I kiss the top of her head. “Hey.” I wait until I feel her attention. “No apologies. Ever. Not for this.”
I tighten my grip, just a fraction. “A good day... a good day isn’t a day without pain, Maya. I’m starting to get that. That's notyourworld. A good day is a day where we figure out how to make you happy and comfortabledespiteit. A good day is a day we figure out how to be a team.”
I kiss her again. “This? Me, you, an obscene amount of CBD salts in a tub that’s way too small for two people? This is a great day. This is us being a team.”
I can hear the smile in her voice, a small, sleepy curve of her lips. “A great day,” she murmurs. “I like that.”
Her breathing evens out, deepens. The last of the fight goes out of her. Her hand goes limp in mine. She’s asleep. Really, truly asleep.
I just sit there, holding her. The water is a perfect, hot cocoon. The fear from earlier is gone. The panic is gone. I am not useless. I am exactly where I am supposed to be.
We stay in the tub for what feels like an hour. Time dissolves. But then the steam on the mirror begins to clear and I start to feel the inevitable, slow creep of cold. The water isn't a furnace anymore, it’s just slightly warm. And even in her relaxed sleep, Maya starts to shiver.
“Hey,” I whisper, giving her a gentle squeeze. “Maya. Time to get out. Water’s getting cold.”
She groans, a sleepy, protesting sound, and tries to burrow deeper against me. “No.”
“Yes,” I say, smiling. “Come on. Bed. The final frontier.”
I carefully untangle myself and stand, water streaming off me. I grab the giant, fluffy towel then help her stand. She’s a limp, beautiful, sleepy ragdoll. I wrap the towel around her fast, swaddling her like a baby, and then I lift her out of the tub. I carry her—towel and all—into her bedroom. It's dark, the curtains drawn. I lay her down on top of the comforter.
“Pills,” she mutters, her eyes still closed. “Nightstand. Need... pills.”
“Right here.” I find the bottle, check the directions, shake two into my palm. I find the glass of water she always keeps there. “Okay, sit up for me. Just for a second.”
I help her sit, her head lolling like she’s boneless. I put the pills in her hand, guide them to her mouth, then I hold the glass of water to her lips. She sips, swallows, and sags against me. “Good girl.”
She's already falling back down as I pull the comforter back. I carefully, quickly, slide the damp towel out from under her.She’s mostly dry. I guide her under the covers, pull them up to her chin.
I stand there for a second, dripping, just watching her.
“Zachary?” she whispers, her eyes closed.
“I’m right here.”
“Stay?” The word is pleading.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
I go back to the bathroom to grab my clothes, but they’re still damp so I find a pair of soft-looking plaid pajama bottoms in one of her dresser drawers that look like they’ll fit. They're comically short on me, ending mid-calf, but they're dry and they're comfortable. I pull them on, and then I crawl onto the bed beside her on top of the covers.
I wrap my arm around her, pulling her back against my front. She immediately, instinctively, curls into me, fitting her back against my chest, her legs tangling with mine.
Within seconds, her breathing is deep and even. She’s fast asleep again.
I lie in the dark, listening to the hum of the heat kicking on, the distant sound of a siren. I am the faucet-turner. I am the bath pillow. I am the pill-getter.
I am, I think, as I feel my own eyelids growing heavy, the luckiest man in the world.
This is a good day.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Maya
The wave hits me just as I’m trying to figure out how to adapt a lesson on symmetrical leaf patterns for a combined second-and-third-grade class. It’s not the violent room-spinning nausea of the first few weeks on the new meds, but a low, steady swell. My stomach clenches, and the text on my computer screen blurs. I push back from the desk, my chair squeaking in the cramped trailer, and take a deep, measured breath.
In. Hold. Out.
