Page 36 of For Her Own Good

“No?” I’ve got to dig out a spare towel from the linen closet so I turn my back on her. Coming up with one that’s not exactly fit for guests but it will have to do, I face her again as she’s stripping off her soggy sweater, dragging it over her head, and leaving an expanse of her midsection uncovered.

She’s… I… Yes, I’ve seen her naked before. In a towel, recently. And I’ve certainly seen other naked women in the not-so-distant past—what counts as distant, anyhow?—but that plane of smooth skin, and the way her breasts are displayed in the bra she’s still got on, I…

How can a man be expected to think under these conditions? It’s not right. So I thrust the towel in her general direction and turn on my heel to head out the door, muttering something about dry clothes.

* * *

Starla

Perhaps this was, as Holden said it would be, the worst, worst idea. Yes, I’m naked and wet in Lowry’s apartment, but this isn’t how I saw this going. At all. I suppose I could have foreseen he’d think of me showing up soaking wet on his doorstep as a problem to be solved and not a romantic gesture—why does it always seem romantic in the movies?—but then… He never did ask what I was doing here if it wasn’t for a bath. Isn’t he curious? I’d be curious if our positions were reversed, that’s for damn sure.

If nothing else, I’m in Lowry’s home, which is so bland compared to the man himself. He’s renting though, and hit the ground running when he moved back by getting back to work straightaway. Probably hanging up some pictures or buying a vase or whatever wouldn’t have been high on his list of things to do.

I’m also in his shower. Like a lot of men, his toiletry selection is rather sparse. But I didn’t come here for a spa visit. I didn’t come here for a shower either, but here we are. His shampoo and his soap smell like him, and I possibly take longer than absolutely necessary soaping myself up and inhaling the concentrated scent of Lowry.

It would be weird—like real weird—to stay in here for too much longer, so I rinse everything off and step outside, feet sinking into his soft, fuzzy bathmat. It’s not pretty or sophisticated, but it’s comfortable and I like it. The towel he shoved at me before running away is—

Oh my god, what if he has someone here? What if she’s in his bedroom and they were…canoodling or something? This is why Holden said it would be worst, worst. Except, Lowry would’ve said, right? He wouldn’t want me to be embarrassed if there were someone else here. He still would have scolded me and made me get out of my soaking wet clothes, but he would have told me. I’m certain of it.

Past that jolt of panic, I towel off, eyeing my bruises in the mirror. They’re still there and ugly as ever since they’ve passed the deep purple pretty stage and are yellowing now. Nothing says sexy like mottled swamp skin. At least they don’t hurt so badly anymore.

And then I’m in a towel with stringy wet hair and no blow-dryer in sight, nor any clothes. There’s not a robe hanging on the back of the door either, which means when Lowry showers, he’s wandering about his apartment in a towel. Except I suppose he’s mostly showering at the gym at work thanks to my brilliant idea, which he mentions every time he sees me. How well it’s working. How much his life has improved, and his performance as a clinician. It’s maybe overkill for him to mention it every single time, but I like it when he says nice things.

It should go without saying—that whole “you catch more flies with honey than vinegar” thing is a saying for a reason—but people get better outcomes from me when they’re nice than when they’re not.

Tad stopped being nice to me some time ago, but he’s recently gotten outright nasty. Tonight’s phone call was a fine example.

“Your father would be so disappointed in you.”

My eyes had burned and my sinuses tingled, and I’m angry they’re doing it again now, a couple of hours later.

“You’re driving this corporation into the ground.”

Which isn’t even true. Yes, the stock had tanked upon my father’s death, and dipped lower still when it was announced that I was inheriting all of his shares and would hod a controlling interest. That’s not exactly a vote of confidence. But since then, it’s been steadily climbing. Not back up to where it was prior to my father’s death, but people’s confidence that I’m not going to set the place on fire or anything has gone up. I may be making extremely conservative decisions, but they aren’t bad.

“Everyone on the board was concerned when you started and I tried to allay their fears, but you’ve been worse than they’d imagined. How am I supposed to pull your ass out of the fire now, huh?”

I’d wanted to punch him, wanted to yell and argue, but…what if he’s right?

What if heaven is real and my father is looking down on me and thinking: “What the ever-loving fuck have I done?”

I made my father’s life hard enough, now I’m making his afterlife a misery too? I know, Iknow, that Tad was doing it on purpose, poking at a spot he knows is vulnerable, but that’s because it fucking works. I can tell myself all I like that there’s no such thing as heaven or that I’m not doing a terrible job, or that Tad is so fucking toxic not even a rancor would eat his corpse, but jeez.

It’s possible I downed another one of those tiny prosecco bottles Holden had brought over after I hung up with Tad because I’ve developed coping mechanisms for a lot of things, but someone using my recently deceased father’s approval or lack thereof against me is a new one, and I haven’t had time to develop a scab over the wound yet. Not even a temporary bandage. Nope, just a gaping wound that Tad can pour salt and citrus juice in like my psychic trauma is a goddamn margarita.

A knock on the door pulls me out of my ruminating.

“Starla? Are you finished? I’ve got you some dry clothes.”

I swipe at my eyes because I don’t want Lowry to ask what’s with the tears. Because he will. I don’t want to talk about that. I want to talk about my feelings for him because… What else do I have to lose? I don’t want to keep playing friends if I’m some sort of extracurricular pity case for him. I can fucking well pay for my mental healthcare, thankyouverymuch.

And for fuck’s sake, what would I do if he meets someone and wants us all to be friends? That would be too much to bear. I don’t even like thinking all that much about Maeve and she’s hisex-wife. Which isn’t fair and I should be a grown-up. She does seem cool. Does a lot of charity work in Chicago, including for immigrant kids. I should like her, and I probably would, if I wasn’t jealous that she got to share Lowry’s bed, his life, and I haven’t.

“Star?”

Shit.

I plaster a smile on my face when I open the door. Lowry’s standing there, a pile of navy blue, grey, and crimson in his hands.

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