His hand trembled, matching the vibrations of my entire body as he took my tight curls—matted in Ville’s phlegm—between his fingers. He tucked the hair behind my ears, and bent, ready to whisper to me. . .
And that was the exact moment I found my words, quiet as they were. “I. . . I. . . I’ll clean it up.” I shook so violently, I thought I’d die.
“Don’t worry about it. Fuck, I. . .” He bit down on his bottom lip—a part of him I’d been too happy to suck on only nights ago. Focusing on that part of him—on that memory—had me once again needing to rush away, but he stopped me with the hand that finally clutched the small of my waist, pulling me back to him. “I’m sorry.”
He didn’t hold me too close, just close enough to see his apology, to feel it, even as I struggled to push back. “I’m so sorry for all you went through last night.”
“Will you please let me go; I haven’t showered yet.”
He barely nodded, but his grip on my body loosened. I looked down once more to the wet patch between our feet—another stain I’d put on a carpet in this house.
“I got it,” he told me, his words almost silent.
He let me slip away, wavering legs making my night of abuse obvious. Each step hurt us both, for differentreasons, born of the same cause.
I clicked the bathroom door shut, my balance dwindling as I moved across the tiles to the shower.
Sunlight was peeping in, making this the brightest room in the house, rivalling and triumphing Nessie’s.
With my hand on the ledge, I tried on unsteady legs to mount the freestanding bathtub. Balance wasn’t my friend, and did nothing to assist me.
I tumbled but I didn’t hit the floor, despite bracing and stiffening for the harsh impact.
Woodrow’s arms wrapped around me as I fell into his body.
I spun quickly, my feet finding some sort of stability on the ground. “Don’t touch me!” I spat in anger, in fear, in pain.
My hands flattened to his chest, forcing him away from me. He held up his hands in surrender, showing me he meant no threat.
I looked to the door, and it was closed. I wondered for a second how he got in here so quietly, but I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to talk to him.
Through the night, I’d suffered a million nightmares. And each one convinced me a little more than the last that I wasn’t strong enough to deal with this.
“Please, leave me alone,” I begged, literally begged. “Please.”
“Please, don’t do this. Talk to me.” He tried reaching for my hand.
“I have nothing to say to you.” I shifted back, tucking my hands behind me as I decided on a shower over a bath.
It seemed like the better option all around. For starters, I wouldn’t have to sit in our combined filth, and it was a tiny little room, just for me, where I could close the door and shut Woodrow out.
I turned and stepped inside, closing the door.
I twisted the shower lever, allowing the spray to hit me in the face while I was still in my clothes. I couldn’t undress with Woodrow in here, his sad eyes still on me.
“Please. . .” I pleaded once more for him to leave.
But the only thing that left was his eyes—they left my face for a second, drifting to somewhere in his own head, as if he was trying to see a replay of what happened last night.
I slipped down the wall, the tiles dragging my wet shirt up in the back, creating more aches on my tired body. I closed my eyes, and sitting in the water filling below me, I sobbed so many tears that I added to it.
I heard the shower door open, and my eyes sprang wide, seeing Woodrow step inside, also without undressing.
I tried to back away, to where, I couldn’t say.
My feet slipped in the water, on the residue of soap from whoever had showered last and failed to clean it.
His gray sweats darkened under the shower spray as he lowered to me, his hands around me, stopping me from smashing my face—the only part of me not hurting—against the wall.
