“I normally shampoo twice,” I say hoping the tease in my voice is clear.
“And here I am thinking you'd be impressed I even know how to use conditioner.” He laughs, and he does know. He squeezes it onto his hands and then rubs his fingertips through the ends of my hair, before snaking them along my scalp, giving me a head massage. I close my eyes again and lean back, the shower spray to our side, warming my arm and hip.
“You're good at that,” I say.
I hear some strained noise in his throat – a swallowed cough or a pained grunt - and when he speaks, I know why. “I used to wash Arnie's hair a lot. It was kind of our thing,” he says. I think about that for a moment and wonder if he means before Arnie was sick, or during. Was this how Marty took care of Arnie when he didn't have energy to wash himself? The thought pierces into my heart which has been growing fuller and heavier in my chest all day.
“Like sunsets?”
“Like sunsets,” he replies with a smile I can hear.He leans me under the spray to wash the conditioner out, raking his fingers through my hair, and I love how silky soft my hair feels as it lands on my shoulders.
“Thank you,” I say when he's done.
“You're welcome,” he replies and kisses my forehead. Then he grabs my shower gel, hands it to me, and promptly turns around and presses his hands to the wall, spreading his legs like I'm about to strip search him. “Over to you! Wash me good! I fucken stink!”
And I do. I put my hands all over him – everywhere - taking my time to lather up bubbles and maybe linger a little longer on places that I now know he likes, and then I switch the shower spray to come through the shower head and I take it and rinse him down. He shampoos his hair as I do this, and then switches the spray back to the rain shower above us so that when he is rinsed clean, we come together and kiss and the clean water washes into our joined mouths. Even though I feel him hardening against my stomach and I feel like molten lava between my legs, there's something about the kiss that stays lazy and long and lingering, keeping us where we are and no closer to fucking. We have hunger but the pace has changed, and it's why I'm not remotely surprised when neither of us makes a move to take our arousal a step further.
“I don't know about you, but I'm fucking starving,” he says. “Shall we order in?”
“You can stay?” I ask and turn the shower off.
“Unless you want me to go?”
“Well,” I begin and then move away from him, stepping out of the shower and grabbing some towels. I wrap mine around my body as I speak. “I do have another twenty-something year old on their way to come service me.”
Instantly, upon seeing his face, I regret my choice of words.
“Service you?” He blinks, slowly moving the towel to go around his waist.
“You know what I mean,” I say as light as I can make my voice. I turn away because the heat in my cheeks starts to burn.
“No, Jenna, I don't think I do,” he says, his voice hard. “What did you mean?”
This. This is the problem with spending so much time with someone you have great chemistry with. It inevitably leads to feelings moving faster than communication, and now even humour - our fail-safe since the very first moment we met - is failing me.
“What food do you want?” I ask and pull my robe around my still damp body. I need to get out of the bathroom.
“Jenna,” he warns, and even this tone of voice – this stern, warning air – thrills me as much as it scares me.
I turn to face him and rush out an apology, knowing he is owed that much. “Marty, I said a stupid thing. I'm sorry. Can we just forget I said it?”
“I asked you what you meant by it. Are you going to answer me?” His face has changed. His eyes are sunken, his cheeks hollowed out.
“Of course, you're not servicing me,” I say. “Like I said, I'm sorry I said that.”
“Then what is happening here?” Marty steps closer to me.
“No,” I say out loud although it was only supposed to be for my ears. “We're not doing this. We're not ruining this perfect day with an awkward conversation about what we are and what we're not.”
“Then don't,” he says, unblinking. “Don't ruin it.”
Exasperation floods me. “You are too quick for me. Your words... Your comebacks. And your fucking optimism!” I don’t mean to shout – it’s the last thing I want to do with him – but still I do.
“Me? Optimistic?” He places his hand on his chest. He's not shouting but his words are loud and big. “I'm a mess. I'm a world of pain, Jenna. I'm not optimistic, I'm just so fucken desperate to feel anything other than pain.”
“Marty,” I say taking a deep breath. “I didn't mean you're not in pain. Of course you are. You've been through so much...”
He interrupts me. “And do you want to know something about that, Jenna?” He steps closer to me and I freeze in the doorway through to the bedroom, leaning back against the door frame, suddenly exhausted as he stares down at me. “You are the first person I’ve met who seems to just let that be what it is. You’re not trying to fix me like my mother. You’re not ignoring it like my dad. You don’t try to joke about it like Maeve does, and you don’t want to dissect every sordid detail like my therapist, but you will listen if I want you to. You're the first person who just lets me feel what I need to feel. You're the only one who has come close to making me feel like myself again, or better, actually, like somebody I actually want to be.”
