I was on my way to naked and it wasn’t even fun. This was the definition of being in a bad spot. “When will the ‘I told you so’ parade be starting?”
He glanced at me as he slipped the top over my head and down my injured arm. “No parade,” he said. “Not tonight. Come on, let’s get you into the bath.”
The water was perfect, even if there was a glaring lack of bubbles. Too slippery, according to Beck. He propped my arm on the lip of the tub with half the towels I owned and that made the whole waterproof sleeve-slash-elephant condom situation a little less bizarre.
He passed a soapy washcloth over my legs, tending to each set of scrapes and bruises he encountered. “What do I need to know about washing long hair?”
“You’re going to need a big cup or a pitcher to get everything wet,” I said, watching as he aimed a scowl at a bruise near my hip. “Although you don’t usually have much trouble with that.”
“Sunny. I swear to god.”
“What? You swear what?”
He exhaled like he had a real problem with oxygen. After a moment, he said, “I don’t know. I’m just—you’re being cute and I’m still trying to convince myself that you’re okay.”
“I am very cute.” I pouted as if he needed more proof. “And I’m okay. You don’t have to worry about me.”
“You’re”—he motioned to my arm, to the bruises that shouted from my skin like an angry mob—“you’re going to be okay. But I am going to worry. Let me, please. I promise I won’t suffocate you.”
He went in search of a pitcher and returned with a large salad bowl, the heavy cast-iron kettle off my stove, and an empty almond milk jug that he must’ve found in my recycling bin. It hurt too much to laugh so I pressed the back of my hand to my mouth, saying, “Choices were made, I see.”
Beck knelt beside the tub and reached for the salad bowl, a determined glint in his eyes. “Let’s start with this one.”
I tipped my head back and closed my eyes as the water spilled over me. Even if we achieved nothing else, rinsing away today’s unhappy accident made me feel better. Beck smoothed his palm over my hair after each bowl of water and I sighed into his touch.
“How much of this?” He held the shampoo bottle over his palm.
I nudged him to pour, saying, “More. More. A little more. That’s good.”
He worked the shampoo into my hair, his fingers massaging in controlled circles over my scalp. I was half convinced he’d watched a video on how to wash hair while not finding a pitcher because every move was precise, meticulous.Heavenly.“How am I doing?”
“This is good,” I said, still sounding like I was six margaritas deep.
He took extra care to rinse out all the shampoo and then started on the conditioner which was, of course, a semi-complicated masque that had to be combed through and left on for five minutes unless I wanted to be a frizzy, dull mess, but none of this seemed to deter Beck. He refused to go with my conditioner of last resort, the product that worked just fine for ponytails and buns, which would be my life for the next six to eight weeks.
I leaned toward him as he raked his fingers through my hair after completing the process. We’d shared a lot of things and he knew more of my body than anyone else, and somehow,thisfelt so much deeper than sex. It was like a level of intimacy that dismantled everything I’d believed about myself and my ability to connect with other people, and all the ways that I could be open and unafraid.
“You’re good at this,” I said as he wrung the last of the water from my hair. “Thank you.”
He dried his hands on a towel and leaned back against the wall, his long legs stretched out in front of him. “Don’t mention it, storm cloud.”
We stared at each other for a moment, a spiral of heat and awareness passing between us that spoke nothing of sex but everything of that startling new level of—what? What was it when you allowed another person to care for you so tenderly, so completely that they becametheperson, the only one you could ever imagine knowing you in such a raw, thorough way?
I didn’t know. I didn’t have the words for it. I hadn’t learned them yet. From the looks of it, neither had Beck. But we had time. We’d figure it out.
“Why do you always smell like vanilla?” I asked.
He dipped his head, laughing. “Oysters.”
“Oysters don’t smell like vanilla.”
“They don’t,” he agreed. “We keep vanilla extract around the raw bar for that reason. Soap and water doesn’t always cut it.”
“I like it.”
“Then I guess it’s a good thing I spend so much time shucking.”
“You are quite good at it,” I teased.
