Chapter 15
Scarlett
Ryan must be applying for a promotion to sainthood. Not only has he brought me one of every kind of taco available to mankind, but he quietly cleans up my kitchen and draws a bath while I eat them. When I offer some to him, he shakes his head and tells me he ate already. I skip the shrimp taco and the carne asada one because I know those are his favorites. And when I offer them to him, he flashes me a wide grin and practically inhales them.
As he makes his way through my kitchen, tossing out containers and loading the dishwasher, I allow myself to watch shamelessly. The lean muscles of his shoulders stretch his pale blue, lightweight sweater. When he bends over to put a pod in the dishwasher, his glasses slip down his nose. He pushes them back up, then goes to check the bath, seemingly oblivious to my attention.
When he comes out of the bathroom, his glasses are fogged up. I laugh lightly, and his responding goofy grin would have my knees going weak if I weren’t already sitting down. There’s something about having him here again that has already lifted some of the crushing weight I had been feeling. And yeah, it could have been the tacos, but I’m pretty sure it’s mostly him.
“Ready?” he asks as he leans against the doorway.
I don’t trust myself to stand steadily when he’s leaning and smirking and looking so adorably perfect. It’s almost like we haven’t missed a beat.
Some things never change.
“You make it sound like I’m in for an experience,” I deflect as I try to buy myself some time to get my libido under control.
“The Ryan Whitlock Bathing Experience is one unlike any other.” He tips is head back toward the bathroom. “Come on, beautiful. Let me take care of you.”
My mouth goes dry, and a warm heat pools low in my belly. “Are you… You’re not…”
His smile widens. “I won’t look,” he promises. “There’s a lot of bubbles.” A look of pure earnestness crosses his face. “I want to help, Scarlett. Please let me.”
I try very hard to swallow and bring some moisture back to my mouth to no avail. This is bonkers. I should absolutely make him leave. He’s done enough, and I feel better. I can probably take it from here. But what happens after this bath, when I get out and dry off and realize I still don’t know what to do with myself? And worse, what happens when he’s gone and I miss him again?
There’s no use denying it. I want him here, even if it’s a terrible idea.
There’s a quip on the end of my tongue about him trying to assuage some guilt for taking so long with my edits, but it dies there. All I can muster as I stand on shaky legs is an equally shaky, “Okay.”
He’s at my side in a flash with an arm around me for support. I don’t really need his help to walk the five steps to the bathroom, but I lean into him anyway. Even if it is a thinly-veiled excuse to feel the hard planes of his body pressed into mine.
When we get inside the bathroom, he takes a step back into the hallway. “Kick your pajamas out when you’re ready. I’m going to throw them in the laundry.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I say.
“I want to,” he replies quickly. “Besides, your kitchen towels stink.”
“Is that where the smell is coming from? Glad it’s not me,” I joke. He laughs lightly, and for a moment we both stare at each other, not quite sure what to do and both afraid to make the first move.
He blinks rapidly as he snaps back to his senses and steps out of my view.
Okay, then.
Leaving the door open a sliver, I shed my satin pajamas. These things have seen better days, that’s for sure. I’m not sure I could identify the stains on them anymore. I kick them out into the hallway, then lower myself into the tub.
Ryan wasn’t kidding. There are a lot of bubbles, and the water is almost scalding, which is exactly how I like it. I’m touched he remembered such a simple detail.
The idea of a baptism pops into my head. It’s a great symbol, though it does get used fairly often. But it’s nice to think that your sins and worries can be washed away with some water. Worth a shot , I think as I plug my nose and dunk my head under. When I come up, I don’t feel any better than I did before, though my face thanks me for this bare minimum of cleanliness. I can’t remember the last time I washed my face, either. Dianne would shake her head in dismay if she knew. That’s one of the things she urges me to do every day, even if I don’t feel like it. Oops.
I hear the laundry machine start through the wall, and I relax against the edge of the tub, closing my eyes and letting the heat of the water and the rhythmic whirring of the machine lull me into something close to peace.
Vaguely, I’m aware of the door opening and closing, then the sound of a shampoo bottle snapping open. There’s a presence next to me, warmth radiating off of him and his almond-and-vanilla scent mixing with the lavender of the bath. I’m suddenly too tired to open my eyes or protest. Nothing he hasn’t seen before anyway. The thought has me smiling.
“Something funny?” Ryan asks, his voice low and soothing. I want to crawl into the sound of it and sleep.
“No,” I lie. That warmth from earlier collects between my thighs. If I weren’t already underwater, I’m sure there’d be an obvious wetness there, too.
He hums as if he doesn’t believe me but doesn’t say anything else. The next thing I know, his fingers work their way into my scalp, pressing and massaging with delicious pressure.
“Oh my god,” I moan. “That feels amazing.” Any remaining tension rushes out of my body, and it’s replaced with an aching desire that cuts through my exhaustion and starts my heart racing in my chest.
His fingers leave my head for a moment as he shifts into a more comfortable position, then they return to their work. I crack an eye open to find him looking down at me with such tenderness that my pounding heart skips a beat.
I have to look away. If he continues to look at me like that, I might cry. Because he used to look at me like that. I long for him to keep looking at me like that. But when he’s done here, he’s going to leave. This isn’t permanent. It can’t be.
My gaze trails down his chest. The light blue of his sweater is speckled with dark spots where the water has splashed him. His sleeves are rolled up, and some black ink catches my eye.
“You got a tattoo?”
“Hmm?” he hums as if he had been distracted. “Oh, right. Yeah. Maybe four years ago now?”
“What is it?”
He turns his forearm over so I can see. It’s designed to look like his skin is paper, ripped open to reveal the page of a book. I lean in to get a better look at the words, but he flips his arm and starts massaging my head again.
“It’s pretty badass.” My eyes drift closed as his ministrations have their desired effect. “Did it hurt?”
“Not as much as some things,” he says.
My breath catches in my throat, but I keep my eyes carefully shut. His hands go still as if he’s wishing he could take it back.
“Ryan, I’m sorry—” I peer up at him, then, wishing I could lay it all out for him right then and there, but a sharp shake of his head stops me. Dianne had urged me to tell him exactly what happened five years ago, to make him understand what pressure I was under, exactly what I had lost, and clear the air. Maybe she was right about that, and now feels like as good a time as any. Not that I want to hurt him even more, but if it could just tell him…
“Water under the bridge,” he says before I can work up the courage to continue. He sounds choked up, so I stuff everything back into the box in my heart and close the lid. Lock it shut. Throw away the key. I certainly don’t want to cause more damage than I already have by opening up old wounds. What does it matter now anyway?
This isn’t permanent.
He continues lathering my hair in silence for a few minutes before telling me to rinse. I dunk my head again, and this time it does feel a bit more like a cleansing, if not a full baptism.
“Are you okay to get out by yourself?” he asks, sitting back on his heels and rolling the sleeves of his sweater down.
Unable to speak, I simply nod. He leaves the room. When the door snicks softly shut behind him, the sound reverberates through my brain. It feels final somehow, like he’s shutting the door on us. Like this was some kind of goodbye.
Trina said I was dumb, but right now I don’t know what’s the worse decision: Asking him to stay like I so desperately want to or letting him think I don’t want him to be my editor and watching him walk out of my life. Again. But I do know that having him here feels good, and I’m willing to follow that feeling, even if chasing any kind of true happiness is futile.
But the finality of that shutting door makes me afraid he’s on his way out of my apartment. I scramble out of the tub and throw my robe around my shoulders. I tie it quickly but don’t bother drying off. It sticks uncomfortably to me. Water pools at my feet and drips off the ends of my hair. I step carefully on the wet tile to pull the bathroom door open in a rush.
Ryan is sitting on my couch, one ankle crossed over his knee and his arm spread out over the back of it like he belongs there. And that’s when I realize that I really do want him here. Maybe just tonight, maybe forever. I don’t know. I can cross that bridge when I come to it.
I’m not sure what my face is doing, but it must be something weird because his brow furrows with concern. “You okay?” he asks.
I nod, trying to tamp down the sudden swell of emotion rising in my throat. “I wanted to catch you before you left.”
He tilts his head to the side and smiles. “I’m not going anywhere.”
And that’s when I sit down right there, in the middle of my floor, and burst into tears.