Chapter 9 #2
His fingers brush the edge of the blanket, testing the texture. “It’s beautiful work.”
My throat tightens at the casual compliment. “It passes the time.”
Jared moves along the wall, noticing the subtle carving marks along the baseboards, leaves and vines I spent long weeks to complete during the darkest days after Auren left.
“You made all this.” Not a question this time. He studies the half-finished wooden cat on the bookshelf, its features emerging from cedar but not yet complete. “But no one else lives here?”
I don’t answer, the observation cutting too close to a loneliness I don’t want to examine.
I grab his bag from the floor when we pass, not trusting him to stay upright if he bends over.
“This is the guest room.” I push open a door at the end of the hallway, and I step inside to switch on the stained-glass bedside lamps.
The mahogany headboard catches in the warm light, shadows playing across its surface until it appears alive.
I carved the story into it months ago, of vines and leaves climbing toward a sun, two birds meeting at the apex, and for a heartbeat, I wish I had chosen a design that was less revealing. There’s too much truth in wood.
Jared steps past me and stops, his breath leaving him on a small sound that’s not quite a word.
The queen bed sits where I set it up when I thought this room would be used, centered and welcoming, layered the way an Omega likes to nest. The blue and green quilt lies beneath a creamy wool coverlet.
Pillows stack near the headboard in a tidy drift, each in a different case I made with my own hands, some embroidered, some quilted, some chocheted when the winter storms wouldn’t let me sleep.
A heavy, chunky-patterned throw in deep forest green rests at the foot like a promise I never had the chance to make.
Jared moves around the room, inspecting the frames hanging on the sage green walls and a small bookshelf filled with fairy tales.
Trailing plants spill from the brackets I installed on a late Sunday afternoon.
The bay window seat holds the same blues and greens as the quilt, hooks beside it holding two afghans I told myself were for guests.
He lifts the crocheted blanket to his cheek. “It’s so soft.”
My throat tightens. “It’s alpaca.”
The pine floor glows under the braided rug, the concentric colors holding the room together. In the corner, the little fireplace is laid and ready but unlit, with a painting of the ocean at sunset offering a spot of hope for a new day.
Jared brings the blanket with him as he totters toward the headboard, his admiring gaze drifting over it. “It’s a shame to keep this kind of talent hidden.”
He turns back toward me and sways, the medication taking a firmer hold now. His fingers trail along the edge of the quilt, again, testing the texture with a childlike fascination that reveals how much pain he was hiding before. “How is this so soft?”
It’s ridiculous how the simple pleasure on his face undoes me.
“It’s alpaca,” I tell him again. Clearly the meds are working. I take the ornamental throw pillows off the bed and adjust the ones meant for sleeping, each with a different firmness for different needs. “Washed it with lanolin soap.”
I bustle into the bathroom to retrieve a basket filled with extra gauze, antibiotic ointment, and adhesive tape, bringing it back to set on the nightstand. “In case your nose starts bleeding in the night.”
Beneath the table sits a small trash can, lined with a fresh bag. On the table’s surface, a small brass bell catches the light. I placed it there for another purpose long ago, when I thought Auren might need to call for me in the night. Now it will serve a new, temporary purpose.
“Ring if you need anything.” I tap the bell once, its clear ring filling the room. “I’m a light sleeper.”
“Okay,” Jared says, his attention still caught by the blanket, stroking it with obvious pleasure. “Everything in your house is soft and cozy.” He grins at his own observation. “Sorry, the pills make me silly.”
I pull back the quilt further, exposing the cool sheets beneath. “Time for bed.”
He fumbles with the buttons of his shirt, going cross-eyed as he tries to see them past the bandage on his nose. “Should shower first. Don’t want to dirty your bed.”
His fingers struggle with the second button, clumsy with exhaustion and medication. I leave the room without comment, returning with a pair of pajamas I keep folded in the linen closet. Simple gray cotton, washed to softness.
“Shush,” I say without heat, placing the shirt on the bed. “Arms up.”
Jared blinks at me before he complies with the docility of the heavily medicated.
I help him remove his shirt with clinical efficiency, careful not to jar his face or touch anywhere unnecessary.
The bruising extends down his neck to his collarbone, following the path of impact from Derek’s fist. Yellow-green at the edges, purple-black at the center.
I help him into the T-shirt and kneel to remove his socks. Necessity filters out the intimacy of the action, putting it at a distance. This isn’t tenderness, it’s practicality. He needs help, and I’m here to provide it.
“I can get my pants,” he mumbles, hands already moving to his belt.
I stand and turn away, giving him privacy to change into the sweatpants laid out on the bed. Fabric rustles behind me, followed by a soft groan of pain.
“Done,” he says after a moment.
When I turn back, he sits on the edge of the bed, his hair sticking up at odd angles, and dried blood still clings to the corners of his nostrils.
I retrieve a washcloth from the bathroom, wetting it with warm water. His lashes flutter as I wipe his face and neck with careful strokes, removing the day’s grime without disturbing the tape across his nose.
“You can shower tomorrow, if you feel up for it.” I toss the cloth into the hamper by the door. “Sleep is more important now.”
He allows me to guide him onto the pillows. I arrange them to elevate his head, sliding a folded blanket under his shoulders for support. The quilt comes up to his chest, tucked in at his sides to prevent him from turning in his sleep and crushing his injured nose.
I place a glass of water within reach on the bedside table. “I’ll wake you in six hours with crackers so you can take another round of medicine.”
“I don’t want to be trouble,” he whispers, eyelids drooping.
“Shush.”
“I bet you smell like safety,” he slurs.
My hand freezes on the lamp switch. Jared blinks up at me, his sea-glass eyes shiny with the pain meds. He blinks at me, a goofy smile on his lips.
I clear my throat and switch off the light. “Good night, Jared.”
“Night, Em,” he mumbles, already fading as sleep pulls him under.
I leave the door ajar, a thin strip of light spilling into the guest room from the hallway light. The house settles around us, creaking with familiar night sounds and the unfamiliar pattern of someone else in my home.
Legs trembling, I slide down the wall, sitting with my back against it, listening to Jared’s breathing. His rhythm changes as he slips deeper into sleep, occasional hitches and murmurs breaking the pattern.
When his breathing stutters, I rise and enter the room without turning on the light. His forehead creases with whatever dream has found him, fingers twitching on the quilt.
I take his hand, and his breathing steadies, the tension in his face easing away.
I tell myself I’ll move when his sleep deepens, but his fingers curl tighter around mine, seeking connection even in sleep, and I don’t have the heart to break it.
So I stay, sitting on the edge of the bed, wondering what morning will bring and how I’ll rebuild the walls he’s begun to breach.