Chapter 5 #3
“Actors driving in movies.” I almost smile at the memory of catching them with Nate in every western we saw, pointing at the screen, saying, Look, he’s not even looking forward.
“Because, you know, they never watch the road.” I rinse her hair, grateful that she is letting me do this, even if it seems difficult for her to bear being touched.
I will need to look into this later, see if there are medical books or papers on the matter.
The doctor did mention the word PTSD, so I’ll definitely connect her with the best therapist I can find.
I guess the hardest part was knowing that they found an impressive amount of sleeping pills in her blood.
And I pray with everything I can that Cole only meant to drug her to keep her calm and not to abuse her physically.
As of right now, nothing says he did, but if Ella ever opens up later and talks about it, I will absolutely lose my mind.
Her face tilts delicately, her cheek resting on her right knee, looking at me like she does not want me to notice. I keep my eyes on her dark hair, proving my point that I can behave like a true gentleman.
“Done,” I let out, even though I wish for nothing more than to keep touching her, even if it is just like this.
I will take any crumb she is willing to give me at this point.
Once I’m done, I reluctantly stand and exit the bathroom, keeping the door open in case she needs me, my back against the wall beside the door.
Water dances around as she comes out; my feet pressuring me to go and help her, but she did not ask, and so I cannot.
Hands curl into fists at my sides. Teeth grind.
Heart pounding, slow and fast. I wait, and wait, until she comes out, and I get by her side with a fresh, clean T-shirt of mine and a pair of my sweatpants I brought this morning.
“I… I’ll turn.” I shift my back on her while being almost so close I could touch her, and I hear the towel meeting the bed and the rustling of my clothes as she puts them on.
A vein on my forehead is pulsing like I’m getting chased by a cheetah, and I get the urge to stick my fist into a wall.
Focus. Control. Two little snaps of her fingers break my train of thought, and I turn slowly, hand over my eyes.
I would walk through a marathon length of shard glass barefoot if I could be granted the gift of seeing her skin, so trust me, the comedic irony isn’t lost on me.
“Can I look?” Being a grown thirty-two-year-old man facing the woman of my dreams and hiding behind my palm is perhaps the comedic relief we both needed.
She snaps her fingers twice. Okay. Twice for yes.
Got it. Now lying on the bed, I tuck the sheet above her, careful not to touch her.
The ruffle of fabric mixing with our breathing and the ticking tension in the air is enough to make fire.
This kind of connection, palpable, should be studied.
My hand rises in reflex, searching to cup her face, but I stop midair, curling it into a fist. She shapes a weak “thank you,” looking into my eyes, her words wrapping me in her warmth and softness.
“Always, Ella. Anytime you need me.” I feel like she’s about to cry, and so I kneel, frowning and desperate and wishing I could just, just touch her.
“I’ll fix everything, sweet…” I stop. “Ella, I promise you, I will fix everything.” She nods multiple times against the pillow, but it is weak and sad–the evidence of my failure rolling on her cheeks.
Hell, I should have tied her to my bedframe, and she would not have been able to go out and try to reach her father.
But the what-ifs will not help us now. If I could do everything differently, if I could just…
Fingers move around, her eyelids heavy, a tiny sigh escaping her beautiful, begging-to-be-kissed lips.
“Sweetheart, Tristan, please. Call me sweetheart, always,” she signs before closing her eyes, palms tucked under the side of her face, as she falls asleep like taking a bath has drained her completely.
I return to the bathroom to fetch a small towel and slide it under her long hair above the pillow.
Not in the best way, but since I cannot touch her, I do not try to make it perfect.
Then I press the button calling the nurse so she can come back and connect the hydration liquid to the catheter in her arm.
Standing above her while I wait for the nurse to come, I mentally photograph all her features, the right curve of her nose and the depth of her lashes, the sound of her breathing, alive, right before me, and I imprint it in me, taking this moment for the milestone it is—a never-going-back kind of moment.
From now on, things will be different. I will be different, because the woman I love needs things from me I have never given anyone before.
All I can think about now is rebuilding everything so I can become the man she deserves and give her the care and safety she needs.
“Sweetheart,” I murmur. We still have wars and battles ahead of us, between her stepmother, her dad, and my empire falling, but I will be there. Every step of the way.
I’ll fix everything, Ella.
I promise.