“Didn’t your parents make you eat?”
She gives me a look. “They tried.”
I think I’m getting the picture about why everyone left her alone. She lied and faked being okay so they’d leave. I have complicated feelings about this.
On the one hand, I admire her for trying to be strong. On the other hand, I’m pissed at her for trying to be strong. And if I had a third hand I’d be worried. Okay, I am worried. She’s trying to hide her feelings about all this.
Not on my watch.
I know how unhealthy that is. Hiding your feelings doesn’t make them go away. It just makes them build up more and more and come out in potentially harmful ways. Like panic attacks. Or bursting into tears in front of your teammates.
“You don’t have to stay.”
I jerk my head up to look at Nikki.
“You just gave such a big sigh,” she says. “You don’t have to stay. I’m sure you have other things to do and I’m okay now.”
Uh-huh. “It’s Sunday night. I don’t have other things to do.”
“Oh.”
Her bowl is empty. That’s a good sign. “Want some more?”
“No, thanks. It’s really good, though.”
I look down at my half-full bowl. I’m not that hungry, either. I make an effort to eat more, silence surrounding us.
When we were in Vegas, we never stopped talking. Well, maybe there were a few times we stopped. When our mouths were occupied with other things. But it was so easy with her. Now it’s… not uncomfortable exactly, but the atmosphere is close and thick.
Maybe it’s all the unsaid things between us. And not just this recent catastrophe, but everything from the last eleven months.
When we’re finished eating, I start to clean up. She moves to help me, but I set my hands on her shoulders and turn her away. “Go lie down.”
She turns and eyes me over her shoulder, opens her mouth, then closes it and shuffles away. I load the dishwasher, wash the pot, and wipe the counters. I may not always be so fastidious at home, but I know how to do it.
I find her in the living room, on the couch. I make a quick detour to her bathroom and return.
“Sit on the floor,” I order her gently.
She looks up at me with a puzzled expression.
I hold up the hairbrush.
“Oh.” She glances at the damp strands lying on her pajamas. “I’ll do it.”
“I want to.”
After a brief hesitation, she slips to the floor. I sit behind her, my knees on either side of her, and slowly drag the bristles through her hair. I take care with the tangles, working through them until I can glide the brush from her scalp to the ends of her hair.
I sense her relaxing.
“That feels nice,” she murmurs.
So I keep doing it even though the knots are gone, in slow, voluptuous strokes.
Then I set the brush on the cushion beside me and palm her shoulders. “Your muscles are so tight.”
“Mmmm.”
