“You don't have to?—”
“I know.” I stand. “But I'm going to. And I’ll bring a refill.”
I leave and find more coffees, grab some baked goods, and return to her room. When I come back she's rearranged herself against the headboard with a look of stiff-legged discomfort she's trying to hide.
“It hurts, doesn’t it?” I ask.
“A little.”
I sit at the foot of the bed and, without overthinking it, reach for her good foot and wrap both hands around it.
“Oh,” she says, surprised.
I begin working the arch with my thumbs, the way our team physiotherapist used to do after the long runs I did obsessively in my twenties.
“You don't have to—” she starts.
“I want to.”
She makes a small sound and lets her head fall back against the pillows. Outside the cypress trees sway in a morning breeze off the Starlight River.
After a few minutes I glance up.
Lauren is asleep, her lips slightly parted, her coffee still warm on the nightstand and the croissant sitting next to it.
I stay for another moment, looking at her. Then I set her foot down gently, stand, and cover her with the duvet. Then I slip out of the room.
Damien and Kate are curled together on the pull-out, also both asleep. Looks like we won’t be at brunch at nine.
I stand in the middle of the room for a moment, thinking about the Rome photos. About the springs. About how Lauren’s beautiful eyes seem to tug at something deep inside of me.
I let myself out quietly and go back to work. It's what I'm best at.
For now.
