“Corrine?” I call as I let myself into the apartment. Everything is quiet and dark. I move down the hall to her bedroom, where dim light glows from under the door of her en suite bathroom.
“Corrine?” I knock softly on the door.
“Come in.”
The bathroom is lit only by a few pillar candles throughout the room. Corrine sits reclined in the soaker tub, her hair down, her eyes closed. I place the bag on the counter and lower myself next to the tub. Her skin is almost as white as the porcelain. Her eyes puffy and red, old eye makeup dried in streaks on her cheeks.
The plastic bag full of headache supplies seems pointless when it clicks that those tracks on her cheeks are from tears. All of it is useless in the face of the pain she must be in. I rub her temple and she leans into it. I cup some water in my hand; it’s freezing.
“Corrine,” I whisper, running my hand over the top of her head. “Are you cold?”
This is a stupid question. Her skin is covered in goose bumps.
“Do that again,” she says.
“Are you...cold?”
I’m not sure if it’s possible but Corrine’s eyes roll beneath her eyelids. She reaches out, her eyes still closed, searching blindly until her fingers wrap around my wrist and lift my hand to her head again. “That.”
I run my palm over her head and she presses into my hand, almost purring. So I do it over and over. I run my fingers through her hair and my thumb across her temple. I turn on the hot water and pour water over her hair, pick up her bottle of coconut shampoo and squirt some into my hand, massaging her scalp. She dips her head under the water when I’m done to rinse her hair. “Where do you keep your makeup stuff?” I whisper as she wipes water from her eyes.
Her eyes flutter open. “My what?”
“You know, the stuff you use to take your makeup off.”
“Oh.” Water falls in a staccato patter as she lifts her arm from the tub, points past me. “Bottom drawer on the left.”
Rinsing and drying my hands, I pull the drawer open, find what I need, and return to my spot by the tub. “Close your eyes.”
She leans her head back against the tub. I pour some of her fancy makeup remover onto a cotton ball.
I don’t know if I’m doing this right. Every dab feels like it won’t be soft enough, but slowly the smudges disappear.
I run the tap to wet the washcloth with warm water once again, wipe her face one last time. When I look up from rinsing my hands in the water, she’s watching me.
Her wet eyelashes stick together in little bundles, her face is clean, her cheeks are pink. She lifts her hand, cupping her wet palm to my cheek. Water falls from the tap in a slow drip, like it’s counting time that’s slower in this quiet room.
She doesn’t smile but somehow I know from how she touches me that she’s happy. “I’m feeling better now,” she says.
“Really?” I ask. “Because of me, right?” I smirk as she rolls her eyes. She can’t resist an opportunity to set me on my heels.
She shakes her head. “No. My last dose of Rizatriptan finally kicked in.”
She laughs when I splash her.
Chapter 32: Corrine
I float on warmth, the pillows and duvet fluffed up high around me like a cocoon. The golden light of the pillar candles steals beneath my eyelids, blissfully pain-free.
I turn my head on the pillow, blearily opening my eyes. On my bedside table is the fuzzy outline of a mug of most likely cold tea. I have a vague memory of Wesley bringing some after I got out of the bath. I roll to my other side and stifle a gasp.
Wesley is here. On my bed. Lying on top of the covers. My heart beats tenderly that he stayed. But falling asleep together feels too much like something real couples do after a long day, content with the companionship. Surviving off more than just lust. An alarm bell rings somewhere deep inside of me but that panic is for later. The fullness of my bed is too good to worry about right now.
The blinds are drawn and no light creeps from underneath, giving me no idea if it’s early or late. The act of rolling over and checking my phone for the time seems too much, insurmountable. I just study Wesley instead.
His glasses are gone. His hair is a nest. Wesley always seems like a happy-go-lucky guy. But it’s only now that I see him asleep, his face totally calm, that I realize he holds a lot more tension and worry than I’m aware of when he’s awake. Sometimes it’s easy to forget he lost his mom just a few months ago.
Slowly, I creep closer to him, resting my head on his pillow, placing my arm on his T-shirt-clad chest. He doesn’t move. The cotton is soft and the heat from his body borders on burning. His chest rises and falls with slow, deep breaths. I let the covers fall from my leg and roll until my leg hooks over his waist.
