Thirty #2
By the time we pull up outside my building, I’m well and truly knee-deep in an existential crisis. I dismiss Sebastian’s attempts to help me out of his car, to come upstairs with me, to keep me company. ‘I really just want to be alone right now,’ I tell him, and he accepts that. He leaves me alone.
It’s someone else who doesn’t.
My apartment smells like chicken soup and warmth and the ocean. Frozen in the doorway, I allow myself a single self-indulgent moment to breathe the scent in. To watch the man in my kitchen, who either didn’t hear me come in or just doesn’t care to turn around, tending to a pot on the stove.
Such an oddly familiar sight. Yet so unexpected it makes my heart pulse and crack and do a hundred other things that can’t be good for someone fresh out of surgery.
Nor is, I’m sure, my temper rising against my will, fueled by exhausted frustration, and undoubtedly bringing my blood pressure up with it. ‘How did you get in here?’
Heath doesn’t so much as twitch. He doesn’t turn around either, only gracing me with his side profile as he twists slightly to reach into an upper cabinet and pull out a bowl. ‘Sebastian gave me his key.’
Of course he did.
‘Why are you here?’
‘Because I love you.’
I flinch. ‘Heath, I can’t do this right now.’
‘Are you in pain?’
I shake my head.
He purses his lips like he knows damn well I’m lying. ‘Hungry?’
I lie again, and he sighs. ‘Let me guess. Not tired either?’
That, I don’t even try to deny. I’m dead on my feet, and I’m sure I look it. I’m not actually entirely certain my eyes are even open right now. Honestly, for all I know, I could still be knocked out, under the knife, dreaming this all up.
‘Bed,’ Heath gently commands, and I don’t even bristle. I’m glad to be told what to do – it eliminates the need to decide for myself. ‘I’ll bring you something to eat and then you can sleep, okay?’
I nod, listless. I do as he says, dragging myself to my bedroom.
Except once I’m in there, staring at the clean sheets, my bed freshly made, most definitely not how I left it, I itch at the thought of tainting them with that hospital stench.
Instead, I hurry into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me before a reprimand can follow, turn on the shower, and clumsily undo my braid, one-handed.
I’m wincing at the straw-like texture to my hair, a consequence of not rinsing out the chlorine, when I realize the fatal flaw in my plan.
My arm is still confined to a sling. Even if I take it off, I can’t straighten it properly, let alone lift it above my head. I could barely get dressed this morning – a nurse had to help me. No way am I getting undressed on my own. Plus, there’s a three-inch long incision I can’t get wet.
Tears burn my eyes. I am little more than pure, complete frustration.
I can do little more than stare at the running water filling the room with steam and try so fucking hard to do what my brother said, to go easy on myself, to stop the catastrophizing, to consider that my life isn’t over – just one little part of it is.
Eyes scrunched shut, I mumble that aloud because maybe hearing it repeatedly will help it sink in.
It starts to work – or maybe it’s just the steady monotony of my new mantra that helps lower my racing heartbeat – until a hand landing on my shoulder erases all my effort.
Because it lands on my good shoulder, I think of it as my good shoulder, I think about my bad shoulder, and by the time Heath dips into my line of sight, tears are spilling free, burning my cheeks.
‘I knocked.’
‘I can’t—’ My voice cracks. ‘I can’t even shower.’
‘Oh, honey.’ Forehead to my temple, Heath mouths a gentle shush against my damp cheek. ‘Please let me help.’
A croaked okay has his breath hitching.
So carefully, he undresses me. Apologizing all the while because, as gently as he helps me out of my t-shirt and sweats, every incidental movement ignites sharp, stabbing pain.
He strips me completely bare, entirely clinical about it, too concentrated on perfecting the water temperature to even glance at my naked body.
‘Okay.’ He holds out a hand toward me, the other shifting the showerhead so the spray hits the wall. ‘C’mere.’
Of their own volition, my fingers lace with his and cling hard enough to break freaking bone. As if driven by the one, deeply buried part of me that’s capable of admitting how much I need him.
He doesn’t complain. Doesn’t break free.
One-handed, he wets a wash cloth, soaps it up, cleans every inch of me with methodical, gentle strokes until that antiseptic reek is replaced by sweet vanilla, warm almond.
He takes his time washing my hair, lathering it up twice with coconut-scented shampoo and doing the same with my conditioner, meticulously combing it through until every strand is silky smooth.
The whole time, I try my best to stop crying. Fail miserably, feel miserable. My favorite cleanser washes away my tears, but they just keep coming, silent and endless. By the time Heath has dried me off and checked my wound and bundled me into the loosest clothing I own, I’m sobbing.
And still, through my tears, still clutching his hand, as Heath tucks me into bed, I shakily insist, ‘You don’t have to stay.’
His scoff is just as gentle as the rest of him, but firmly dismissive. ‘I’m staying.’
I whimper. Relieved and embarrassed and miserable.
Stroking my damp hair reverently, Heath kisses my forehead.
Then the back of my hand, almost in apology, before he lets me go so he can shed the clothes that got wet while he was taking care of me.
He changes into a new pair plucked from the duffel bag tucked in the corner while I blankly stare with heavy, wet eyes.
He rushes to get dressed and then he rushes into the kitchen, rushing right back to me with that bowl of soup he promised, a glass of water, a bottle of paracetamol.
He makes me take two, makes me down every last drop, and when I only get through half the soup before my twisted-up stomach protests, he sighs, but doesn’t push.
Propped semi-upright by a mountain of cushions, I watch as he slips another beneath my injured shoulder, supporting it. As he tucks the comforter carefully around me before sliding beneath it too. As he turns off the light before taking my hand again, kissing my knuckles.
Into the darkness, I whisper, ‘Because you love me?’
‘Yeah, Daniela. Because I love you.’