When the timer dings, Oliver helps me move everything tothe small kitchen table, the one I refinished myself last summer and we dig in.
“Wow, this is really good.” He comments after swallowing his first bite.
“Thanks. It’s one of my mom’s recipes. Easy comfort food.”
The clock ticking on the wall counts out seconds between our quiet chewing, both of us lost in our own thoughts. I can’t help but wonder if he’s remembering our first meals in our apartment together, like I am. Simple dinners, easy company. Not having to fill the silence with unnecessary conversation. Just comfortable sharing the same space. Unlike tonight where it feels familiar, yet slightly awkward. Unsure of what to say to fill the silence.
“How are you doing?” he suddenly asks, setting down his water glass.
I put my fork down, metal clinking against ceramic. Why is he even asking? I wasn’t the one whose athlete had to go to the hospital tonight, or the one who had a panic attack. Maybe he would rather focus on anything but his experience.
“I’m good.” I push my food around with my fork, suddenly aware of the fact that I haven’t showered since yesterday morning and probably smell awful—a mix of stress sweat and the hospital’s clinical scent clinging to my clothes. “I’m going to take a shower. You’re welcome to one too. I have some athletic clothes my dad left here that should fit you.”
“Sure. Thank you.”
“Wanna go first?” I start to clear the plates but he beats me to it, his movements quick and efficient.
“No. You go. I’ll wash the dishes. Least I can do for you letting me stay here tonight.”
Standing makes me realize the day has finally caught up to me. My limbs feel heavy, like I’m moving through water. I’m crashing after the adrenaline rush. That or headed into a flare. The familiar tingle in my joints warnsme I need rest.
In the bathroom, I toss my clothes into the hamper, the soft thud barely audible over my movements. The bathroom mirror shows my exhaustion—dark circles under my eyes, hair limp and tangled. I turn the knob and step under the hot water. It’s a blessing to my skin, steam rising around me, and I close my eyes and take my time lathering up. The vanilla body wash mixes with the steam, creating a comforting cloud. Any sounds Oliver might be making in the house—dishes clinking, footsteps on hardwood—are drowned out by the drumming of the water.
There’s a heavy knock on the door, three solid raps that echo in the small space. There’s no time for me to tell Oliver that these old doors don’t shut well, the latch worn from years of use. His fist pushes the door open a few inches. Through the glass shower door, fogged but not opaque, I see him in the mirror. His gaze lands on me in the shower—probably not giving him a full view, but showing enough that it wouldn’t be acceptable for daytime television. The curve of my shoulder, the outline of my form through the steam. There’s the briefest pause where I freeze, water still cascading down my back.
He seems to realize what he’s doing, because he quickly averts his eyes, color rising in his cheeks. My heart still beats fast, though, a hummingbird trapped in my ribcage. Maybe I should invite him in.
Showers together were one of the best parts of our time together. The way he’d wash my hair, fingers massaging my scalp. How we’d take turns under the spray, skin slick with soap. Just a few days before we broke up, we had some of the best sex of my life in the shower. Even when we were emotionally and mentally distanced, we could always connect with sex.
Connect, or avoid. Looking back, maybe that’s what we were actually doing. Using physical touch to paper over the cracks in our foundation.
“Hey.” His voice is off, rough around the edges. “Is it okay if I watch TV in the bedroom? I don’t see a remote anywhere.”
“Yeah.” My own voice sounds just as weird, high-pitched and all wobbly, betraying my racing thoughts. “It’s probably in the bedside drawer.”
“Thanks.” He closes the door firmly, doing his best to make it stick, the old wood protesting, and I sigh. Whether in relief or disappointment, I don’t know. Both emotions tangle in my chest.
I want Oliver. Absolutely, I do. The ache is physical, settling low in my belly. I just know that once we take that physical leap, everything will change. It will be a much harder point to turn back from. We’re balanced on a knife’s edge as it is.
Finishing up my shower quickly, so that there’s some hot water left, I dry off and pull on the clothes I brought in with me—soft sleep shorts and an oversized T-shirt that’s been washed to perfection. Oliver is lying on his side all the way on the edge of the bed, like he wants to take up as little space as possible, shoulders hunched inward. The TV plays on low volume, some nature documentary painting blue light across his face.
I smile to myself. “You can take up more room than that.”
He looks over his shoulder at me, and something in his expression makes my chest tight. “I didn’t want to intrude.”
“You’re not.” I walk around the bed, my bare feet silent on the rug, heart beating rapidly, just like it has been since he accidentally opened the door and saw me in the shower. Getting onto the bed, the mattress dipping under my weight, I settle on my side as well, facing him. The space between us feels charged, electric. “How are you doing after everything tonight?”
I expect him to brush it off, to utter an “Okay” at the most, maybe shrug those broad shoulders, so when he turns off the TV it surprises me. The sudden darkness makes everything more intimate, just the streetlight filtering through my curtains. “I’m…kind of unsettled. It was scary. Seeing Richie down like that…”
His throat rolls with a swallow, the movement visible even in the dim light. “I feel bad that I was soaffected by it all.”
I shake my head against the pillow. “You can’t help that.”
He grimaces, like maybe he disagrees—or he agrees and just hates it. His jaw tightens. “I didn’t know that being in an ambulance and in a hospital would freak me out so much. The sirens, the smell of disinfectant, those damn beeping machines. It was just a shattered wrist, it wasn’t like my life was ever on the line, but… at the same time, everything hung on that night, you know?”
“I think I can imagine,” I whisper, my voice barely carrying across the small space between us.
“When I talked to my parents that night they were disappointed in me.” He snorts, the sound bitter. “Can you believe that?”
