Page 43 of Into These Eyes
Before I know it, he’s back with a bottle of pills and a glass of water. I groan, place the back of my hand on the washcloth and try not to think about how I’ll get those pills down my throat.
“You’ll have to sit up, Jamie.”
“Don't … think I can,” I whimper, disgusted with myself.
The mattress dips at my waist as he sits beside me, and when he leans in closer and closer, my heart stutters. Yet I don’t feel afraid or anxious. I’m … curious.
But my curiosity quickly gives way to realisation when he reaches under my armpit and splays his warm hand between my shoulder blades. With such care and tenderness it brings tears to my eyes, he eases me upright.
The new position has my head pounding in protest. Then I feel his thumb at the nape of my neck, making slow, calming circles on my bare skin, just the way he’d done when he held me in his caravan. And it’s working. Again. How I’d longed for someone to take care of me like this on the rare occasions I’d been sick. But after my mother died, I became the caregiver, never the recipient.
He holds up the bottle of ibuprofen and I turn my palm up, waiting while he tips out three pills. I pop them in my mouth, and he leans even closer as he reaches for the glass of water on my nightstand. God, he smells so damn good … and familiar. Before I can comprehend why, he encourages me to pop the pills in my mouth, then offers me the glass. After swallowing them down, I relax my muscles, but he keeps me upright.
“More,” he says, indicating the water with a nod, his thumb still making those lovely circles.
I take careful sips, acknowledging how wonderful that cool liquid feels gliding down my dry throat. When he tries to take the glass from me, I raise it to my lips again, unsure if I’m drinking because I need more, or because I don’t want him to move. Either way, I don’t have a choice once the glass is empty.He takes it and carefully guides me down to the pillow, our faces closer than ever. That’s when I realise the state of my breath must be beyond vile. Horrified, I slap a hand over my mouth and twist my head away.
He chuckles, extracts his arm from behind my back and stands.
“I’ll leave whenever you say the word, but I’d like to get you fed, if that’s okay.”
I groan. “I can’t even think about food.”
His faced drops with disappointment. “You want me to go?”
“No, I …” I cover my face with my hands. “I don’t know. I don’t think I can decide on anything right now.”
“Then don’t. Let me make the decisions.”
I peer at him through my fingers. Not having to decide on anything sounds like heaven right now. I’m so tired of being responsible for others, even myself. “That depends on what you have in mind.”
“You should rest until the ibuprofen takes effect. Then, when you’re ready, I’ll make breakfast. I know you don’t want anything right now, but you’ll feel a lot better once you eat. How does that sound?”
“That sounds … perfect,” I mumble as I let my eyes drift shut.
When I open them again, it’s only due to my bladder screaming for release. I glance at the clock. Almost midday. I’ve haven’t slept past 7am since my mother died. Since my father murdered her.
Pushing the thought away, I ease up until I’m sitting. This time, I only feel a slight ache in my head. Grateful, I slide my legs over the side of the bed and wait a few moments. As I do, the faint sound of the TV drifts in from the living room. He’s still here, then. Waiting for me.
The thought gives me a sense of comfort and warmth. He seems to have a natural, nurturing demeanour I apparently crave.
Brushing aside the thought, I rise and cross the room to my ensuite. Halfway there, I notice something doesn’t feel quite right. It’s not until I turn my back to the toilet, slide my hands beneath my dress, and try to pull down my undies, that I realise I’m not wearing any.
Mind reeling, I lower myself to the seat. As I pee, I soon discover they’re not missing at all. They’re on the floor, over by the shower screen. How the hell did they get there? Had I taken them off? Had Gavin? Oh, God. What the fuck had I done last night?
Some vague, wobbly memories of Gavin being in here with me break through, but none explain my discarded undies.
I guess he can explain what happened, but I’m not sure I want to know how badly I’ve humiliated myself in front of him.
I’ve gone from smug superiority and hatred of the man to feeling like I’m a mess he should be running from. Yet, he’s still here in my house, willing to take care of me.
As I clean my teeth and wash my face, I decide the real reason he hasn’t fled probably has more to do with avoiding that depressing caravan than me. Who can blame him? Why not soak up some ducted air-conditioning and the space a normal home provides?
When I look at myself in the mirror, I notice the messy plait draped over my shoulder. The image of Gavin standing behind me slams into my brain. His concentration and the deliriously amazing feel of his gentle tugs on my hair as he braided it. How many more little kindnesses had he afforded me last night?
Back in my room, I clumsily slide on clean undies, a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. After taking a deep breath, I head down the hallway toward the living area.
Gavin quickly rises from the couch when he hears me.
