Chapter 27
Twenty-Seven
I should be horrified that Roman has witnessed me in my tank undershirt and grandma panties, all while covered in spaghetti sauce, uncontrollably sobbing, and smelling of skunk. But being utterly miserable tends to numb you from feeling embarrassment or any pride whatsoever.
Instead, I let Roman wash me with his Dawn dish soap from head to toe. And every now and then, the scent of clean linens rises above the sulfuric scent of skunk.
Roman stayed far from my eyes as well as anywhere my clothing touched. At one point, he mumbled something about Brice striking him down, but he kept scrubbing.
My head aches and my eyes sting, though they’re both better than they were before Roman made me rinse them.
And while I smell much better, skunk stench lingers over me.
The hot water warmed my limbs and cleaned off the sauce I used.
But I pray we’re close to the end of this shared shower, as the water is quickly going cold.
Dressed head to toe, Roman rinses off the remaining suds from my body.
An involuntary whimper leaves my mouth with the chill of the cool water.
“I got you,” Roman says. And everything inside of me believes him. Roman doesn’t hate me for lying to him. He doesn’t care that I smell like skunk.
A fresh wave of burning surges in my eyes, pulling a hiss from my lips.
“Here.” He sets a fluffy towel into my palm, and I take it blindly.
“Thank you,” I say, my lips quivering. With my eyes closed, I wrap the thing around my shoulders. I’m still dripping, and apparently still pitiful, because soon Roman takes another towel and pats down my legs and arms.
“This way,” he says, his voice a soothing lullaby. He leads me along, blind, until the air in the room has changed. It’s less pungent and much more Roman-like. “I’m going to step out. Can you change by yourself?”
My teeth chatter, but I nod. “I can do it.”
“Good.” He sets a stack of clothing into my hands, and I open my eyes. Roman’s room. Not mine.
“I’ve got the windows open in your room. We need to air the place out,” he says before stepping back into the bathroom, his shirt and pants clinging to his wet body. “Just holler when you’re finished.”
I’m in no condition to argue. So, shivering, I strip my damp tank and underwear from my body, thankful I kept them on at all.
I haven’t been myself since my world fell into the trash compactor.
And I was so sure I might die of skunk stink and shame, so I kept my tan tank top and underwear on, somehow feeling like I’d have a shred of dignity left if Roman at least didn’t find me deceased, smelly, covered in spaghetti sauce, and naked.
With trembling fingers, I pull the shirt from the pile Roman gave me and slip it over my head. The fabric is soft and large for my frame. It smells like pine and mountain air—like Roman. I sit on the edge of his bed and slip into the boxers and baggy sweats he left for me. Both must belong to him.
“I’m finished,” I say, and the door to the bathroom peeks open.
Roman smiles, his grin crooked as he walks over to me.
He stands two feet from me—his hair still wet, but he’s changed into clean, dry clothes.
He reaches forward, tugging on the strings of my pants.
He tightens the oversized sweats, ensuring they won’t fall off me. “Time for bed. You’ve been through it.”
My heart patters, and a dull burn persists in my eyes. I am in Roman’s room, wearing his clothes—a Red Tail twenty-one jersey, to be exact. And now he’s telling me it’s time for bed. Yep, that would be my heart rate picking up.
“This way.” Taking me by the hand, Roman leads me to the edge of the bed—his bed.
I can smell it—this is where Roman Graves sleeps every night of his life.
With pressure on my shoulders and legs, he helps me lie down, resting my head beneath his pillow.
He tucks soft, woodsy-smelling blankets all around me—just like a mother would an infant.
“Sleep a while. It’ll all feel less terrible after you’ve rested. ”
He’s right. It will. And I’m drained. And yet—
“Are you leaving?”
“Just going to make us a late dinner.”
I nod, then burrow my jaw and ear into Roman’s pillow. Nibbling on my inner cheek, heart pounding, I say what I want. I’m honest—possibly for the first time since Roman and I reunited. “I’m not hungry. You could stay.”
“Do you want me to stay?” He peers down at me, his hand cupping my cheek.
In answer, I move over a few inches. The mattress dips as Roman sits next to me, then sprawls out in the little space I’ve given him. He lies, one arm beneath his head, facing me.
I nestle my head into the crook of his shoulder and chest. He might be the only thing keeping my tears at bay. What a mess I’ve made.
His free arm wraps around me, hugging me close. Gentle fingers glide over my damp hair and down my back.
“It’s okay, Stell,” he says, his head shifting, until his forehead just touches my own. His breaths warm the air between us as he hushes and consoles me once more. “You’re okay.”
I’m not sure how long he lies there, how long he spends caressing and assuring me. I fall asleep long before he stops.