Gritting my teeth, I muster all of my courage and force myself to turn the door handle before I have the time to second guess myself. I’m standing at the end of a sunlit hallway. Light pours in through skylight windows near the ceiling and the clean wood floor is cool beneath my bare feet. The T-shirt hangs to my mid-thigh, just enough to keep me decent. Nothing Falkenberg hasn’t seen before, I rationalize. A TV is on somewhere downstairs and I tentatively follow the sound. Feeling like Sarah Carter descending into the Appalachian Cave System inThe Descent, I brace myself before going downstairs.
Falkenberg is sitting on the sofa, laptop in his lap and last week’s match against the Ravens on the TV. He looks up when I enter. His attention remains respectfully on my face. He’s wearing his typical black get-up, somehow looking a million times more put together than I feel despite being clad in loungewear.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
“I’ve been better,” I say bitterly. My attention lands on a folded stack of green fabric laying over one of the sofa cushions and my eyes widen in horror.
“I washed it.” He follows my gaze. “I hope that’s alright. The tag said it was fine to wash with cold water.”
“That wasn’t necess—”
“It was covered in vomit.”
My cheeks flush. Of course it was. He might have carried me home for all I know. I can’t remember. I do remember that I threw myself at him in the hotel corridor, and he flushed my attempt down the drain like Georgie’s boat in Pennywise’s sewer. I’m so humiliated. How long was I naked in front of him? When will I learn to live my life without humiliating myself at every turn?
I frown. “I didn’t…tell me we didn’t…um—”
“I prefer women to be conscious, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Oh. Noble of you,” I say.
“I know. It was so difficult to resist you with all the vomit in your hair.”
My hands fly to my head, and I’m disgusted to find that it does feel hard and caked in places.
“You wanted to shower last night, but I was afraid you would fall asleep and drown, so I said no. I left a spare towel and a clean set of clothes on the chest at the end of the bed for you if you’d like to clean up now,” he says as if reading my mind. “There’s a toothbrush for you as well.”
His thoughtfulness grabs me by the throat. I almost burst into tears and probably would have if I hadn’t been crying so much lately. My tear ducts are probably dried out. I feel so filthy, so useless, so disappointed in myself. I’ve been enough of a burden to Falkenberg already. I don’t need him to clean up my emotional mess, too.
He must clock my fragility, because he says, “What is it?”
“Nothing,” I say quickly. “A shower sounds nice. Thank you.”
He nods. I trudge back upstairs without saying anything else.
It’s too generous. The intimacy of walking through his bedroom, stepping into his shower and turning on the water grates against my skin. I can’t believe I’ve put him in this position when I now fully understand what he stands to lose. Why he needs this team.
I turn up the heat and water pressure as high as it’ll go, and let the scalding water burn away my misery.
He’s left me a pair of joggers and a soft cable knit sweater that smells like him. There’s a comfort in breathing in his scent that I don’t feel belongs to me, but I inhale it anyway. I further violate his personal space by digging in his bathroom drawers for a comb so my hair doesn’t dry a tangled mess, and can’t help but notice how neat and tidy everything is. His countertops are immaculate and the drawers are perfectly organized with everything in its place. He wasn’t lying—there is a toothbrush still in its wrapping and a tube of toothpaste near the sink. Brushing the lingering vomit out of my mouth feels like being born again. I quickly comb out my hair, rip away the remnant strands that got caught in the teeth to put in the trash, and check to make sure my eyes don’t look too puffy before reemerging.
“Thank you,” I say when I return to the living area. He looks up at me, this time taking full stock of my clothing. There’s something like approval in the firm press of his flat mouth that makes my pulse tick up.
“Feeling better?”
I nod. “Thank you for everything, Mattias. I’m sorry for all of this. I didn’t mean to ruin your night.”
He closes his laptop. “Come here.”
I look at him, confused.
“Sit down,” he says, pointing at a seat next to him on the sofa when I don’t say anything.
His tone tells me there’s no arguing with him, so I don’t. I look at him, and I open my mouth to say something smart but there’s something so earnest, so serious in his eyes that I hold back.
“What your father said wasn’t fair.”
Tears threaten to spring from my eyes again—his words are a quick punch in the gut.
