He dips his chin and I take a step into the spray of steaming water, sliding the door closed as he sits on the toilet lid.
We don’t speak as I scrub my skin and wash my face, the sound of the shower blocking out the sound of my continuous tears. Through the frosted glass, I see his slouching figure, patiently waiting for me. As soon as I turn off the water, he’s on his feet and grabbing my towel.
He slides open the door enough for only his arm to come through with the towel. “Thank you,” I mutter and dry myself off.
I hold onto the wall as I step out onto the warm, thick shower rug with the towel wrapped around me.
“Are you okay?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
Rowan steps in close and kisses the top of my head. “I’m going to go order pizza now, okay?”
I nod.
“Regular, cheese pizza?”
“Yeah,” I rasp, fisting the towel to my chest. “Thank you.”
His hand brushes across my lower back as he walks out of the bathroom, leaving me to myself. I typically suffer from clinomania—have suffered from it for a long time. It’s what makes me what to sayfuck it alland close my bakery too often. It’s what makes me want to give up on almost everything. And I think I’m suffering from it right now. Again. Amongst other things.
I drop my towel and stare at my naked body in the mirror, and I want to cry. I want to lie in my bed, in the dark, indefinitely. There’s no mistaking what the scars at the top of my left thigh are. I trace them with the tips of my left fingers, feeling the difference between the untouched and healed skin.
My hand splays out on my thigh, covering the bundle of scars until I stare down at it and turn my hand over. My wrist isn’t nearly as bad. There are at least eleven, crossed over or lined beneath each other—still less than what is on my leg. I trace them with my right pointer finger, feeling the hills of my old sadness.
There’s something so nostalgic about the pain. Like it requires devotion. Like it needs to be remembered.
“Natalia?”
My heart drops at the sudden sound of my name from adeep, husky voice as Rowan pokes his head into the bathroom. I grab the shirt folded on the counter and hold it in front of my body in an effort to cover myself. “Yeah?”
“You okay?” Rowan asks. “You’ve been quiet in here for a while now. The pizza is almost here.”
“Yeah, sorry, I…I’ll be right out.”
When Rowan is gone, I finally pull on the shirt and shorts, leaving my hair in the clip. Making my way to the kitchen, I spot Rowan opening a box of fresh pizza and sliding a steaming slice onto a plate, hissing as he does so. Behind him, my sink, that was once filled with dishes from the past week, is now empty and my dishwasher is running.
He places a plate in front of me and we sit at the granite island together, eating mostly in silence—stealing quick glances at each other. Rowan eats two slices before he washes his hands, and I’ve barely managed to finish my first and only slice. I force myself to eat what I can until I get to the crust.
Dragging my lip back and forth between my teeth, I wash my hands too and Rowan immediately begins cleaning and even eats my uneaten crust. I wait it out, just to see if there is something I can do until finally I go to the couch and sit on the floor between it and the coffee table. I lean back against the cushions and hug my legs to my chest, my chin on my knee. Binx finds her way to me, slowly and obviously tired. She curls up on my lap and her eyes close with a purr.
I pet her and begin to feel sleepy myself. Rowan is doing the dishes now and my eyes feel heavier than they usually do.
I should have known the sex wasn’t going to fix me, it never does—no matter how good Rowan makes me feel. No matter how much temporary pleasure it gives me, letting me dissociatefrom everything else. No matter how much relief and calmness he gives me.
“Popcorn?” Rowan asks, already opening the cabinet in my kitchen for a box of my favorite, extra butter popcorn. Before I can say yes, the plastic is ripped open and the bag is in the microwave.
“Yes,” I say anyway.
I try not to think about how much popcorn I used to eat in…
In the hospital.
I had a roommate who was obsessed with popcorn and every time her parents came to visit, they’d bring her a box of extra butter popcorn. I was mostly silent the three weeks I had been there, but then she shared her popcorn with me and when I finally said “yes”out loud, she was so surprised it made me laugh. “You’re always so quiet,” she gasped. “I didn’t think you would ever talk.”
Stephanie laughed and, strangely, so did I. The medication was still fresh in my system, not fully taking effect at that time, but it helped to have Stephanie. Some days I wish I knew where she was now—if she was still alive and safe. She’d been there after a suicide attempt. And I’d been there for “suicidal ideation.”
For your safety, we can’t let you go home.
