“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll have them courier it straight to us.”
“I can—”
She breaks off, wisely spotting that I’m in no mood to accept her wildly overoptimistic claims to be just fine.
“Once I get the pain meds, I’ll probably just sleep,” she warns like she’s angling to reopen a discussion that is seriously closed. “There’s no point to your staying.”
“I don’t mind sitting by the bed, staring at your face from an inch away while you sleep.”
Esme chokes off a laugh when it hurts her, then leans on me solely to deliver a weak slap. “Shouldn’t you be out practising or growing your muscles or something?”
“For God’s sake, woman. Just let me take care of you.”
The weird response sets my mind wondering exactly what it’s like in her household when she’s ill or hurt. It seems unlikely that doting parents would produce such a reaction.
I phone through the prescription and arrange for a courier to collect and drop it off to the main office. I try to settle her on the bed, but she seems uncomfortable. Mentally more than physically.
“I need to have a shower and get changed,” she finally says when she decides I’ve hovered too much. “Can’t you entertain yourself for an hour while I do that?”
“You can’t handle a shower by yourself,” I immediately retort, pulling off my tee shirt and nudging off my shoes. “I’ll help you.”
“Please just let me do it by myself,” she asks not meeting my eye. I wave her towards the bathroom, but she can’t even stand without her legs promptly giving out beneath her.
“No. No solo time. Either you wait until you can take the pain meds and they’re actually working, or you let me help. If you pass out in the shower, you might hurt yourself far worse than you are now.”
It seems common sense to me but her face twists with misery.
I pass by her, slipping into the bathroom and turning on the shower. Once it’s warm, I walk back into the main room, placing my arm around her back to help her stand and move.
The pink on her cheeks steadily turns redder. I scan her in case it’s a new twinge but can’t see anything. When I try to pull the jacket from around her waist, she pushes against me with her weak hands, and I finally twig.
“It’s okay,” I say in my most soothing voice. “You were unconscious for an entire minute. A player knocked himself out last year in our rugby sevens final and soiled himself. It’s nothing to be upset about. It’s just what happens.”
And she nods, but large silent tears run down her face, her shoulders shaking though the movement must hurt her. It twists something deep in my psyche to know it’s more important to her to give space to her shame than to spare herself the accompanying agony.
I pull her head against my chest, holding it there securely while I rain kisses upon the top of her scalp. “If you’re going to wet yourself, the shower is a much better place to do it.”
There’s a cracked laugh somewhere in her next sob and I work quickly to strip her clothes away before she gets struck by consummate shyness again. Once they’re off, I plug the sink to let them soak, and help her step into the cabinet, my sweatpants instantly saturated.
“See?” I tell her in the lightest teasing voice I can find. “I’ve wet my pants and it’s not a big deal.” She nods but I leave the subject behind, figuring any further attempts at humour will just reinforce the subject. “Put your hands against the wall,” I instruct her instead.
“I’m in no fit state to follow those directions,” she murmurs, cheeks reddening for a different reason.
“Rest assured, I’m not going to jump your bones. It’s to keep your steady while I scrub you from head to toe.”
“Can’t you just… let me stand here while the water falls on me? I don’t think I’m ready for anything more active.”
“The first part is accurate. You stand there. Do nothing except tell me if the pain is getting worse or you need help to move to another position.” I reach over her shoulder to grab the mesh cloth and pump some body wash onto it. “While you’re doing that, I’ll scrub every last piece of you clean.”
Before she can mount another protest, I rub the soapy scrub across her shoulders, holding out her left arm to spread the cleansing foam down to her fingers, parting them, pressing my free thumb into the centre of her palm, massaging it as I soap her over and over before switching to the other side.
“No wonder your showers last so long,” she murmurs, and I feel a rush of heat that she listens closely enough to know. “This is far too much attention to detail. I promise you, I’m not that dirty.”
“I’m being thorough.” I stop for long enough to press my lips to the bony ridge on her shoulder. “There’s a difference.”
I continue working at my leisurely pace, examining each part of her in closeup as I cover her with lather and wipe her clean, ensuring there’s not the tiniest speck of dirt clinging anywhere on her body before I finally turn her to face the spray, positioning her so she’s steady before I dump a palmful of shampoo into her hair.
She makes an appreciative groan deep in her throat as my fingers dig into her scalp, massaging until her shoulders loosen and her head slumps forward.
