“I can’t. . . I can’t. I can’t leave things like this between us.” He looked away slowly, with just his eyes, not his head. His hand left my body to wipe a tear from his eye, and he didn’t return the touch, respecting that I’d said no. Respecting the distance.
I wiped away my tears, too.
“How do you know what happened?” I asked, eyes down, staring over my wet clothes, and the pain of last night still seeping through the mint-colored fabric of my shorts. I’d been lucky, that in her groggy state, Nessie hadn’t noticed it.
“He wrote it down. He gloated.” Woodrow’s eyes moved back to me, bloodshot, to match the flushing on his pale cheeks. His long fingers played with the rosary beads around his wrist. I thought to myself he had a cheek to wear them. “He told me our father watched.”
I swallowed the evil comment rising from my voice box. There was no point bringing that hatred out into the world, not if I was giving it to the wrong person.
“Please, forgive me, Jolie. . . I know it’s a lot to ask. And if I can’t forgive myself, how can I expect you to?”
“What if I can’t, either?”
His nostrils flared, taking in deep breaths he felt he didn’t deserve. “Can you try?”
“It was my first time, Woodrow.My first timeand that was how it happened! That isn’t how it should have happened! I told you I wanted it to be special.”
He swallowed again. Swallowed the sick climbing his throat. His hand moved to cover the action, feeling that he had to, now that the trust between us had been destroyed.
“I wish I could take it back.”
I nodded, wishing for the same impossible damn thing.
Minutes passed by with neither of us speaking.
And then, he broke the silence. “Can I have this moment with you? …even if it’s our last?”
I didn’t say anything, but I didn’t stop him from touching me when his hands reached for me. I let him guide me back into his arms, my head against his chest as he washed the faded stains from my legs.
I could feel his stomach twisting from this position, every nerve bubbling.
He reached for a sponge and soap, rubbing delicately at the tougher grime.
I no longer cared that he was here. I no longer cared about anything, needing to be out of the clothes that prisoned the dirt to my skin. I shimmied out of the shorts and began unbuttoning my shirt.
His hands lifted for the material to pass, but his eyes stayed in respectable places.
Placing the garments to my side, I took the sponge from his hand, my fingers vibrating as they brushed his.
I ran more water over the sponge, squeezing off the excess before bringing it between my legs. It was a little cold, and the chill did little to soothe the lingering burn, granted by the flames of Hell. I shuddered back, deeper between Woodrow’s parted legs.
He moved his hands from their position of supporting him, to a position of supporting me, placing them on my shoulders. He pulled back my hair and washed it for me in the sweetest strawberry-scented shampoo.
He used a little more than I’d usually use, but I didn’t object. Better to have a few knots than my own blood, sweat, tears, and whatever Ville had hocked up, clinging to my scalp.
His gentle fingers massaged my head, and then he reached for the portable shower head, adjusting the temperature to a slightly warmer feel, to wash away the bubbles.
He kissed into my hair before placing the shower back on its stand, still raining down on us. “Thank you,” he whispered, and my mouth voiced the same words.
He turned to leave, pulling open the door, but by the time he closed it, I was on my feet, chipped toenails mocking the fact I hoped to be a beautician as they stared up at me from the puddle I stood in.
My fingers splayed the glass, steamy from the higher temperature. And when he turned back to me, he did the same.
I shook my head, a silent beg. . .“Don’t go.”
And he didn’t.
Gripping a clean towel from the rail, he opened the door, and let me fall into his arms, the towel wrapping around me to keep me warm.
