

Over the next twenty minutes, I apply the tiny slivers of plaster cloth, one by one, to Foster’s naked body, covering every inch of the front portion of his upper torso. He’s an exorbitantly tolerant model, never complaining about the coolness or pressure of my touch or the fact that he’s unable to move, even minutely. During the entire process of transforming his skin from tender flesh to a thickening white mold, he keeps his lung movement in control so not to expand the hardening sculpture as it sets.

“This is the last one,” I tell him while on my knees, applying the final cloth to his lower abdomen. “You just need to hold still for about another ten to fifteen minutes, and then we can remove the finished product.”

“What do you plan to do while I remain here like your human statue?”

“I don’t know.” I rise, running my palm over the front of his body to ensure that every piece is as it should be. “Probably sit on my bed and stare at you while eating popcorn.”

“Will you share some with me?”

“Maybe…” I lightly stroke the shape of his collarbone with my fingers toward his neck, lost in the space where the plaster ends and Foster begins.

The pads of my fingers crawl their way up and over the artificial barrier of the hardening cloth, landing on the man underneath, exploring the shape of his chin and jaw. Unmoving, Foster remains still as I dance my touch higher to his cheekbones and along his nose, as if my fingers are searching for what my brain registers in the drawings and sketches. However, my talent could never truly capture the work of beauty standing before me. It’s one of a kind, and I doubt that anyone could ever be so gifted to truly re-create something like Foster.

Moist lips press to the delicate skin inside my wrist, jolting me back to reality and out of the dream space of the moment I’ve submerged myself into.

“Sorry,” I mumble, disconnecting my touch from his face. “I got caught up a little…”

He releases the faintest grin. “I do, too, sometimes.”

“Yeah.” My eyes dart all over his set features, noting the white splotches. “Um…and I got plaster on your face.”

“Occupational hazard?”

“Unfortunately.” Wiping my hands on my apron, I back away from him and step toward the door. “I’m going to get a washcloth to wipe that off before it sets.”

“I’ll be right here, not going anywhere.”

“Yeah.”

I grunt to myself.
A one-word sentence again?

I empty myself into the hallway and shut the door at my back, giving him some privacy and myself a moment to gather my scattered brain.

Where the hell did I go?

It’s not uncommon for me to get lost in my work, but it almost felt like I was getting lost in him.

Are the two worlds colliding, meshing, morphing, blurring, and breaking past the spoken and unspoken lines of what we claim to be?

Am I that oblivious to what’s happening between Foster and me?

No.
This is just my imagination grasping on to Chandra’s words, nothing more.

I fill a bowl with soapy water, grab a washcloth from the kitchen, and reenter my room to find Foster exactly where I left him—half-naked and partially covered in plaster. Approaching him, I wring out the water from the rag, set the bowl aside, and then lightly begin to blot away the drying plaster on his face.

“Sorry about this—again,” I say, having to rub his cheekbone a little harder than might be considered gentle.

“Don’t worry about it.” He twinges slightly when I add pressure to remove the substance from the delicate space under his eye. “It was an accident.”

With a few more blots, all the white markings are removed, leaving his face as pristine as it was when he arrived. I then take the opportunity to clean up the rest of his body, wiping anyplace where the plaster accidentally touched unintended skin. Within the time it takes to remove the unwanted splatters, the cast has set to Foster’s body and is beginning to warm from the chemical process.

“It’s time,” I tell him, setting the cleansing wet cloth into the bowl. “Are you ready to get that thing off?”

“You have no idea,” he says, relief filtering through his voice.

“Was it really that bad?”

“No, but I’m starting to sweat—and not in a good way.”

“That doesn’t sound sexy.” I giggle, slowly slipping my fingers under the edges of the hardened mold to begin the process of breaking it away from his body.

“Yes.
Sexy
is not the adjective I would use.”

Finding a good grip, I wiggle and pry the cast from his chest, popping it off like a bottle cap, in one solid piece. Foster, still in his model position, gazes almost proudly at the finished product.

“You can see the details of my fingers,” he remarks, slowly lowering his hand away from his chest.

“Pretty cool, huh?” I question, holding out the replica for him to inspect.

He gently runs his palm along the inside of the mold. “More than cool.”

I smile, amused by his childlike fascination with such a simple process. Setting the hardened plaster mold in a safe place near my closet, I collect a towel from the clean laundry supply and hand it over to Foster, so he can wipe off the remaining layer of petroleum jelly from his skin.

“At least you’re moisturized,” I say as an offering in regard to the goopy substance.

“That’s an understatement.”

Foster wipes off the gooey mess the best he can, hands the towel back to me, and then crosses my bedroom toward where his things lie on the floor next to my desk.

“I need to get going,” he says, unzipping his bag and pulling out his clothes.

“Sure. I hope I didn’t make you late.”

He glances at the time on his phone, sets it on the desk next to his glasses, and then stands up with denim in his hands.

“It’ll be close, but I should be able to make it to class on time,” he says as he dresses, rapidly pushing his legs into his jeans. “No worries.”

Foster slips the T-shirt over his head and then his sweater, straightening them both out as he turns toward my desk to retrieve his other items. He places his signature dark frames over his face and then grabs his phone. His hand stills for a moment over the screen, and then he shoves it into his back pocket. Reaching back toward the desk, he grabs two sheets of paper.

“Are these what I think they are?” he asks, spinning toward me.

I step forward and peek at the early acceptance letters between his fingertips—one from Yale and the latest from Dartmouth that arrived just yesterday. Both are for their MBA programs.

“They aren’t recipes for apple pie,” I say, thumbing the top of one of the letters.

“You got into two really great programs at two amazing schools.”

“They must not have had enough art history majors as applicants and needed to fill a quota.”

“I wasn’t doubting why you got in.” He sets the papers back from where they came. “You have the grades, and I’m sure you’re…eclectic enough for their needs. I’m just really surprised you applied. You made it sound like you didn’t even want to go.”

“I don’t. Not really.”

“Then, why even go through the application process?”

“I told you.” I shrug. “Family tradition. Some things are inevitable.”

Foster steps tightly into my space, our chests nearly touching. It’s like there’s a thin barrier between us made of a delicate bubble just waiting to pop.

“It’s plain as day that you don’t belong in some corporate world designed by an Ivy League education. I’m not saying that as an insult, but it’s not who you are. I’m sure your family would understand if you traveled down a different road.”

“No, they wouldn’t,” I say, resolved. “I wish they would, but unfortunately, they never will. I’ve tried to convince them otherwise.”

“But if they care about you, they would know how unhappy you would be living like that.” The tips of his fingers flutter with my own. “
I
know how
miserable
you would be.”

Our hands fold together, clasping as one. His other palm drifts along the length of my arm, resting just above the elbow.

I’m speechless, unsure and—dare I even say—scared.

He
knows
me.

“Fozzie,” I say barely above a whisper.

He leans in, and I close my lids in anticipation of feeling his lips on mine.

Our breaths meet.

I can almost taste him.

There’s a light rap on the bedroom door.

“EJ?” Chandra calls, her voice tentative.

My eyes fly open, finding Foster seductively close.

“Yeah?” I call back, feeling caught.

“Can I come in for a sec?”

Foster and I exchange a glance, acknowledging the lost moment.

I back out of our magical bubble and then open my door, revealing a few inches of my dark-haired roommate’s face.

“What?” I question, trying not to sound annoyed.

She peeks over my head toward Foster and then lowers her voice to say, “Cal’s here.”