Sway by Amy Matayo

looked more dignified than I feel right now.
    I sigh and reach into the cabinet for a towel as my mind grows certain of something: I will never again be able to put that pink robe on my body. Not after seeing the way Caleb what’s-his-name filled it out like a Greek god in a quest to conquer my living room. And conquer it he did. Filled the entire space with his intimidating, beautiful presence, no matter how I tried to act unaffected by the vision.
    I can hear the slam of the dryer door coming from the other room. At this rate, he’ll be dressed long before me. That thought kicks me into motion—I don’t want him leaving before I have another chance to see him—and I spring into action. Shampoo. Razor. Shaving cream. Soap. After making sure it’s all lined up on the edge of the tub, I flip around for my toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste. Squeezing a little out, I pop it in my mouth and begin to work some magic.
    And that’s when I finally look up at my reflection in the mirror.
    And scream.
    “What is in my hair?”
    Toothpaste sprays out of my mouth and onto the mirror, and the Greek god in the other room begins to cackle. I stare at myself in horror through the shower of white spots.
    Oh yeah—and begin to envision ways to personally toss that laughing Adonis into a black temple of doom.
    *
    “Princess, where did you get this incredible record collection?” Caleb says when I step into the living room. After washing my hair twice because one time didn’t successfully remove all traces of last night’s dinner—grilled cheese and tomato soup, once a favorite of mine but a meal that has now spiraled into something I will never touch again even if starving children in Africa personally serve it to me—I threw on a sweatshirt and black yoga pants, ran a brush through my wavy hair, then made a mad dash for the door despite the drum still thudding a muted beat in my head. Twenty minutes had passed. Twenty long minutes that I was certain would find Caleb tired of waiting around and long gone.
    I was wrong. Right now, he’s crouched down in front of my bookcase, flipping through my albums one by one. A few lay at his feet—which are expertly covered in the coolest biker boots I’ve ever seen, all studded and unlaced and scuffed enough to add to his already unassuming ruggedness—and it doesn’t escape my notice that he’s pulled out my favorites. Led Zepplin. Journey. Deftones. An old bubble-gum-pop Tiffany album that I can’t bring myself to part with. Yet this isn’t what keeps my mind stuck on pause, momentarily unable to process watching him as he reaches for vintage Madonna and brings it to his face. I can’t think, because…
    Princess? Did he just call me princess?
    Something warm and tingly travels through me, but I sure as heck don’t dwell on it. A lot of girls might turn to a pool of melted flesh and bones when a guy endears them with a nickname, but I’m not one of them.
    “Princess, did you hear me?”
    Okay, so maybe I am. My heart gives a little flip, which is nuts since I only met the guy an hour ago. He could be a serial killer for all I know. A serial killer who doesn’t kill, wound, or touch a hair on his victim’s head—even though said victim is knocked out and drugged seven ways from Sunday afternoon.
    Clearly he’s not a serial killer.
    “You know, I had those records alphabetized for a reason, and now you’ve messed them all up.” I snatch my Like a Virgin LP away with an irritation I don’t really feel, but it gives me back some of that dignity I just felt puddle round my bare feet. At least I think it does. I shove my chin up a notch for extra emphasis. There.
    My attitude seems to amuse him, and he looks up at me with a barely legal grin that has surely made countless girls before me lose their good judgment. “I might not look like much,” he says, “but I did manage to learn my alphabet by my junior year in high school. Tell you what, if I have trouble with any of