Page 41 of Into These Eyes
“Ready to get up?” I ask.
Holding out her hands, she nods. I toss the washcloth on the vanity and bring her to her feet. She doesn’t sway. Instead, she trembles.
“Hold onto my shoulders,” I tell her, then bend to my knee. When I feel her tentative hands on me, I gently free her feet from her underwear. Quickly shooting the lacy garment into the corner of the room, I rise, but her eyes aren’t on me. They’re on her lacy panties. Then they sweep up and meet my gaze.
Mortified, she places her hand over her face and groans, “Oh, God.”
“Hey, I didn’t see a thing. Now, time to rinse.” Trying to make her forget her embarrassment, I guide her to the basin and run the cold water. Filling a glass, I hand it to her.
“I need to clean my teeth,” she whispers.
“You don’t want to do that after you’ve …” I don’t want to say the word in case it triggers her. “Just a good rinse.”
“But I’m gross.”
“Trust me, you’ll still be gross in the morning.”
She chuckles, meeting my eyes in the mirror. I’m unsure which is worse; the glassy drunk look she had not long ago, or the sadness and humiliation in her eyes now.
Before I do something stupid like pull her into my arms, I ask, “Do you have any Panadol in here?”
She opens the medicine cabinet, sending our reflections careening away. I spy the box, pluck it from the shelf and pop out three capsules. She takes them from my palm with shaking fingers, swallows them down with the water, then rinses her mouth a few times. They might come back up a little later, but at least I know she has a good supply.
Closing the cabinet, we lock eyes, her fatigue and grief right there at the surface. I wish she wasn’t going through this, but she can’t run from it forever. Though, one night of numbing the pain might have been a good idea had she not overdone it.
“Your hair,” I say. “I’m guessing you don’t want to end up with something nasty in it?”
She shakes her head, then winces from the movement. “Too tired to bother.”
“Do you have one of those hair-tie thingies? A brush?”
She opens a drawer and plucks one out, complete with a hair-tie wrapped around the handle.
“Can you stand for a little longer?”
She grips the top of the vanity and carefully nods.
I start at the bottom of her hair, brushing it cautiously as I work my way up higher and higher. There aren’t too many tangles, which I guess is the result of it being in that tight ponytail all day. She’s watching my every move in the reflection, so I keep my eyes trained on the task at hand. Finished with the brush, I place it aside and part her hair into three sections. As it slides between my fingers like silk, the sensation is so intoxicating, I want to stand here all night and run my fingers through its buttery softness.
When I begin working on the plait, I glance in the mirror. Her eyes are closed, a look of peace and pleasure on her face. There’s a deep satisfaction in making her feel that way. Finishing, I wrap the tie around the bottom of the plait to secure it. I haven’t done too well. One section’s too thick, another too thin, but it’ll do the job of keeping it clear of any more bouts of retching.
Even with that unpleasant thought, my mind manages to conjure up images of that braid wrapped around my hand, tugging on it as I sink deep inside her.
She sways against me, and I catch her, realising she’s almost asleep on her feet. I scoop her up, carry her into her bedroom and lay her down, resting her head on the towel-covered pillow. She groans softly as I force her onto her side so she’s facing the edge of the bed and the bucket I’ve placed on the floor within easy reach. Leaning over, I position a few pillows behind her so she can’t roll onto her back. I’m not taking any chances on her throwing up and choking to death on my watch.
I’d love to get her out of her dress and make her more comfortable, but I won’t. She’ll be mortified enough when she wakes up in the morning and finds herself panty-less. Not to mention all the other humiliations she’s endured. Hopefully she won’t remember anything, but I’m sure her absence of underwear will be a question I’ll have to deal with.
Believing she’s out for the count, I cover her with the throw rug at the end of the bed. Just as I straighten up, she snags my hand.
“Gavin Lake, I do not hate,” she murmurs. “Not any …” and her words fade into sleep.
My heart swells with relief. Hearing her say it, even in her inebriated state, means the world to me. It can’t be easy to turn sixteen years of hatred into something else. But she’s not just anyone. To me, she’s everything. Even when shedidhate me.
After grabbing a spare throw rug and some cushions from the couch in the living room, I make myself comfortable on the old wing-back chair in the corner of her room. Not that I plan to sleep. I’ll just watch over her in case her stomach protests again.
It breaks me that there’s no one here for her in her time of need. But there’s a little niggling part deep inside that’s all warm and fuzzy because it’smewho gets to care for her.
Maybe I’m not worthless after all.
