Page 73 of Fool Me

“Okay. If that’s what you want, I can wait here.”

More wisps of blonde hair fall free from her braid as she shakes her head from side to side. “No. You can’t leave me.” Raw despair cracks in her voice.

“Hey.” I cup her cheek. “I’m not going anywhere. If you want a shower, you’ll get a shower.”

She just nods, crawling from my lap and leading me to the bathroom at the back of the house. She doesn’t turn on the lights, relying on the glow from the early morning sun pouring in through the small frosted window.

Fuck, I knew this bathroom was small, but the two of us in here . . . it’s tighter than I’d like right now. With her back turned to me and her attention on the floor, I take in the space. There’s no way to stay out of her space, but I don’t want to overwhelm Harlowe even if she’s asking me to stay.

I catch her flinching in the mirror when she lifts her hand to undo the buttons on her flannel. She stops and drops it, pressing her palm into the counter and bowing her head. A deep, sucking inhale lifts her shoulders. I can’t see her face, but I know she’s fighting to maintain her composure with everything she has right now. Almost like it was okay for her to break in the dark, but with the mirror reflecting back at her, she can’t.

The idea of giving her space washes down the drain. I step in closer, my hands sliding down her arms, until our fingers are locked together, linking us.

Slowly, she lifts her head and looks at me in the mirror through red-rimmed eyes. I’m sure this isn’t her first loss, but I’ve seen a lot of it over the years and it never gets easier. I wrap both our arms around her middle, letting her know I’ve got her.

“I used to think that losing a patient would get easier, or maybe that I just needed to get stronger. So, I’d fight to hold it together, thinking that would make it hurt less, that it could keep the pain and anger from swallowing me whole.

She doesn’t look away from the mirror, just keeps her eyes on mine.

“But grief doesn’t want to ruin you. Your pain won’t break you, it just wants to be seen. Heard. Felt. And it’s not a weakness, Harlowe. It’s the cost of giving a damn.

“Sometimes, after sitting with a family that just lost a piece of themselves, I’ll lock myself in my office and cry. Not because I did something wrong. Not because I failed. But because it mattered, because their pain mattered. And I’m allowed to feel that pain too.”

Her jaw tightens like she’s trying to lock the emotion inside.

“You showed up. You did everything you could. You didn’t turn away. That’s what’s going to hurt the most—but it’s also what makes you the kind of person people need. It makes you the leader the team needs. The compassion you feel, how hard you fight for everyone, sets you apart. Your heart isn’t a burden, it’s what makes you, you.”

I drop my lips to the top of her head, my voice quiet in the tight space.

“You don’t have to hold it together. You don’t have to be okay yet. I’m here. And when the guilt hits again, when your heart aches like you’ve been crushed from the inside, I’ll still be here.”

She lifts our hands to the buttons at the top of her shirt, not hiding her grimace this time. Leaning into me and letting me take her weight, she gives into the heaviness and lets me take over with one word. “Please.”

I turn on the shower, letting it warm up for her before I undo each button, watching my fingers as I work. The flannel starts the pile of clothes on the floor that grows when I work her stiff pants down her legs. I turn us from the mirror and lift her arms, careful to move her slowly. I remove her sports bra and then her underwear. Guiding her into the shower, intent on waiting for her out here, but her fingers clamp down on my forearm.

I nod and pull my shirt over my head, before I shuck my jeans off, stepping in behind her in only my boxer briefs.

She turns toward me and I pull her into my arms, letting her stand under the spray for as long as she needs, my chin resting on the top of her head. Eventually, she looks up at me with tired eyes.

“Will you wash my hair? I can’t—my arms . . . I’m just so tired. The extraction took too long and I couldn’t stop compressions until they got to her.”

She swallows hard, her voice cracking.

“I couldn’t be the reason a family lost their daughter—because I was too tired, too weak to keep going.”

“You’re the strongest person I know,” I tell her, switching our positions, so I’m in the spray and she’s facing away from me. I fumble with the hair tie as I undo her braid and work my way up, untangling and untwisting her matted strands. My fingers work the shampoo into her scalp and I watch as some of the tension she’s still holding eases from her shoulders. We turn and rinse and she lets me move her around, her arms hanging at her side. Moving us again, I start on the conditioner.

I kneel, washing her mud-splattered legs, back, and arms. Then she takes the loofa from me, washing her front as she leans against me before I turn her to rinse one last time.

When we get out, I wrap the towel around her first, tucking the end under her arms before grabbing a second and squeezing the excess water from the ends of her hair. She reaches out and grabs the last towel, handing it to me. I wrap it around my waist and toss my soaked boxer briefs in the shower.

“I know you need to get to work soon, but can you lie with me until I fall back asleep?”

I nod, following her out of the bathroom and up the stairs. When she crawls into bed, the towel still wrapped around her, I follow suit. She doesn’t let me stray far, pressing her back to my front and pulling my arm around her. I tug her closer yet, not wanting any doubt that I’m right where I want to be to creep into the gap between us.

Somehow, even though there’s nothing remotely sexual about the scenario, this feels more intimate than anything else I’ve ever experienced. Tonight, she’s given me pieces of herself through raw vulnerability.

She falls asleep almost immediately, but it’s not restful. Her body thrashes against the sheets, and at times, I think she’s crying. Whimpers pierce the silence, but I don’t wake her. Being awake with the pain is worse than the haze of a dream, even one as awful as she’s having.

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