Sweet Romance10 min read
Locked at His Villa — The Laundry Confession
ButterPicks12 views
"I invited you to a barbecue," Egon said the first time he messaged me after the exam.
"Barbecue?" I read his message again, thumb hovering. "Your house?"
"Yes. My house. Tomorrow. Bring something, if you want." He added a small, almost unreadable emoji.
I smiled like an idiot and sat up in bed. The world was quieter after the college entrance exam. The city felt like it had taken a breath. A simple invite from Egon Dominguez felt like the sea opening.
"He invited you?" Jaden's text popped up immediately. "Send a selfie."
"I will," I typed. "But—" I stopped. The message that followed had four names. Egon had invited Kristina Cunningham, and Jasper Sanchez. I read that line a dozen times and closed my mouth on a laugh that tasted a little bitter.
"So I'm the extra, got it," I murmured.
"You're not extra," Jaden protested in three rapid texts. "You're Liesel Barnett. You count."
On the day, I dressed with purpose. I picked a short jellyfish-style dress that made my chest and shoulders feel exposed but proud. I carried chicken wings and sliced beef like an offering. I took a taxi, rehearsing sentences that were casual and bright.
Egon opened the door with a toast in his teeth and a toast in his hand. "Liesel." He looked at the food, then at me. "You brought things."
"I did." I smiled and lifted the bag. "I didn't want to come empty-handed."
He took the groceries like a ceremony. "Thanks."
"Is Kristina here?" I asked. I already knew the answer.
"She will be." His tone shifted just enough that my insides tightened. "And Jasper."
I thought for a moment I was being ridiculous. He had always been quiet and composed. He was the kind of guy who stood at the front of the class and made everyone else feel like they were moving in slow motion.
"Do you really have to wear so much makeup in this heat?" he said, sudden and flat, when I turned.
Heat, makeup, short skirt—his words were like a small stone dropped into my chest.
"I'm meeting important people," I said, half a joke.
"Important people?" he echoed, one eyebrow raising. "Who are they important to? You?"
He took the groceries inside and put them by the counter. He glanced at me once, then his face went back to that smooth mask. I told myself not to read anything into it. I had been reading everything wrong for three years.
Kristina arrived in a soft floral dress and the kind of quiet that made rooms listen. Jasper trailed behind with a bucket of cola. He waved at me with the kind of honest grin only boys a year younger keep. They all looked like they belonged in a picture I was not in.
"You're early," Kristina said, sunlight haloing her hair.
"Thought I'd help," I lied.
"Look at that," she said, turning with a smile. "You brought bacon and steaks!"
"Chicken wings," I corrected. "And beef."
While we adjusted plates, a buzzer sounded in the wide foyer. Men in protective suits informed us, stark and businesslike: a positive case had been reported in the community; we needed to register and would be under quarantine.
"Quarantine?" Kristina's voice softened. "But we came to play."
They checked IDs, took our information, and closed the front door. The big house hummed with a new quiet. Barbecue plans shrank into a smaller, stranger container.
"We're stuck," Jasper said, like a boy delighted by the idea of a sleepover.
"I guess so," I said, and forced a laugh that didn't reach my throat.
Egon handled the arrangements with that same precise calm he'd always worn like a uniform. "I'll sort rooms. You should call home."
"Good plan." He left. I watched his back go up the staircase and felt the old pattern ache. He had always been the one who moved through our class like a wave. He noticed Kristina. He would watch during study hall; his eyes would drift up and rest in the row before mine. Once, he had given Kristina a gilded card. I had gotten a torn homework sheet.
I woke the next morning glad for small rebellions. I opened my door and found Kristina outside hers, looking nervous.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"Last night Egon came to my door," she said, blinking. "He told me he had sent the shopping list and brought his mother's nightdress in case things ran short."
I felt something cold and heavy shift inside me. When I closed my door, I almost laughed, almost cried. It was the kind of small cruelty that hurt because it felt so ordinary.
To cover the hollow, I pulled the shirt I had left in my bag from the night before and checked the mirror. I had re-applied lipstick. I had been careful. When I walked into the living room again, Egon was suddenly beside me.
He moved like a shadow sliding close. One hand anchored me to the sofa. His chest was warm. Up close, his features blurred out into strange softness, and my heart acted as if it were made out of glass.
"What are you doing?" I asked, a laugh stuck in my throat.
"You should check—" he started, and then the bell rang.
The awkward sweetness snapped. He straightened, returned to his usual reserve, and walked to the door like a man who had practiced being unaffected for years.
Kristina swept in like morning light. Jasper followed, hefting a big cooler. The air filled with small talk and laughter as if nothing heavy had happened. I sat and tried to be casual.
Kristina suddenly gasped, pointing at me. "Liesel, your skirt—"
Heat crawled up my neck. The dress I'd thought so brave had betrayed me: the hem had caught in the elastic and revealed bright yellow underwear with tiny chicks on it. I felt my face go hot and my pride fold inward like paper.
So that was why Egon had pressed me back on the couch earlier, his movement sharp and red-cheeked. He hadn't been trying to be affectionate at all.
"Sorry," I said, mortified. "I— I didn't realize."
He didn't comment. He just moved around like a machine.
"Let's get started," Egon said, voice flat. "Jasper, move the grill. Liesel, come help in the kitchen."
It was a division that left Kristina free in the sun while I chopped and carried. I found the chore both humiliating and oddly grounding.
Later, while we ate the hasty food, the house felt like a paused movie. Egon watched Kristina with a care that made me ache. Jasper's eyes always flicked toward Kristina, bright and boyish. I felt like a spare prop, useful only when needed.
That night I could not sleep. I replayed the door, the card, the shortness of bread and the way I had been given scraps. I pushed myself up, put on a shirt Egon had once lent me in a different life—his white tee from the basketball game where he handed it to me like a shield—and went downstairs to find something to nibble on.
In the hall I saw Egon. He had something in his hand and he was walking toward the laundry room.
"Egon." I called softly. "What are you doing?"
He froze like a figure in a painting. "Laundry," he answered.
"At this hour?" I said. The question wanted to be teasing and came out thin.
He stepped toward me. "Are you going downstairs now?"
"To get food." I tried to pull away.
He took my wrist, swift, not cruel. The world compressed. He dragged me into the balcony and shut the door. Moonlight poured over us like a theater light.
"Are you going to Shanghai?" he asked.
I blinked. "Shanghai?"
"For school. You said maybe Shanghai. I heard you." His voice was low, guarded. There was an ache in it I hadn't known he could carry.
"No," I said. "I— I might go to Beijing. I might not. Why?"
He looked like he was measuring me in terms I had never been measured before. "Because if you go to Shanghai, I will lose you."
"Is that the truth?" I asked.
"No." He tightened his jaw. "I don't— I mean, do you think I want Kristina more than you?"
The laugh that escaped me tasted bitter. "You love her. You've looked at her for three years."
He flinched. "You really thought that?"
He sounded as if he had been accused of some small, childish crime. "You saw me count seats," he said. "That card—"
"You gave her the card."
"I wanted to give it to you."
The sentence dropped between us like a small bomb. I staggered a half step back.
"You wanted to—" I breathed. "But you gave it to her."
"I thought you liked Jasper." He looked off into the dark as if peering for an answer. "You always used to look at him in practice and laugh when we were on the court."
"Because he's my friend," I snapped. "He's a kid. He looked at Kristina like anyone would."
He swallowed. "I'm an idiot."
I had to laugh at that. "So am I. We've been idiots, both of us."
"It was stupid," he said, suddenly fierce. "I counted seats, I made plans, I watched and did nothing."
We were both talking faster, words tumbling over each other like baskets of oranges. The city seemed to hold its breath.
"Why didn't you tell me?" I demanded.
"Because I thought you didn't like me," he said.
"I thought you liked Kristina," I returned.
We stood in the balcony and dismantled years of wrong assumptions like paper puppets. The night was a patient listener.
"I brought you my mother's nightdress to Kristina," Egon said suddenly. "I thought maybe it looked... nicer on her."
"You did?" I felt an odd, sour balloon pop inside me. "So you gave her a nightdress and me a T-shirt?"
He nodded. "I was stupid. I was trying to help. I wasn't thinking."
"What about the card?" I asked.
"I bought it for you." He looked uncomfortably earnest. "I counted the seats because I wanted to know where you sat. I rehearsed what to say and then I froze and—"
"And handed it to Kristina." I finished.
"And then I watched you laugh about the torn homework and felt like I didn't belong."
A laugh escaped me, half a sob, half a sound of release. "We both looked in the wrong places."
Egon's fingers found mine and he held on like a promise.
The next morning, to my surprise, he appeared on my doorstep with a laundry basket. Inside were bottles with labels I recognized—brand names I had only seen in glossy ads. He wore a softness in his face I had not known he could show.
"For you," he said. "I brought some things."
"Why are you doing this?" I asked.
"Because I'm ridiculous," he said simply. "And because I like you."
"You keep saying you like Kristina," I said, testing.
"I never liked Kristina like that," he said, laugh low. "She is lovely. I'm not blind. But I—" He took a breath as if it were hard. "I like you. I did long before the exam."
I looked at him. The truth of it struck me like sunlight on a cold day.
"You mean the night with the uniform and the bruises?" I asked. "When you fought my battle with those boys?"
He smiled. "Yes. When you were brave and I thought you were shrinking."
He sat down on the edge of the bed and took my hands. "Will you go out with me?"
I felt like I had been given the world's simplest, brightest offer. I could say yes and it would all be new. I could say no and watch a different life unfold.
"Give me time," I said, half-joking.
He grinned like a kid. "You can think about it for ten seconds."
I walked from bedroom to bedroom, through the quiet villa, and I thought: maybe he had always been here, not a background actor but someone waiting in the wings, confused and silent. Maybe I had been the same.
The days blurred into a sweeter routine. We practiced on the mini basketball court in the basement, our bodies sweating together, our laughter echoing around the gym. Jasper ran and leapt with a boy's reckless joy. Kristina sat on the sidelines, soft and observant. I watched Egon and felt the warmth of possession—gentle and uncomplicated.
"You're getting better," I told him once, wiping sweat from my temple as he rolled on the floor after a missed shot.
"I've been practicing," he said, looking up at me. "I wanted to be better for you."
"For me?" I teased.
"For you," he affirmed. "And because I hate losing."
Little things became the scaffolding of our days. He would fetch my juice. He folded my blankets. He asked me what I wanted to study and listened to my half-formed dreams like they were the most important map he'd ever seen.
"Where will you go?" he asked in a quieter moment. He was browsing universities online, his eyes shadowed.
"Beijing," I said. "I think I might pick schools there."
"Then I'll be there too," he said.
"You don't have to rearrange your life for me," I said.
"I don't want to lose you," he said simply. "I will be near. I can be near."
The day of the results came like an event with no score. I sat nervously, and after some crashes and page reloads my score appeared. It wasn't the top—Egon still sat at a place a few points above me, the figure who seemed always to be the measure. But my score was enough for a good university in Beijing.
I sent the screenshot to Egon. His reply was immediate and quiet: "I am proud."
A few hours later, he showed up at my door.
"Did you submit your choices?" he asked.
"Yes."
"To Beijing?" he said.
I nodded, and he smiled in that way that made my knees go week—not a grand grin but a small, fierce happiness.
"If that's what you want," he said, solemn suddenly, "I'll support it. I also want you to know—"
He took my face in his hands like a person steadying a compass. "I will not ask you to choose me over your future. I will be there if you want me."
The words settled into me like a warm cloth. I kissed him the way you kiss someone because you finally believe the story might be real.
We told Kristina, and she clapped in genuine joy. She hugged me long and then hugged Egon, too. "You two are good for each other," she said, voice honest. "Don't mess it up."
We kept our promise to be near. We were careful and clumsy, as all first loves are. I learned to fold his shirts the way he liked them, and he learned that I preferred my coffee bitter and late.
One night, months later, after we'd been together for a while, I found myself at the laundry closet again. I pulled out his white T-shirt—the one he'd given me at the basketball game—and held it to my face.
On the collar was a faint scent of detergent and his aftershave, like summer rain and something warm.
I smoothed the fabric and put it into a small box. I wrapped it carefully.
"Egon," I said later, taking his hand, "do you remember the T-shirt?"
He laughed softly. "You wore it in the game and you were fearless."
"I kept it."
He drew me close. "Then keep it. Keep me, if you want."
"I will," I whispered.
Our futures were uncertain like a path that disappears into a grove. But there were certainties too: the white T-shirt folded in a box, the gym where we ran until we couldn't breathe, the balcony where we discovered ourselves by moonlight—small places where big things happened.
"Will you promise me one thing?" he asked suddenly, serious as a boy.
"What?"
"Not a promise about forever." He smiled. "Just this: if the road ever gets rough, come back here. Come back to the balcony, to the laundry, to the T-shirt."
I pressed my forehead to his. "I will come back to the T-shirt."
He laughed and kissed me, a seal on a pact that was more stubborn hope than vow. Outside, the city moved like tidewater, vast and indifferent. Inside, our small island held steady.
And when the day came for me to leave the villa and step into the city that would be my new home, I packed the box. I put the white T-shirt on top, folded with care. At the very last, I opened the box and slipped a small note in, three words I had learned to mean a life.
"I will return."
The End
— Thank you for reading —