Is he afraid he’ll hurt me? “You won’t break me if that’s what you’re worried about.”
He walks over, places one arm around my back, and lifts me from under my legs so they dangle. I feel like a baby. I rest my head on his shoulder and smell his fresh cotton shirt.
“After this, I’m not sure anyone could,” he whispers.
The steam from the shower coats the mirror and water droplets drip down the tiles, leaving streaks behind. He gently sets me down on the toilet. Reaching behind his head, he pulls off his shirt. I stare at the strength in his back, shoulders, and arms. I tear my eyes away and stare at the cream-colored linoleum floor. He places a rubber mat in the shower and then the chair.
“I’m making sure it won’t slip.” He steps into the shower. His arms flail as he loses his balance and falls over the chair with a thud.
I burst out with a laugh. “Are you okay?” I ask while stifling a giggle. My ribs ache from the exertion of bruised muscles.
He lifts his head. “Well, you don’t want to step in front of the mat. At least we know that.” We laugh together, but I stop because the stabbing pain darts from my ribcage all the way up my spine. He reaches for my hands and I hesitate. “Blood doesn’t bother me. No worries,” he says as he meets my gaze. “I promise I won’t let you slip.”
Again, my mind flashes to how I must’ve looked to him when he discovered me covered in blood and half-naked in the basement of the hospital. I shake my head to block the thought and take his hand. Then he helps me over the side of the tub and seats me into the chair. He stands in front of me, and tilts the showerhead so it barely hits my back.
“Can you move it up a little? I’d like to feel the water if you don’t mind,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. My desire to run and hide conflicts with the deep desire to let him take care of me. It’s miserable, painful, and exhausting.
“Just tell me when you want me to stop.” His voice breaks into my thoughts and startles me. I nod. The heat warms my skin and I take a deep breath as I stretch out my fingers. The water runs down my aching muscles. He touches my shoulder and I jerk backward.
“I’m sorry,” he says with concern in his voice. “After what you went through—” He pauses and clears his throat. “I’m such an idiot.”
“I just wasn’t expecting it. That’s all.” My breath comes in puffs as I calm myself.
“Well, you scare me,” he says under his breath. His face lingers inches away as he reaches for the soap. I want to touch him, and yet I’m afraid. My mind imagines things that it shouldn’t like being wrapped up in his arms, and letting him take care of me.
“What do you mean?” I heard him say it and refuse to ignore it. “How do I scare you?” I look at him while lathering my hands and arms.
“You just do,” he says without further elaboration. He steps out of the shower and I rinse as much of my body as I can, getting rid of all the ugliness caked in my pores. I rinse it all off until the pink water runs clear.
My shirt, my pants, everything is soaked through. I pull the curtain back. He tries not to invade my privacy, so he stands facing the plain white drywall.
“Can you help me? I really want to wash my hair, but I don’t want to mess up my staples.”
“Umm sure.” He averts his eyes, but his hands begin to pull my hair backward. “Just lean back some, and I’ll rinse it out for you.”
His hands. His hands are strong as they massage the water through my hair. Blood drips off the tips into the tub. He puts shampoo in, carefully scrubbing around my staples. He gently pulls my head side to side as he rinses everything off. I keep my eyes closed and sigh. It feels so good.
He rinses it out, and brushes it back with his fingers. I expect his hands to release me, but they don’t. They just keep caressing my hair. I turn slightly and our eyes meet. His are black with emotion like deep pools. His lips part, his hands caress my head, and water drenches us both.
Oh my goodness. I’m falling for him.
I clear my throat and he tears himself away. I breathe heavily, close my eyes, and unconsciously place my hands over my chest.
“Are you finished?” he asks quietly, but his voice hides some intense emotion and cracks at the end.
“Yeah, you can turn it off now.”
I watch him as he turns the knobs. Beads of water run down his face and back as he reaches for his towel. I can’t tear my eyes away as he dries off. He leans over me, and his jaw is so close to my lips that I fight the urge to draw him in.
As he carries me out of the bathroom, I see my reflection in the mirror. Purple bruises mark my face and the stitches on my lip look nasty. My eyes stand out like turquoise stones amidst the damage. A mass of sopping wet curls hang over his shoulder, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He puts me on the bed and hands me a clean pair of scrubs. I shiver. He grabs his towel and I take it.