Chapter 10 #2
“Let’s get you back to bed,” Marcus says gently.
They guide me the few steps back to the mattress, and the moment my weight leaves my legs, I collapse against the pillows. The tears come fast and hard, streaming down my face as sobs wrack my chest.
Sandy murmurs something to Marcus, and he steps out of the room. She sits on the edge of my bed, her hand finding mine.
“Hey, what’s going on?” she asks softly. “Talk to me.”
I press my palms against my eyes, trying to stem the flow of tears. “I didn’t want him to see me like that. My legs—the grafts—they’re hideous.”
“Jess.” Sandy’s voice is gentle but firm. “I don’t think he cares.”
I drop my hands and stare at her. “What?”
She sighs softly. “I’ve seen the way that man looks at you, and it’s not with pity or disgust. It’s something else entirely.”
I don’t know what she means by that, but she doesn’t give me a chance to ask either.
“The first night he showed up, he looked deranged, like he was on the verge of killing anyone who stood in his way of getting to you, but once we let him into your room, everything about that man softened. He was at peace, and something tells me a man like your husband doesn’t find peace all that often.
” Sandy studies me for a long moment. “What if we made you feel more like yourself?” She pushes off the bed and crosses to the cubby where Tori stored all my belongings.
Things I haven’t touched since she unpacked them.
“I could brush your hair, and I spotted a makeup bag in here somewhere. Would that make you feel better?”
I stare at her. “Makeup?”
“Trust me.” She pulls out a small zippered bag and holds it up. “I always feel better when I get dressed and do my makeup. Even if I’m just sitting around the house. There’s something about looking in the mirror and recognizing yourself that makes everything a little easier to handle.”
I don’t have much hope that a ponytail and some lip gloss will fix how I’m feeling, but I’m desperate enough to try anything.
“Okay,” I say reluctantly. “But nothing over the top. I’m not trying to impress anyone.”
Sandy’s mouth quirks into a knowing smile, but she doesn’t say anything. She helps me sit up against the headboard, then retrieves a brush from the bathroom. Her fingers work through my tangled hair, gathering it into a high ponytail.
Next, she unzips the makeup bag and pulls out a compact of blush and a tube of lip gloss.
The blush is light—just enough to add some color to my pale cheeks—and the lip gloss is sheer pink, the kind I used to wear to work every night.
She applies both with a careful hand. When she’s finished, she holds up a small mirror.
I stare at my reflection, and for the first time since the fire, I recognize the woman staring back at me.
The stitches in my forehead have long dissolved, but the puckered skin from the scar is still very visible—a raised, angry line cutting across my forehead.
It’s not pretty, but I fight the urge to pull my hair from the ponytail to hide it.
I lower the mirror, and my gaze cuts back to Sandy.
“Thank you.”
She smiles brightly. “Of course.”
Then she turns back to the cubby, rummaging through the clothes Tori left. After a moment, she pulls out a pair of baggy gray sweatpants and holds them up.
“Think you can manage these?”
I eye the pants, then my legs. “I don’t know.”
“We’ll go slow.” She helps me sit up straighter, then carefully maneuvers the sweatpants over my feet, up my calves, and past my knees. Her movements are gentle, and though the fabric irritates my grafts as it brushes against them, the pain is manageable.
She pulls them up to my waist, adjusting the drawstring until they sit comfortably.
“There,” she says, stepping back. “How do you feel?”
I look down at myself—the baggy sweats, the hospital gown still covering my top half—and something settles in my chest. I’m still in a hospital bed, but I feel less like a patient and more like a person.
“Better,” I admit.
Sandy smiles and glances toward the armchair in the corner of the room. “Do you want to move to the chair? I can call Marcus to help you.”
I shake my head. “No, I’m okay here for now.”
I’ve already pushed myself enough for one day.
Sandy nods, then hesitates. “If you want, I could go check on your husband, see if he’s still around.”
I stare at my hands, tracing the lines on my palms. After the way I reacted, I’m sure he’s long gone, but I nod anyway. I don’t want to be alone.
“If he’s still here, tell him he can come back,” I say quietly.
Sandy’s face brightens. “I’ll be right back.”
A couple of minutes later, the door opens again. Lucifer fills the frame, his massive body seeming too large for the hospital doorway. He hesitates, one hand still on the doorknob, as if waiting for permission to enter.
“Hi,” I say, my voice small.
He steps inside, letting the door close behind him. His dark eyes scan my face, taking in the ponytail and the hint of makeup.
“You look nice.” He lifts his hand above his head and waves it around. “I like the ponytail.”
I don’t know what it is about that last sentence I find funny. Maybe it’s the way he motions to my hair in such an awkward manner, but a laugh bubbles up from my chest. The sound surprises us both, and for a moment, the tension in the room dissipates.
The corners of Lucifer’s mouth lift slightly, and he inhales sharply.
“Shit,” he mutters.
The laughter dies almost instantly. “What?”
He shakes his head, dragging a hand over the side of his face. “Nothing . . .” His voice trails, and he bites the inside of his cheek, shuffling his feet uncomfortably. Then he straightens his shoulders and tips his chin. “It’s just . . . you laughed.”
That gives me pause, and I try to remember the last time I found anything funny, but I can’t.
“I guess I did, didn’t I?” I murmur.
“Yeah, and the sound is just as devastatingly beautiful as I thought it’d be.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks at his words. I glance down at my hands, suddenly unable to meet his gaze. The silence stretches between us until I finally work up the nerve to break it.
“I’m sorry,” I finally say, my voice barely above a whisper. “For earlier. The way I reacted when you walked in.”
Lucifer’s expression softens. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not.” I shake my head, my fingers fidgeting with the hem of my hospital gown. “I shouldn’t have screamed at you to leave like that.”
He takes a step closer, then stops, his eyes drifting to the chair beside my bed.
“Is it okay if I sit?”
“Yeah,” I say, nodding toward the chair.
He lowers himself into the seat, his arms resting on his thighs, his hands clasped between his knees.
“Your legs look good,” he says finally.
I blink at him, sure I heard him wrong. “What?”
“The grafts. They’re healing.” His voice is rough. “That’s progress.”
Something warm unfurls in my chest at his words.
“I guess,” I say, looking down at my covered legs. “It doesn’t feel like progress when I can barely walk.”
Lucifer leans forward. “You were walking today. That’s something.”
“Three steps,” I mutter. “I took three steps.”
“I won’t sign you up for a marathon just yet, but . . .” He smiles, flashing me his dimples. “ . . . that’s three more steps than yesterday.”
His smile catches me off guard. It’s not the predatory grin I’ve seen him flash across the bar. This smile is different—gentle, almost boyish, transforming his hardened features into something unexpectedly beautiful. The lines around his eyes crinkle, and for a moment, he looks almost approachable.
But as quickly as it appears, it fades, replaced by his usual guarded expression. It’s a good thing too, because a girl could get addicted to that smile. I push those thoughts out of my head, focusing instead on the fact that he’s here at an unusual time.
“So, why are you here? It’s kind of early for you, no?”
He doesn’t answer right away, his dark eyes studying me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
“You want the truth or the rehearsed excuse I came up with on the way here?”
My fingers tighten around the edge of my hospital gown. “I don’t know. The truth can be scary.”
“Yeah, I guess it can.” He claps his hands against his thighs. “We’ll play it safe and go with the excuse then.” He pauses, lifting his hand to his face. His fingers move over his lips, and he tugs at the lower one, seeming to contemplate his words. “I was in the neighborhood.”
Another laugh bubbles free from my chest. “You could do better than that.”
“Alright, I like the hospital food.”
I shake my head. “Nope. It’s horrible here. Try again.”
“Yeah? Is that why you look so thin?”
I wasn’t aware I looked thin, but thinking about it now, I haven’t really been eating much. As bad as the food is, I don’t have much of an appetite.
I shrug. “The breakfast isn’t terrible, and the chocolate pudding is pretty good too. Sandy always puts an extra cup on my tray.”
He leans back in his chair and raises his hands, folding them behind his head. “Right, well, breakfast is out, and pudding ain’t going to fill me up. What do you say I go grab us some food from the barbecue place down the block?”
“Does that mean you’re staying?” I ask, my voice sounding a bit high-pitched.
“I don’t like eating alone.”
Yeah, me neither.
So, me and my husband share our first meal together, and to my surprise, I don’t hate it.
Not even a little.