Her eyes widening with a sudden thought, she picks up the jar. Her original intention had been to make a pound cake, but she might have just found a better purpose for it. She may not be able to get Tom’s pants off in the traditional way without arousing suspicion, but there are other methods that might work even better. Putting the jar down carefully, she pats it with a smile and returns to the stairs.
*****
“What’s this?” Tom asks as he walks into the kitchen the next morning. His hair is still damp, though perfectly combed, and he brings with him the scent of clean man.
Miranda liked that before. Now, it turns her stomach. Even so, she smiles brightly at him from her spot at the stove. “A surprise!”
He heads right for the small pot she’s stirring, but she holds up a hand and says, “No way, buster. I said it was a surprise. Go sit down at the table and wait.”
Laughing, Tom does a dramatic about face and heads for the big table at the other end of the room. She almost holds her breath. He has to sit at his normal spot, the head of the table. This won’t work if he doesn’t, or at least, it probably won’t look natural.
A relieved breath escapes her when he pulls out his accustomed chair and sits so that he’s angled toward her. That’s even better.
He sniffs the air as if he might divine what the surprise is, then shakes his head. “Doesn’t smell like oatmeal. What’s the surprise?”
She winks at him over her shoulder. “It’s an almost done surprise. Just hang on.”
Retrieving a cup and saucer from the cabinet, she pours the perfect cup of hot cocoa into it, while shielding the liquid from his view. After setting the pot back down on the stove, she turns and starts walking very carefully across the room. “Oh, I think I poured in too much.”
Tom grins and says, “A cup and saucer instead of a mug? What have I done to deserve this?”
It’s hard to keep her expression from going hard, but she manages. Her exaggerated steps, as if she’s worried about slopping liquid over the sides of the cup, are her focus. “What haven’t you done to deserve this?” she quips with a smile.
In the privacy of her thoughts, she has a very different meaning for her words.
Her heart thumps in her chest as she gets closer, all the ways this could go wrong flitting through her head at lightspeed in a disordered mass. She’s not an actress and never has been. It’s not her thing.
She almost doesn’t do it at the last moment. The wisps of steam rising from the cup seem to be daring her to do what she needs to do. In one ear, she hears that this will hurt Tom, and wasn’t he the one who saved her? In her other ear is the shrieking fear-filled voice that screams for her to do it, because it doesn’t matter what he’s done before. All that matters is what Tom is planning to do to her now.
At the last second, while Tom is reaching out to take the saucer from her hand, she drags her toe across the lumpy seams in the old stone floor and sends the cup flying off the saucer. An arc of grayish brown liquid flies from the tumbling cup.
The cup is a larger one, and it had been full. It seems to take forever for the splash to land on Tom, but when it does, time very suddenly speeds up. His crisp shirt is streaked and steaming, but it’s the mass of liquid that landed in his lap that makes him shriek in pain and leap from the chair.
Miranda has to fight a sudden case of the giggles, but she bites her lip hard enough to taste blood and drops the saucer. As Tom jumps about, pulling his pants away from his already soaked crotch, she cries out, “Oh Tom! I’m so sorry! Take off your pants. Take them off!”
He’s jumping still, the pain evident in his expression, but he hears her eventually. Miranda races for the fridge and begins loading ice into the soiled hand towel on the counter. This was also planned, but in her panic, she realizes she didn’t need to plan so elaborately. The pain in his cries seems to chart her course quite naturally.
Almost tearing them from his body, Tom kicks the pants away and pulls at his shirt. Buttons fly as he tugs at it. Miranda twists the towel to keep the ice secure and when she turns, she sees the angry red burns on Tom’s chest. The chocolate has soaked his boxers, but the red streaks of damaged skin extend past the cloth and down his thighs. Tears are leaking from his eyes.
“Oh Tom! I’m so sorry!” She shoves the ice-filled towel at him, now genuinely unsure whether she’s a monster for doing this or brilliant because his pants are on the floor. The pants with the keys.
He almost shrieks again when he presses the icy cold towel to the angriest red patch on his torso. Breathing heavily, his voice comes out in pained gasps and pants. “I need a cold bath or something. I need the burn gel. Hurry!”
Miranda doesn’t want to touch him, but she waves her hand in the general direction of his shoulder, as if urging him out of the room. “Go jump in the shower and let the water fill the tub. Hurry!”
He takes one step, but his foot lands on a big piece of the broken saucer and he yells again. He’d kicked off his shoes when he tore off his pants. Now, he’s hopping on one foot, still holding the towel to his
