“You were crying?—”
“That was a rhetorical question, Tristen. Get. Out.”
“I, uh, can’t. It’s pouring outside.” Luckily I had made it inside before the sky ripped open.
The rush of water abruptly cuts off, replaced with slow drips and the hiss of rain beating on the roof. She pokes her head out, keeping the curtain tucked under her chin so I can only see her oval face. The fruity scent of her shampoo burns into my memory, forever tying this moment and strawberries together. Droplets of water cling to her lashes and bead on her flushed skin. So delicate, so perfect. If only she could see herself through myeyes.
My breath stutters from my lips, the painful desire to trace the path of each droplet almost more than I can bear. But the urge evaporates the instant I notice her murderous stare.
“Do you have to be right outside the shower? I am naked. This flimsy piece of plastic is the only thing separating us.” She shakes the curtain, and my heart somersaults in my chest. “How can I get out with you in the room?”
“Here,” I say and offer the towel. “I’ll, uh, go sit in my bunk out of the way.”
Like a magician, she snatches the towel from my hands and is back behind the curtain before I can blink. Her shadow’s movements are jerky, performing almost like an odd dance as she dries herself off. One leg and then the other.
“Tristen,” she barks.
“Huh? Oh, right. My bunk.” I tear my eyes away from her silhouette and rush over to my bed. I climb up the ladder and dive onto my cat sheets. Unfastening the bunk’s privacy drape from the wall, I yank it just as Reese exits the shower, her torso to thigh wrapped in a fluffy towel.
I freeze again, unable to stop myself from admiring her.
Her blonde hair seems almost brown, plastered to her head, the long tresses dripping on the floor as she walks to the bedroom. On her right shoulder is a mark—no, a picture of what looks to be a microphone. I lean forward, straining to see it clearly. How did I not know Reese has a tattoo?
“I can feel you staring at me.”
“I’m just closing the curtain.” I resume pulling the drape but it catches on the track, the fabric refusing to close fully no matter how frantically I tug.
“Weirdo,” she calls out as she ducks into the bedroom and slides her accordion door shut behind her.
“Maybe I am,” I mumble, shaking my head at myself.
Scrubbing a hand down my face, I flop back onto the bed, still reeling from all the emotions. Since when did Reese havesuch an effect on me? It’s like my brain stopped functioning and all I can do is gape at her like some lovesick preteen.
“Hey,” Reese says from the bedroom doorway, her hands on her hips.
Thankfully she is dressed, but I’m beginning to think it doesn’t matter what she does or doesn’t wear. I want her. It’s not a gentle pull either. It’s painful, like meat hooks in my chest, pulling toward her. A kiss-her-or-I-might-die situation.
“Don’t ignore me.” She storms up to my bed and raises onto her tiptoes. “What on earth has gotten into you?”
I tilt my head on my pillow, surprised how her anger illuminates her eyes in a silvery glow.
“You.”
“Me?” Her neck flushes to her cheeks, highlighting her precious freckles. “Are you trying to tell me that your reaction is my fault because I was showering?”
“No. It’s from before. Seeing you outside with blood on your shirt... it felt like I’d been sliced open too. Then walking in and hearing your gut-wrenching sobs in the shower? I nearly ripped the shower curtain away to gather you in my arms. Reese, I...”
How do I put into words what I don’t understand myself?
Yes, she’s insanely attractive. There’s no denying that. But she’s more than her appearance. She’s also an intricate puzzle of kindness, loyalty, and courage. After her granny was diagnosed with coronary artery disease, Reese dropped everything to take care of her. For months, she carried the responsibility of being a caregiver on her own, never once complaining. Her weekends are booked solid with volunteering around town and with the local youth program. Even with Des’s motorhome, she took on the challenge knowing she was going to be in over her head.
Time after time, she gives pieces of herself until she has nothing left but her rough edges and sarcasm. And still, shenever asks for anything, trying to juggle all her problems and everyone else’s.
For once, I want to be the person she turns to for help. For her to lean on me when the crushing weight becomes too much for her to bear. To be the shoulder she can cry on when her heart is shattering instead of her hiding in the shower trying to manage it on her own.
She doesn’t need to keep offering herself up to atone for her past mistakes to find peace.
All this time she’s asked others for forgiveness... she never asked the one person who could heal her inside—Jesus.
