But she’s not calling me out on any of that.
She’s not saying anything at all.
And I don’t regret overstepping.
Because if I’m going to see Addie regularly over the next few months—which she doesn’t know yet, but I likely am—then I’m going to be me.
The real me.
The me she’ll get if she gives me another chance.
I’m not much different today than I was four years ago when it comes to helping people I care about.
But I’m very much different when it comes to realizing that I don’t yet understand what she needs.
And while I know I like her more than I’ve ever liked any other woman in at least a decade, I also know that I might have to accept that she might never like me the same.
I look down at the shampoo suds swirling around my feet, which is my only evidence that she’s rinsing her hair.
“I get it,” I add. “I know. You didn’t ask me to play hero. You don’t need me defending your honor and you can take care of yourself on a meet-up with someone who won an experience with you. You’ve got everything under control and you don’t need my help. Truth is, I didn’t do it entirely for you. I did it for me. So I could sleep better. So I won’t worry about things that you’ll tell me I don’t need to worry about, but things that I can’t help but worry about because it’s who I fucking am.”
She inhales loudly enough to drown out the sound of the shower. “I’m glad you have the resources to help you sleep better.”
I glance over my shoulder, get adon’t you dare peek at me while I’m nakedface that’s not nearly as irritated as I’d expect it to be, and turn my head back around to not look at her.
Is she pissed about my motives last night but suppressing it?
Or was she halfheartedly glaring merely because I looked at her?
I didn’t look at her breasts. Just her face. Which I won’t be saying out loud.
Mostly because I wanted to look at all of her, and I can’t tell her I only looked at her face without adding that I wanted to look at all of her.
Iwillget to look at her again.
All of her.
But only if I find the right balance between pushing it and not pushing it.
“If you ever do need help, you can call me,” I add. “I won’t tell anyone. I won’t mock you. I won’t ask any more questions than necessary to get there and do whatever it is you need me to do.”
I can see the vaguest outline of myself in the glass shower door, but I can’t see her.
And I definitely don’t expect the, “Thank you,” that follows a long pause.
It’s startling after the number of times she’s told meI’ve got thisorI can handle thisorNo, I like to do it myselfany time I tried to help her with nearly anything when we were together.
Right up to when she told me she didn’t need a caretaker when she hurt her arm.
Which was my fault too.
I insisted on teaching her how to ice skate.
She fell and dislocated her shoulder when I wouldn’t let her go as soon as she wanted me to so that she could try skating on her own.
“I’d offer to help all the same for any friend,” I say.
“I know.”
