Page 12 of Heidi Lucy Loses Her Mind

“I—maybe. I don’t—” She clears her throat. “You can’t shower with me.”

I nod. “That’s fine. But if you sit in the tub, I can wash your hair under the faucet. We can drape a towel around your shoulders so you don’t get your clothes wet.” I turn to look at the little pedestal sink. “Or you can sit in a chair and tilt your head back into the sink.”

She eyes the sink. “Like at the salon?”

“I guess,” I say with a shrug. “I don’t know. It’s been a while since I got my hair cut.” Years, actually.

“I can do that myself,” she says, stepping into the bathroom.

I hold my tongue instead of arguing. She’s a grown woman, stubborn but not stupid. I grab one of the two chairs at her kitchen table and carry it back to the bathroom. Then I say, “I’ll be out here. Ask for help, please, if you need it.”

Her cheeks turn red, but all she does is nod.

I skirt past her, closing the door behind me as I step back into the living room.

I force myself not to listen at the door, because there is a line, and that crosses it. I pace the room instead, my ears making up all sorts of little sounds that my brain tries to blow out of proportion. A littleclinkconjures the image of Heidi on the floor of her shop, bleeding—a mildthumphas me imagining her slumping unconscious over the sink. I shake my head and make myself sit on the couch, my knee bouncing with anxious energy that has nowhere to go.

I pull out my phone, opening Google Docs on autopilot. I let my finger hover over my current work in progress for a second before tapping the screen, and a sick sense of dread washes over me. I force myself to scroll to the bottom anyway, where I find the cursor blinking at me like a neon light. I don’t go back and read the thousand or so words I got in yesterday; I know it will make me more antsy. The blank space taunts me, laughing with gaping jaws as my nerves threaten to swallow me whole.

I fling my phone away and give in to the litany of excuses the situation offers.

I’m not going to be able to focus while I’m worrying about Heidi. It’s stupid to try to concentrate on my imaginary world when I’m so concerned about the real one.

But it’s fine. Heidi is fine. She’s—

“Man Bun?” Heidi’s voice calls.

I shoot off the couch like it’s electrocuted me, and I’ve never crossed a room faster. “Yeah?” I say, speaking to the closed door.

“Uh, I can’t—could you—can you help with something?”

She’s not one to stammer or stutter, which tells me how uncomfortable she must be.

“Yeah,” I say again, more softly this time. “I’m coming in.”

I enter the bathroom to see Heidi seated in the chair, her head leaning back against the sink. I spot the trouble she’s having immediately; her medium-length hair fills the sink enough that the water and suds don’t drain as well, causing a layer of shampoo bubbles to remain. She probably can’t get it rinsed.

“Can you help get the shampoo out?” she says, looking up at me but not quite meeting my eye.

I hum my assent, moving closer.

I feel the water; it’s a little chilly, so I turn the knob until it’s warmer. Then I lift her hair, heavy and wet, and run it under the faucet. I hold this little piece of her in my hands, and I savor it, because I’m not sure I’ll ever get to do this again. Her shampoo smells like something tropical, and I inhale as much as I can without being a weirdo.

I rinse her hair until I can no longer pretend there’s any soap left to wash out. Then I shut the water off, lifting her hair and wringing the excess water. I lean over her to grab the extra towel from on top of the toilet before wrapping it around her hair, and my hands work mindlessly as I dry it.

“Soren.”

I freeze at the sound of my name. A sudden stillness falls thickly around us, and I clear my throat. “Yeah.”

“What are you doing?” Her voice is hesitant, curious.

Crap. “Just—nothing. Helping. Sorry.” I drop the towel and step away quickly.

“It’s fine,” she says after a second. “Thank you.”

I nod without speaking, and then I back out of the room, closing the door.

By the time Heidi falls asleep on the couch thirty minutes later, my mind is spinning once more. I stretch out on the floor, but I don’t expect I’ll really be able to sleep. I keep listening to the sound of her breathing, deep and even, just to make sure she’s fine. I do briefly consider trying to get in some words, but the thought has never been less appealing—and that’s saying something. This entire book has been like pulling teeth, and with every word of praise I hear for my first novel, it gets worse.

---