But the water warms quickly. She stands there, tears spilling, body quaking, eyes swollen and sorrowful. Water falls down on the pair of us, soaking through my T-shirt and jeans. The shower washes away the chunks of sauce from Stella’s underclothing, but the color is permanently changed.
“Lift your face to the stream,” I say softly.
She swivels in half a circle, obediently turning away from me to face the flow of water. Straining her neck, she allows the clean water to roll over her eyes and face. She flinches once with the sting, but she stays put, letting the stream wash over her.
I snag her shower sponge hanging from the caddy and wipe down her right arm and then her left. Her arms aretoned from working with her wheel. I’ve never been this up close and personal with Stella’s body before. She is strong and delicate all at once—and partially covered in spaghetti sauce.
I rinse the netted sponge and trail it across her neck. “How are your eyes?” I keep my tone low. Her tears have taken a break, and I don’t want to do anything to risk them starting up again.
She turns to face me, showing me in answer. They’re still red, still puffy, but she seems to be in less pain.
I cup her cheek and trail my thumb beneath her right eye. She’s so near. And while shedefinitelysmells of skunk, I can’t deny that her closeness doesn’t affect me. My heart jars in my chest, telling me with every slamming thump that I am very much affected.
I brush back a stray hair, one that the shower stream has plastered across Stella’s forehead. It does something to my heart. She’s tugging on every tender chord in my body. I lean in, holding her head in my hands and pressing a kiss to her brow.
“Doesn’t count,” she says, eyes closed, her tone somewhat steady.
I trace the length of her soft neck with my hand. “You’re right. That’s not a real kiss.”
She blinks her eyes open, peering up at me. “Do my eyes look better?”
“Do they feel better?” I counter.
“A little,” she says, her hands at my waist. “They don’t sting as much as before.”
“Good,” I say, my fingers trailing over her skin. “Do you want to tell me why you lied? You could have told me the truth.”
“Not yet. Soon.” Her lip trembles, and she blinks her eyes shut once more. “Are my legs clean?”
“Yes. I washed off all the marinara.” I pat her arm. “Stay put. I’ll be right back.”
Leaving a wet trail from the bathroom through my bedroom and into the kitchen, I trapse to the kitchen sink, finding what I need. Then I plod my way back, leaving just as much of a trail as when I came.
My damp clothes are plastered to my body. I am ready to shed them. But I need to finish helping Stella first.
She’s wrapped both arms around her abdomen. Peering down, the water rolls over her head and down her shoulders.
“You’re back,” she says as if she thought I might be making a great escape.
“I brought reinforcements.” I lift the bottle of Dawn soap.
“Dish soap?” she says, her dark brows cinching. They’re such a contrast to her light hair, and for a short moment, I study them.
Clearing my throat, I step back into the boxed shower. Stella’s closeness and her not-so-Stella scent is inescapable in the small space of this stall. I have no choice but to touch her. “It’s Dawn. It’s kind of a miracle worker.” I squeeze a generous dollop onto her sponge, my arm brushing hers in the process, and then I go to work.
Shutting her eyes that no doubt still bother her, she lets me scrub her limb to limb. I leave her face, her hair, and her torso for her to take care of. While she does, I scour her arms and legs all over again.
We suds, wash, scrub, and stand in the stream, the warm water quickly running out.
Twenty-Seven
I should be horrifiedthat Roman has witnessed me in my tank undershirt and grandma panties, all while covered in spaghetti sauce, uncontrollably sobbing, and smelling of skunk. But being utterly miserable tends to numb you from feeling embarrassment or any pride whatsoever.
Instead, I let Roman wash me with his Dawn dish soap from head to toe. And every now and then, the scent of clean linens rises above the sulfuric scent of skunk.
Roman stayed far from my eyes as well as anywhere my clothing touched. At one point, he mumbled something about Brice striking him down, but he kept scrubbing.
My head aches and my eyes sting, though they’re both better than they were before Roman made me rinse them. And while I smell much better, skunk stench lingers over me. The hot water warmed my limbs and cleaned off the sauce I used. But I pray we’re close to the end of this shared shower, as the water is quickly going cold. Dressed head to toe, Roman rinses off the remaining suds from my body.
