He does quick but careful work of washing my body. His hands never missing an inch, but never lingering or trying to start something sexual.
Jay then tilts my face, still planted in his chest, and with those endless pools of deep brown eyes and a slight curve to his lips, he lets his stare rove over my face, gently wiping the water droplets away.
My chin starts to wobble as I feel tears begin to collect. He leans down and affectionately kisses my temple before mumbling, “Thank you.”
We step out of the shower and he dries us both off, then immediately hands me my treasured belongings from the counter. He has me sit on the covered toilet seat, and with a furrowed brow, I watch him dig through my vanity drawer, pulling out a skin care vial, a tube of moisturizer, and one of the many hair care products. He turns that bottle and looks at me. “This one, right?”
I nod, amazed that he even remembers which products I use.
He takes a step towards me, tilts my head up and begins softly rubbing the serum from the vial into my skin as I hold tight to my scraps of fabric. He finishes with the moisturizer and then to my continued surprise, pours the exact right amount of hair product into his palm, smearing it all over his hands, and applies it to my curls with the same technique I use.
I never knew he paid attention to that.
I’m so stunned that I can’t speak. As if sensing my internal war, he has me stand and embraces my body, his words pouring into the crown of my head, “I know, baby.” Exiting the bathroom, we make our way to the dresser. “Let’s get you some new comfy clothes and lay down.”
I look over to the bed and see Marco sitting in my velvet, mauve armchair, one foot over his knee, hand supporting his rugged face. He gives me a soft smile and flicks his eyes to the bed. I follow his stare and see that he has not only provided a tray of food and assortment of drinks, but he’s also stripped and made my bed in a crisp and uniform manner.
As Jay slips me into my new pajamas, a matching black silk set with long sleeves and pants, I inhale a deep breath. I feel clean and fresh. My bed is, too. It all makes me feel marginally but significantly better than I did before.
Jay sits me down on the bed, propping himself against the padded headboard and I cross my legs in front of the tray of food. Marco has prepared an omelet, a small bowl of blackberries, buttered toast, coffee, water, and grapefruit juice. There’s even a tiny creamer dish.
“Please,” Marco nods. “Dig in.”
I hand over my swaddle and hat to Jay for safe keeping while I tuck into my meal. After several glorious mouthfuls and a sip of juice, I am finally able to speak again. “Thank you. How did you guys get in here?”
Marco gestures for me to keep eating. “Angie told us where the spare key was hidden outside.”
Jay shifts his weight, and it’s then that I see that he’s wearing only his dress pants again, with the zipper open, revealing his black briefs. He looks so at ease. “She said she would come by after work if that’s okay with you.”
While I don’t want an audience to witness this particularly low moment of my life, I know these three people are my rocks.
I give him a nod. “Okay. Speaking of which, don’t you guys have work?”
“Nothing is more important than this right now.”
“I canceled all my appointments today.”
“You guys didn’t have to do that.”
“Yes, we did.” Marco says, so matter of fact.
While I turn back to my breakfast and pick up another bite of omelet, Jay asks, “Cora, have you spoken to a professional about this? About Violet?”
Without looking back at him, I take a bite and shake my head.
“Why not?”
These men know me well enough now that I don’t sugar coat the painful truth when I exhale, “Because I thought I could control my feelings.”
Marco pours a bit of creamer into my mug and gives me a raised eyebrow. “And is that working?”
I see what they’re doing. They’re showing me that even under these perfect conditions in their care, I still need more. I still need help. They’re allowing me the mental space to come to this conclusion myself; they’re not rushing me or telling me what to do.
Is it working? Controlling my emotions?
The realization washes over, like a tidal wave that has always been lingering right next to me, waiting for me to notice. “No,” I concede.
Marco grabs my free hand, brushing his big thumb over my knuckles. “You know I’m in therapy too, right?” I nod. “It’s been the single hardest and most beneficial thing in my life. It’s allowed me to identify triggers, confront them, and to heal. It’s also allowed me the tools to be a better partner.” Knowing about Marco’s fucked up upbringing and seeing the man he is today—peaceful, calm, and nurturing—it’s hard to not be inspired by such a transformation.
