“Linen closet,” she whispers, a tiny smile touching her lips. “In the hall. Top shelf.”
I dash out, find the closet—it smells like her, lavender and something warm—and grab the thickest, plushest, fuzziest towel I can find. It’s a monster. It’s perfect.
Back in the bathroom, I go straight for the enemy. The faucet. That stupid, smooth, chrome knob. I feel a flash of white-hot rage on her behalf. I crank it, and the water thunders into the tub. Steam begins to wisp up.
“Salts? Oil?”
“Under the sink. Green jar. Little brown bottle.”
I find them. I don’t measure. I twist the top off the jar of CBD salts and dump a third of it into the water. The scent of eucalyptus and mint joins the steam. I uncap the lavender oil and shake at least twenty drops in. The bathroom immediately smells like a high-end spa.
I check the water with my hand. It’s scalding. Perfect. I turn to her. She’s trying to unbutton her jeans, but her fingers are stiff, uncooperative. She’s fumbling, and a new tear of pure frustration rolls down her cheek.
“Allow me,” I say, kneeling in front of her.
She stops, her hands falling to her sides. I am as gentle as I know how to be. I unbutton her jeans, unzip them. Then I remove her shoes and set them aside. My movements are practical, clinical, but my heart is aching.
“Can you stand?”
She nods and tries to take a deep breath. Gripping the edge of the sink she stands, and I slide her jeans and panties down her legs, removing them and her socks at the same time. She shuffles them off to the side. I unbutton her flannel shirt and gently pull it down her arms, then her bra and add them in the growing pile of clothes on the floor. It's not sexual. It's not even sensual. It’s functional. It’s an act of service. And in its own way, it’s more intimate than even the sex we had last night.
I get her to the edge of the tub. The water is steaming. “Okay. Easy does it.”
I support her as she lifts one leg, then the other, and help her sit. She sinks into the water with a long, shuddering gasp that ishalf-pain and half-divine relief. The water sloshes over the side, but I don’t care. I watch her, my heart in my throat. Her hands, as if by instinct, grip the side of the tub, and her knuckles go bone-white. She’s still in pain.
“Is it helping?” I ask, my voice hushed.
“Yes,” she hisses through clenched teeth. “Oh, God, yes. It just... it takes a minute.”
But she can’t get comfortable. I can see it. She shifts, trying to lean back, but the hard, sloped porcelain of the tub offers no comfort. Her neck is still corded with tension, her shoulders hunched up by her ears. This isn't enough.
I make a mental note: Order a bath pillow. One of those giant, full-body-cushion ones. The most expensive one on Amazon. Order it tonight. And then I realize, that won’t help her right now. So I make a decision.
“Don’t move,” I say.
Her eyes are closed, but they flutter open, confused. “Zachary? What...?”
“I’m being your bath pillow,” I say. I’m stripping as I say it. Jeans, shirt, socks, underwear, all dropped in a damp pile by the door.
“Zachary, you don't...”
“I do,” I say. “Move forward. Just a bit.”
I slip into the tub behind her. The water is almost painfully hot, a shock to my system, but I don't flinch. It’s crowded, but we fit. I brace my back against the hard, cold wall of the tub, my knees bent.
“Okay,” I murmur, my voice low. “Lean back. Lie against me. I’m sturdy.”
She hesitates for a split second and then with a long, shuddering sigh that seems to come from the deepest part of her soul, she relaxes. She slumps back against my chest andwhimper of utter relief escapes her. I think it’s the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard in my life.
Her head fits perfectly under my chin, her hair soft against my chest, and the smell of lavender and eucalyptus surrounding us. I wrap my arms around her, my hands resting lightly on her stomach, just enclosing her. A human shield. A human heating pad. A human pillow. A human…whatever she needs me to be.
We sit in silence for a long, long time. There is no sound but the occasional drip from the faucet and the sound of our breathing, which slowly, finally, begins to sync. I can feel the tension ebbing from her, muscle by muscle. Her shoulders drop from her ears. One of her hands finds mine, submerged in the milky, hot water, and her fingers loosely entwine with mine. I am more comfortable than I have ever been.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, and her voice is thick, dreamy, half-asleep.
“For what?” I murmur into her hair.
“This.” Her voice is small. “Our first... our first whole Saturday. We were supposed to... I don't know. Cook the apples. Watch a stupid movie. And... and now this. I ruined it.”
