31. Bathtub Musings
Chapter 31
Bathtub Musings
LETTIE
I ’d make a terrible lesbian.
Sleeping with another woman feels wrong on so many levels.
To be clear, I’m not saying it’s immoral to share a bed with a woman. I adore lesbians. In fact, I love the idea of women getting all cozy in bed. It’s a bit sexy, truth be told. Boobs everywhere. Soft skin aplenty. Matching pajamas. No dicks to unexpectedly poke your ass when you make the unforgivable mistake of scooting too close.
It isn’t an ethical issue for me. The problem I’m having is regarding physical comfort.
The last few nights, I was so emotionally wrecked I didn’t notice how uncomfortable it felt to sleep with Stella. I was crying off and on, lost in a sea of sorrow. Therefore, any comfort was welcome. The simple fact that she was here was enough for me.
Tonight, however, I’m noticing. Big time.
The bottom line is this. No matter how deeply I adore her, Stella Jean, bless her heart, is not meant for sharing a bed with Lettie Holt.
She’s too small. Her feet are too cold. Hell, even her breathing isn’t the right cadence. Plus, I’m forever choking on her hair. It’s everywhere except on her legs. Those are too smooth.
Speaking of which, there’s another hair-in-the-throat tickle.
Good Lord.
How did people survive oral sex back in the day when shaving and waxing weren’t commonplace? Or even now for those who like to go au naturel ?
Was life just one big attempt to clear the hairs from the back of your throat?
Hey, Doris. How are you today?
Arrrcchh. I’m good, Tom. Haaarch. And you?
Hiiirrrch. Doing good. Haaarch. Thanks for arrrsking.
Fucking hairy pillows.
And why isn’t Stella snoring? How am I supposed to sleep with her just breathing normally instead of sawing logs?
This is madness.
Can you imagine missing the purr of a man’s snore? I never would have believed it, but it turns out that Tomer’s snore is a lullaby I can’t sleep without. It’s the white noise I never knew I needed. So here I am, staring at the ceiling in the middle of the night with my damn hand reaching for my phone so I can google snoring sounds.
What fresh hell is this?
Instead of googling snoring sounds, which is probably grounds for an inpatient stay at the Sunnyside Inn, I grab the phone and slip into the bathroom. Before I close the door, I look over at Stella sleeping silently on her side of the bed.
Yes. Her side. Ugh. Not even a hand or leg crossing over the middle of the bed. And if I look closely enough, I can see the ice crystallizing on top of the comforter where her frozen feet are.
Disappointed in myself beyond measure, I close the bathroom door and get into the tub, drawing the curtain closed behind me.
Clothes on.
No water running.
Just me, my phone, and the empty tub.
I stare at the white tile, mind wandering in the lovely way it does. Mentally, I travel to the mystical land where unicorns exist, and llamas get smashed on watermelon moonshine. No clue how long I sit there in silence. Sadly, no matter where my squirrel brain journeys, it always comes back to him.
To Tomer. And my broken heart.
My phone grows heavy in my palm.
This is it.
This is the moment of weakness Stella and Freya tried to protect me from. When I might do something stupid, like texting him.
Please note I said texting . Never calling. Never.
I could be bleeding in a gutter with my hands broken clean off, and my only hope for survival is to call for help. Instead of asking Siri to voice dial 911, I’d ask her to send a text to someone to call an ambulance for me instead.
That said, it would be nice to hear Tomer’s voice. But at what cost?
My eyes fall to the phone once more. Wistfulness consumes me when I tap in the code to unlock it since he disabled my face ID thing.
Fuck sticks . I miss him.
Instead of opening a text thread with him like I want to do, I swipe to the music app and scroll through my various playlists. It dawns on me how little music I’ve listened to lately. Perhaps that’s part of the problem with my mood. You know... aside from the whole life implosion thing.
Above most other things, music has always been the thread that weaves all my emotions together and helps me find something beautiful in times of desolation. Much like Tomer did with his presence, music helps me cut through the fog of chaos in my mind. That’s why I sing so much.
Or why I used to sing.
Sorrow and grief can be spun into gratefulness with the right song. The perfect lyrics can transform heartbreak into a lesson in strength. Even a poignant melody can stir up longing for something you once disregarded as inconsequential, making you realize how much the little things matter.
Little things like how he never once made me feel guilty for my wandering thoughts or when I asked him to repeat himself, sometimes three times in a row. The magical way he knew when I needed extra cuddles. Or how he was there waiting for me at the end of a shift, even if he was tired and hadn’t slept. How he made sure I always had my contact lenses. Never embarrassed me for being a klutz, just picked up the million things I dropped or knocked down as I fluttered through my day. And the way he rubbed my lower back when I got my period.
Then there were bigger things like flying Stella to Florida to comfort me after this fucking nightmare. Never left my side for days. Never once made me feel ashamed of my cowardice. Or when he ran into that house with a full-on tactical team to pull me from the grips of hell, then went back and burned it down for me.
His tenderness and compassion.
His heart—wounded as it may be.
His devotion.
His intelligence.
His protectiveness.
He did so many things right with me. Some mountainous and some minuscule. All of them mattered.
There’s no question that the lies he told were big.
No. Not big.
They were fucking huge.
But are they worth losing everything else over?
Perhaps it’s my middle-of-the-night loneliness talking, but I have to wonder if his deceit was so heavy that it outweighed all the rest. And what about why he lied? Do his motives matter? Should they?
Knowing him the way I do—or the way I thought I did—I strongly suspect he had good reasons. Just like Papa had reasons for lying to me.
In the middle of my hasty exit, I paused to ask Tomer to explain. But he was too upset to talk to me in a way I understood. He was doing his own squirrel brain thing.
Then I left before he could get his shit together and communicate.
Does he deserve another chance to explain? And in what possible scenario would it be okay for him to have lied about not only his name and job but who my father is?
Maybe these late-night bathtub musings are simply the result of my broken heart aiming to excuse what he did so I can stop missing him. How can I trust my head or my heart at a time like this?
Does what I feel matter more than what I know? At what point is love no longer enough to allow for forgiveness?
I won’t get these answers tonight or perhaps ever.
All I can do now is make do, treasuring the good times we had. With two taps on my screen, I turn on the song. Our song.
For the first time since I sang it to keep myself sane in a house of horrors, I sing along with lyrics that have always affected me in ways I can’t describe. The song Papa used to play for me when I had trouble sleeping. I let that music wrap its thread around me, attempting to stitch my life together again.
Keeping the volume low so I don’t disturb Stella in the next room, I set the phone down on the edge of the tub, wrap my arms around my shins, and rest my head on my knees.
Butterflies are free to fly.
That’s what Elton John says. Either he’s a damn liar, or I’m not a butterfly after all.
If I were truly free, I’d fly right to the man I love.
By the time the song has played through three times, I’ve typed out a single text to him.
After the fifth play, I hit send.
When I hum the bridge leading to the chorus a few plays later, I break out in a coughing attack. All because Stella’s fucking blue hair is caught in the back of my throat.
Classic Lettie. Nearly choking to death in a waterless tub.