Her head snaps around, and her eyes are flashing with a mixture of pain and pure, undiluted fury. “Iknowthat, Zachary!” she snaps, and the word is a hammer blow in the small space.
I flinch. I can't help it.
The anger vanishes from her face, instantly, as if a mask has been dropped. It’s replaced by a wave of such profound misery that it knocks the breath from my lungs. Her face crumples. The tears she was fighting finally win, spilling over and tracing paths down her cheeks.
“Oh, God,” she chokes, sobbing. “I’m sorry. I didn't mean... I know you're right. I’m so sorry. I’m just...”
“Stop.” I interrupt her, but I keep my voice gentle. “Do not apologize. You're allowed to be snappy. You are allowed to befurious. You are in agonizing pain. You do not, under any circumstances, have to worry aboutmyfeelings right now. Got it?”
She gives a wet, hiccupping laugh. She wipes her face with the back of her hand, which I see is trembling. “Got it,” she whispers.
“Good.” I take a breath. “Now. New question. We’re a team. Your body is being an asshole. What is our first strategic move, team captain?”
She pauses, clearly wrestling with herself. Her eyes close. I can see the internal battle. She’s so used to doing this on her own, so used to muscling through.
“Maya,” I say, “just give me a job. Please. I'm feeling spectacularly useless, and it's not a good look for me.”
That gets a small, pained smile. “Okay,” she says, her voice barely audible. “Okay. When we get back to the apartment building will you... will you come back to my place with me?”
“I’m not letting you out of my sight. What's next?”
“I need a bath,” she says. “A hot one. As hot as I can stand. I have... I have these CBD bath salts. And lavender oil. The heat... it helps. It helps the muscles unlock.”
“Okay. Great. We can do that.” I reach for the gear shift.
“Wait.” Her voice is small. She's looking down at her hands, which are clenched into white-knuckled fists in her lap. “It's... it's my hands, Zachary. When it gets in my hands...” She tries to uncurl her fingers, and they tremble violently with the effort, resisting her. “The faucet. In the tub. It’s one of those stupid, round, smooth-as-glass knobs. Sometimes... I can’t get a grip. I can't... I can't turn it on.”
The confession hangs in the air. The simplicity of it. The profound, everyday cruelty of a world not designed for pain. She can't turn on a faucet. All the panic, all the fear, all the uselessness I was feeling evaporates. In its place is a sharp, sudden, focusedpurpose. This is a problem I can solve. This is a clear job. I'm not fighting an invisible, internal monster. I’m fighting a piece of plumbing. I can win against a piece of plumbing.
A wave of relief, so powerful it almost makes me laugh, washes over me. “Say no more,” I say, and I let my voice fill with a confidence I haven't felt for the last ten minutes. “I am, officially, the best damn faucet-turner this side of the Mississippi. We’ll have that bath running in T-minus ten minutes.”
She lets out the breath she was holding. “Okay,” she whispers. “Okay.”
I drive the rest of the way to our apartment building, my hands steady on the wheel. I park in my spot, kill the engine, and the ensuing silence is thick. She hasn't moved, her eyes closed, her body still braced.
“How do you want to do this?” I ask.
“I can walk,” she says, but her voice is a thin thread. She reaches for the door handle and her hand shakes, her fingers fumbling with the latch.
I shake my head. “Nope. Negative. Absolutely not.”
I’m out of the car, around to her side, and have the door open before she can protest. “Arms,” I say. “Around my neck.”
“Zachary, I’m not an invalid. I can...”
“Maya. I'm not doing this because you're an invalid. I'm doing this because you're in pain, and it's two flights of stairs. It's just... faster. It's tactical. Now, arms.”
She sighs, a sound of pure, pained surrender, and lifts her arms.
I slide one hand under her knees, the other around her back, and lift. She’s light, but she’s all tension and heat, a live wire of pain. She buries her face in my neck and a small, wounded sound escapes her, the one she's been holding back. My heart cracks.
I carry her up the stairs, my own muscles straining, but it's a good burn. It’s a purposeful burn. I get her keys from her purse, finesse the door open, and kick it shut behind us.
“Bathroom,” she murmurs against my skin, pointing in that direction.
I carry her straight in and set her gently on the closed lid of the toilet. She looks small and broken under the bright, unforgiving light of the bathroom.
“Right,” I say, rubbing my hands together. “Operation: Human Hot Tub, commence.” I become a blur of motion. “Towels. Where are the good ones? The softest ones. The ones reserved for royalty and visiting dignitaries.”
