Chapter 27 #2
Back in the bathroom, I go straight for the enemy. The faucet. That stupid, smooth, chrome knob. I feel a flash of white-hot rage on her behalf. I crank it, and the water thunders into the tub. Steam begins to wisp up.
“Salts? Oil?”
“Under the sink. Green jar. Little brown bottle.”
I find them. I don’t measure. I twist the top off the jar of CBD salts and dump a third of it into the water. The scent of eucalyptus and mint joins the steam. I uncap the lavender oil and shake at least twenty drops in. The bathroom immediately smells like a high-end spa.
I check the water with my hand. It’s scalding. Perfect. I turn to her. She’s trying to unbutton her jeans, but her fingers are stiff, uncooperative. She’s fumbling, and a new tear of pure frustration rolls down her cheek.
“Allow me,” I say, kneeling in front of her.
She stops, her hands falling to her sides. I am as gentle as I know how to be. I unbutton her jeans, unzip them. Then I remove her shoes and set them aside. My movements are practical, clinical, but my heart is aching.
“Can you stand?”
She nods and tries to take a deep breath.
Gripping the edge of the sink she stands, and I slide her jeans and panties down her legs, removing them and her socks at the same time.
She shuffles them off to the side. I unbutton her flannel shirt and gently pull it down her arms, then her bra and add them in the growing pile of clothes on the floor.
It's not sexual. It's not even sensual. It’s functional. It’s an act of service.
And in its own way, it’s more intimate than even the sex we had last night.
I get her to the edge of the tub. The water is steaming. “Okay. Easy does it.”
I support her as she lifts one leg, then the other, and help her sit.
She sinks into the water with a long, shuddering gasp that is half-pain and half-divine relief.
The water sloshes over the side, but I don’t care.
I watch her, my heart in my throat. Her hands, as if by instinct, grip the side of the tub, and her knuckles go bone-white. She’s still in pain.
“Is it helping?” I ask, my voice hushed.
“Yes,” she hisses through clenched teeth. “Oh, God, yes. It just... it takes a minute.”
But she can’t get comfortable. I can see it. She shifts, trying to lean back, but the hard, sloped porcelain of the tub offers no comfort. Her neck is still corded with tension, her shoulders hunched up by her ears. This isn't enough.
I make a mental note: Order a bath pillow. One of those giant, full-body-cushion ones. The most expensive one on . Order it tonight. And then I realize, that won’t help her right now. So I make a decision.
“Don’t move,” I say.
Her eyes are closed, but they flutter open, confused. “Zachary? What...?”
“I’m being your bath pillow,” I say. I’m stripping as I say it. Jeans, shirt, socks, underwear, all dropped in a damp pile by the door.
“Zachary, you don't...”
“I do,” I say. “Move forward. Just a bit.”
I slip into the tub behind her. The water is almost painfully hot, a shock to my system, but I don't flinch. It’s crowded, but we fit. I brace my back against the hard, cold wall of the tub, my knees bent.
“Okay,” I murmur, my voice low. “Lean back. Lie against me. I’m sturdy.”
She hesitates for a split second and then with a long, shuddering sigh that seems to come from the deepest part of her soul, she relaxes. She slumps back against my chest and whimper of utter relief escapes her. I think it’s the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard in my life.
Her head fits perfectly under my chin, her hair soft against my chest, and the smell of lavender and eucalyptus surrounding us.
I wrap my arms around her, my hands resting lightly on her stomach, just enclosing her.
A human shield. A human heating pad. A human pillow. A human…whatever she needs me to be.
We sit in silence for a long, long time.
There is no sound but the occasional drip from the faucet and the sound of our breathing, which slowly, finally, begins to sync.
I can feel the tension ebbing from her, muscle by muscle.
Her shoulders drop from her ears. One of her hands finds mine, submerged in the milky, hot water, and her fingers loosely entwine with mine.
I am more comfortable than I have ever been.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, and her voice is thick, dreamy, half-asleep.
“For what?” I murmur into her hair.
“This.” Her voice is small. “Our first... our first whole Saturday. We were supposed to... I don't know. Cook the apples. Watch a stupid movie. And... and now this. I ruined it.”
I kiss the top of her head. “Hey.” I wait until I feel her attention. “No apologies. Ever. Not for this.”
I tighten my grip, just a fraction. “A good day... a good day isn’t a day without pain, Maya. I’m starting to get that. That's not your world. A good day is a day where we figure out how to make you happy and comfortable despite it. A good day is a day we figure out how to be a team.”
I kiss her again. “This? Me, you, an obscene amount of CBD salts in a tub that’s way too small for two people? This is a great day. This is us being a team.”
I can hear the smile in her voice, a small, sleepy curve of her lips. “A great day,” she murmurs. “I like that.”
Her breathing evens out, deepens. The last of the fight goes out of her. Her hand goes limp in mine. She’s asleep. Really, truly asleep.
I just sit there, holding her. The water is a perfect, hot cocoon. The fear from earlier is gone. The panic is gone. I am not useless. I am exactly where I am supposed to be.
We stay in the tub for what feels like an hour. Time dissolves. But then the steam on the mirror begins to clear and I start to feel the inevitable, slow creep of cold. The water isn't a furnace anymore, it’s just slightly warm. And even in her relaxed sleep, Maya starts to shiver.
“Hey,” I whisper, giving her a gentle squeeze. “Maya. Time to get out. Water’s getting cold.”
She groans, a sleepy, protesting sound, and tries to burrow deeper against me. “No.”
“Yes,” I say, smiling. “Come on. Bed. The final frontier.”
I carefully untangle myself and stand, water streaming off me.
I grab the giant, fluffy towel then help her stand.
She’s a limp, beautiful, sleepy ragdoll.
I wrap the towel around her fast, swaddling her like a baby, and then I lift her out of the tub.
I carry her—towel and all—into her bedroom.
It's dark, the curtains drawn. I lay her down on top of the comforter.
“Pills,” she mutters, her eyes still closed. “Nightstand. Need... pills.”
“Right here.” I find the bottle, check the directions, shake two into my palm. I find the glass of water she always keeps there. “Okay, sit up for me. Just for a second.”
I help her sit, her head lolling like she’s boneless. I put the pills in her hand, guide them to her mouth, then I hold the glass of water to her lips. She sips, swallows, and sags against me. “Good girl.”
She's already falling back down as I pull the comforter back. I carefully, quickly, slide the damp towel out from under her. She’s mostly dry. I guide her under the covers, pull them up to her chin.
I stand there for a second, dripping, just watching her.
“Zachary?” she whispers, her eyes closed.
“I’m right here.”
“Stay?” The word is pleading.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
I go back to the bathroom to grab my clothes, but they’re still damp so I find a pair of soft-looking plaid pajama bottoms in one of her dresser drawers that look like they’ll fit.
They're comically short on me, ending mid-calf, but they're dry and they're comfortable.
I pull them on, and then I crawl onto the bed beside her on top of the covers.
I wrap my arm around her, pulling her back against my front. She immediately, instinctively, curls into me, fitting her back against my chest, her legs tangling with mine.
Within seconds, her breathing is deep and even. She’s fast asleep again.
I lie in the dark, listening to the hum of the heat kicking on, the distant sound of a siren. I am the faucet-turner. I am the bath pillow. I am the pill-getter.
I am, I think, as I feel my own eyelids growing heavy, the luckiest man in the world.
This is a good day.