Somehow, Zoey’s eyebrows move higher. “She told you about Marly Milano?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“Lulu’s had my back my entire life,” she says, “I owe her more than a pot of soup.”
“That’s what family does, Zoey. I’ve got to go.”
“I’ll be here,” she says and chews on her bottom lip as she goes back to working on the soup.
Lulu’s eyes are closed when I walk back into the bathroom. She’s sitting up, knees to her chin, looking bruised and battered, but not mentally beaten. “Zoey okay?” she asks, always worried more about her sister than herself, which seems to have been a theme for their entire lives.
“She’s good. Cooking.”
“Don’t get your hopes up,” she says, opening her eyes as I pull over a chair she has in the bathroom for some reason. “She’s an awful cook.”
“Great,” I whisper, setting the cup on the edge of the tub. I grab a towel and the shampoo before I settle into the chair as close to her head as I can get without climbing into the tub with her. It’s too small for two people, and with the shape she’s in, I wouldn’t dare try to sandwich myself in there with her. “I’m starving.”
“Maybe we should call in a pizza. The bar will deliver it here.”
“They will?” I ask as I dip the cup in the water.
“They will for me. It’s one of the perks of being related to the owners.”
“If the soup is bad, we’ll order pizza.”
“It’ll taste like dirty dishwater.”
“Ready?” I ask, ignoring the comment about the soup because I’m too hungry to think it’ll be anything except delicious. I’ve had bad food. The meals served in the military are barely edible, but you either choke them down or starve.
“Yes,” she says as she tips her head back and closes her eyes.
“I’ve never done this before, so I’m sorry in advance.”
She reaches up, touching my arm as I hold the cup above her head. “Just go slow.”
I do as she says, slowly pouring the water down the back of her head, using one hand to shield her eyes from any splash-over. When her hair is wet enough, I grab the shampoo, pouring a small amount into my hands.
“More,” she says.
“You can’t even see my hand.”
“The squirt wasn’t long enough.”
Again, I don’t argue with her. I could wash my hair with a bar of soap, and it would come out looking the same as it would with the most expensive shampoo.
Lulu moans as I work the shampoo into her hair, spending extra time on the ends where blood and whatever else has dried. “That feels so good,” she says, her voice soft and sleepy.
I let the silence fill the room as I make more bubbles in her hair, far more than I ever do in myown. I can’t imagine doing this every day. It must be exhausting. I could never handle being a woman.
“You’re good at this.”
“I’ll wash your hair whenever you want,” I tell her as I keep my gaze trained on her hair, trying my best to keep the suds from slipping down her forehead.
“I needed this,” she says, letting go of a long exhale. “But I can’t wait to go to sleep.”
“Soon,” I reply, grabbing the cup again. “Have to eat something.”
“I don’t need to add hangry to the list of things wrong with me tonight,” she grumbles. “If the soup’s shit, I’m going to have toast and crawl into bed.”
