Gonna pretend that didn’t happen. “We’re in the shower in our clothes,” I go on, “which is uncomfortable.” Uncomfortable because he’s so close to me, and his hands are so gentle, and—perhaps the most disturbing—he seems legitimately worried.
He’s taking care of me.
Think about something else,I tell myself. And my nightmare from last night jumps into my mind; I guess talking to the therapist about what happened pulled it all to the surface. The feel of the steering wheel, the slide of the tires, the endlessly bizarre sensation of falling with no road beneath us—I pull in a shuddering breath and blink rapidly, trying to dispel the thoughts and images that years later still haven’t left me.
“Water in my eyes,” I say when Phoenix raises one brow at me.
Breathe in; breathe out.The memories and the fear and the sorrow are overpowering, but something else is rising in my chest, too—something just as powerful: a savage sense of pride and satisfaction.
Because I’mdoingsomething. I’m reliving this trauma more vividly because I’m in the process of rooting it out. I didn’t realize how powerful that knowledge would feel.
My heart is heavy. My eyes are swollen. I have a headache. But I’m doing a good thing.
I let my eyes trail over Phoenix as he stands in front of me, tilting my head this way and that, working the blood out of my hair. This is twice, now, that he’s found me having a nightmare in the middle of the night—twice that he’s seen me at my absolute lowest, my most broken. It’s not something I want anyone to witness, but especially not him. I almost wish he would laugh at me, because I could respond to that with anger. It would be easy to handle his teasing or his mocking.
But he holds me instead. He holds me close and lets me cry and strokes my hair and makes me feel so inexplicablysafe. How am I supposed to react to that? What am I supposed to do with that behavior? How is it supposed to make me feel? Because what I find inside myself right now is something dangerously like hope—although hope forwhatis harder to put my finger on.
All I know is that he can’t keep holding me while I cry. He can’t wash my wounds so tenderly. I can’t handle behavior like that. It makes me feel…things. So many things.
I sigh as the inevitable question creeps into my mind: Do Ilikehim? Do I actually like Phoenix Park, my husband—this man who takes care of me in the most begrudging of ways?
Of course not,my brain says.
You agreed to stay married to him,a smaller part of me whispers.And your pulse is racing right now. What do you think that means?
“I think you’ve got it,” I say as my feelings twist into knots low in my stomach.
“Head wounds bleed a lot,” he says, turning my body to the side so he can look. “But this doesn’t actually seem too bad.” Then he turns me to face him again. “Do you feel okay?”
I nod.
“Don’t lie,” he warns, his hand clenching on my shoulder.
“I’m not,” I say softly. “It’s a little tender, but other than that, I feel fine.”
His gaze darts over my face for a second, searching for the truth, until finally he nods. Then he leans past me and turns off the water, plunging us into silence broken only by the sound of dripping water and our mingled breaths.
I’m completely soaked; under the stream of the warm shower it was fine, but now I shudder. Phoenix’s eyes flit over me before he squeezes them shut, exhaling roughly.
“Get out,” he says as his hand clenches tightly on the handle of the shower door. He slides it open, his eyes still closed, and I step carefully out. I wrap a towel around myself and then turn back to him.
“Thank you,” I say before backing out of the bathroom.
He doesn’t respond.
Work crawlsby at a glacial pace; I enjoy the salon, but today I can’t wait for my shift to be done. I make absentminded conversation with my clients, paying just enough attention to do a good job. I leave at two o’clock on the dot, and I barely pause on the way out to say goodbye.
I spend the afternoon with Nana Lu, which is much more enjoyable than work, even if it doesn’t keep my mind as occupied as I’d like. We video call Maggie, who we catch onher way to class; Nana listens with genuine interest as Maggie tells her about the last test she took, smiling and bobbing her head and asking questions in her feeble voice.
I want Nana to live forever, sweet and full of unwavering love. It’s selfish, I know. And I want Maggie to be happy forever—I want her to be happy, and I want her to know she’s loved, and I want the sun to shine on her always. I want every good thing for her, and then some.
“Nana,” I say after we’re done talking to Maggie. “I think there might be a guy I like.”
Nana Lu gasps and turns her head slowly toward me. “Is there?”
“Maybe,” I say. I lean closer and tuck the blankets around her further; she spends a lot of her time sitting up in bed, and she likes to stay warm. “I can’t really tell right now.”
“Is he handsome?”
