Fifty-nine
Sarah
We had officially reached a state of delirium.
The water was way colder than we thought it would be, and trying to climb out via a half-rotten dock was also way harder than we anticipated. Of course, we cackled like maniacs the entire time, and something in me healed as we laughed together.
Oh, how my soul had needed this.
Moment by moment, the pieces of my heart stitched together, becoming whole again.
The entire front of my body was streaked with dry mud from pushing myself out of the water on the side of the dock.
Considering we were standing in our underwear, I envisioned sharing another kiss or having at least one romantic moment?
But no. Our teeth instantly chattered as we pulled the dry clothes back over our bodies, stumbling around as wet skin resisted fabric.
Peter’s words were broken. “I take back what I said—about it not being that cold—holy shit.”
“And we’ve got a long walk back, genius.”
“The way here—didn’t seem too bad.”
As if making a point, the wind whipped, making us both gasp.
“Let’s go.” Peter tugged me back into the grass.
Gravel crunched beneath our feet as we jogged up the driveway. And even though the chilly air bit at my skin, I couldn’t wipe the stupid smile off my face. I was so happy. Peter and I were okay—more than okay.
The fifth wheel graciously blocked us from the wind. As Peter launched for the door, I pulled him in the opposite direction. “Wait! Let’s try the outdoor shower!”
Standing about five feet from the fifth wheel was an outdoor shower with three wooden walls and one curtain.
It was wonderfully private at the back of the ranch.
I felt perfectly safe stripping all the way down as the water billowed to a full, steaming temperature.
Plunging myself beneath the flow, I gave a long, heavy sigh of relief as the hot water whisked away the cold droplets still clinging to my hair, warming me from the outside in.
But Peter hung back, hovering just inside the open curtain.
Pulling my head out from under the stream, I asked, “You okay?”
“Yeah,” he said. But he didn’t sound okay. His voice had suddenly changed, sounding tense.
“What?” I stepped closer, gently prodding. “Tell me.”
He tipped his gaze toward the sky. “No matter how I say it, it’s going to sound like complaining.”
“Just complain then.”
A sad smile twitched at his lips. “I’m…trying to imagine what you look like right now.” He opened his mouth to say more, but suddenly closed it, shrugging instead.
“Is it difficult? To imagine things?”
He shook his head. “No. I can imagine fine for the most part, but I think trying to imagine things sometimes hinders me from actually enjoying them. Because I get too stuck in my head.”
“So, why are you trying to imagine me then?”
He sighed. “Because I really want to see my wife right now.”
His words made my chest hurt.
“I’ll never be able to watch water trickle over your skin…or watch you shampoo your hair…or shave your legs…” His shoulders lifted on a big, deep breath. “That’s extremely depressing if I think about it too long.”
Panic flashed through my heart. Because I didn’t want him to feel depressed, I took a breath, about to say…wait…what was I about to say?
It won’t always feel so heavy, Peter.
Other responses flooded my brain. Things that sounded, on the surface, uplifting or positive.
But each and every one fizzled out before they fully formed on my tongue.
All I could do was stand there and blink at the man I loved.
Beads of pond water still slowly traveled the strands of his hair and water spots marred his gray hoodie.
For a moment, I closed my eyes and imagined never seeing him ever again.
His full pink lips, his chocolate hair, his strong jaw, his shoulders, his hands, his smile.
In the dark, my heart squeezed with pain.
Peter had told me many times how heavy these changes were, and I trivialized his pain when I tried to pump him up or provide solutions, didn’t I?
When my answer to his grief and fear was here just try this, it probably felt like I assumed he wasn’t already doing everything he possibly could to cope.
Once again, I could see now how my responses had unintentionally shut him down. How my relentless positivity had caused him to stop sharing his deepest hurts with me. A stabbing pain shot through my heart as I imagined how I’d feel if I were living Peter’s reality.
What would I want?
My eyes fluttered closed then I whispered. “My eyes are closed. Because I’m trying to imagine how it would feel to never see you again.” I shook my head. “But I can’t even force myself to imagine it.” I opened my eyes, finding his face. “Never seeing you again would break me.”
Peter’s shoulders fell on an exhale, the sound tinged with soft relief. My response actually made him smile, lifting the sadness in his expression. Then he asked, “Can you narrate a little?”
“Of course.”
His smile grew bigger as he leaned against the frame of the shower.
“Well”—I looked up, noting the moon’s light—“it’s pretty dark in here aside from the moon.
Your head and shoulders have a wash of moonlight on them, and I think my hair does too.
The shower head is a little loose, so it’s spraying water at weird angles.
” I looked down. “My toes are painted pink but they have mud on them right now. Steam is lifting into the sky, which is good because you promised a steaming shower after jumping in the pond, and I won’t lie—its the only reason I jumped. ”
He smirked. “You only jumped for the shower?”
“Yes, specifically because I thought you’d be in it. With me.”
His eyes darkened as I stepped forward and lifted his hand, placing it on the swipe of gritty mud still clinging to my breastbone. “I have mud right here, too.”
His fingers flexed, moving over the flecks of dirt, following the trail between my breasts to the top of my stomach. My eyes rolled back as his hand left a trail of glowing heat.
Peter pulled his hoodie off and stepped into the shower, water spraying over his bare torso and soaking into his jeans. His lips were parted, eyes hooded with want. “Is there shampoo?” he asked, his voice low and scraping.
I turned to the little shelf, finding half a bottle. “Here.” I put it in his hand.
Putting some in his palm, he circled his arms around me, lifting his hands to the back of my head. Slowly his fingers scraped into my scalp as a strained whimper lifted from my lips. Peter’s face was so serious as his thumbs swiped the hair over my ears and squeezed at the nape of my neck.
“You’re so beautiful, Sarah,” he whispered.
I reached out to steady myself against the wall, my knees turning to jelly.
Gently, he nudged me backward under the water, lifting my chin with his finger so the soap could run down my back. He kneaded my hair, letting it all wash away.
Then he sudsed his hands with a bar of soap.
Just the sight of him preparing his soapy hands sent desire cascading through my body like an electric flow, waking every nerve with a jolt of anticipation.
“Hands up,” he whispered.
I lifted my hands above my head, my world pitching sideways.
Peter reached up, sliding his hands from my wrists down to my shoulders and around my back.
His hands caressed my neck, his thumbs swiping bubbles over my jaw and under my ear.
His pace was slow, measured, and by the time he was meticulously washing my shoulder blades, I realized this was his way of watching me shower.
Of seeing me in this moment. So I stood, waiting, trying not to let my impatience shine through.
Trying not to launch myself at him until he was ready to proceed.
Every breath he took hitched, like he couldn’t quite finish his inhales. I couldn’t breathe either as heat gathered low in my torso, hotter and hotter, with every little brush of his fingers on my skin.
His hands left my body as he soaped them up again.
And this time, when they came back, they landed on the swipe of mud across my chest. He rubbed small gentle circles, spiralling outward until I was moaning his name and grabbing his shoulders in order to stay on my feet.
His hands grew less careful, starting to hurry.
They went from deep study to quick skimming, rushing to touch anything and everything—all of me, all at once.
And when I lifted my leg for him to wash it, he grabbed my thigh and wrapped it around his waist, slamming me against the wall with a groan.