Page 19 of Brash for It
And she fails.
I point toward the bathroom.“Shower’s through there.Towels on the shelf.Brand-new toothbrushes under the sink.”I open the cabinet so she can see the rainbow pack—ten count.“My mother’s got this idea I’ll die if I don’t have extras.”
“You… your mom buys your toothbrushes?”Something about that loosens the panic in her eyes by a tiny bit.The idea of a man with a mother who does store runs must not fit next to the leather and the patch concept she has.
“Among other things,” I remark, frankly.“She hits a warehouse store once a month.Calls me from the aisles and asks what I’m out of.I say nothing.She ignores me and buys two of everything sometimes more.I haul it in and pretend that she read my mind and I would be lost without her.She’s my mom and I’ll do anything to make sure she smiles and feels like she’s still takin’ care of her boys.”
Her mouth does a small thing that could turn into a smile if her world wasn’t currently on fire.“That’s… nice.”
“It’s efficient,” I correct, because nice sits wrong on my tongue.“Saves me a trip and makes my mom happy.You want food?”
She shakes her head too fast.“I don’t think I could…manage to eat anything.”
“All right.”I jerk my chin toward the hall.“Go wash off the day.There’s a lock on the door.”I say it like information, not invitation.Her shoulders drop a fraction.
She edges down the hall like she’s walking into a test.The bathroom door clicks.Water starts—pipes thumping, then settling into a steady rush.I stand in my kitchen with my hands on the counter and stare at the knife block I never use for anything but opening boxes.The house feels smaller with her in it.Not in the bad way.In the way that makes you aware of every square foot.My chest feels that way too.
It’s a long shower.I don’t clock the minutes on purpose, but I can’t help it.Ten.Fifteen.Twenty.The day bleeds out of her and swirls down my drain.Good.
While she’s in there, I do the stupid little things that matter.I switch the sheet on the bed for a clean one because I don’t remember the last time I did that and suddenly it matters; it matters a lot.I shake out a pillowcase and pull it on, smooth it flat with my palm.I have a housekeeper that my mom picked out.I know she changes my sheets and shit, but I couldn’t say when because all of the bedding is black and red, she rotates through it, but nothing ever looks different.
I dig in the bottom drawer for a T-shirt soft from a hundred washes and a pair of clean boxers I don’t hate.I check the water heater like I can bully it into not quitting tonight.
Steam finally billows out under the bathroom door.The water cuts.Silence drops with it.A minute later, the door opens and she steps out wrapped in one of my towels.It dwarfs her.Her hair’s damp, combed back.Her face is stripped clean—no makeup, nothing to make her look like the world expects.Pretty in a different way.
Honest.It tugs at something I don’t like admitting exists.
“Hey,” I say softly, because she looks like she might spook.“Left a shirt and boxers on the bed.”I nod and continue, “I’ll get your dress out of the bathroom before the steam turns it into a raisin.”
She hugs the towel tighter.“Thank you.”It comes out like she doesn’t have a lot of practice.
“Don’t mention it.”I hook a thumb toward the bedroom.“Left’s mine.Right’s yours.”
She pads that way in bare feet, hesitant.I duck into the steamy bathroom after she clears it, pluck her dress off the back of the door, and hang it from the closet knob so it can dry from its steam cleaning she wasn’t expecting to give it.Her shoes are by the tub.Small, expensive, and they look uncomfortable to the point it’s cruel.I put them by the closet door.No reason except the idea of her stepping on cold tile to find them makes something in my chest itch.
When I come back out, she’s standing in the doorway wearing my shirt and boxers.The shirt hits mid-thigh.The boxers peek out, blue waistband rolled for fit.She looks like a kid playing dress-up and a woman who had her life cut down on the same day.Her hands knot in the hem.She looks at the bed.Then at me.
“There’s only one.”
“Yeah.”I rub my jaw, feel bristle rasp my palm.“Couch sucks.I can take the chair.”
Her head shakes so fast it’s almost a flinch.“No.I can’t— I don’t want to— You shouldn’t have to—” She’s spiraling, words piling up, eyes going bright like she might flood the place.
“Hey.”My voice cuts through without getting loud.I step closer, slow, hands up where she can see them like I’m palming a skittish mare.“You’re not putting me out.You’re not in the way.You’re not obligated.”I hold her gaze until I feel her climb down from the cliff she’s on.“You’re safe.”
She swallows.“I don’t know what that is right now.”
“Then let me know it for you until you remember.”It comes out before I can run it through the filter.
Rather than double back on my words, I let it stand.
She looks at the bed again like it’s a test she didn’t study for.I make the decision she can’t.I take her by the hand—warm, damp from shower—and guide her around the mattress.Her fingers clamp mine on reflex like she’s afraid of falling off the edge of the world.I tuck her in.Literally.Sheet.Blanket.The ridiculous ritual you do for kids because they sleep better under the weight.She lies there stiff as a board while I smooth fabric over her shins and make sure the corner’s not digging into her ankle.My mother would laugh herself sick if she saw this.
When I straighten, she’s watching me like I grew antlers or maybe demon horns.“You… you tuck people in?”
“Don’t spread it around.”I strip my shirt off.Belt unbuckled, metal tongue clicking soft.I take my time because otherwise this moment tilts toward something it’s not.Jeans down.I leave the boxers on because I told her safe and I mean it.The air’s cool on my skin.Her gaze flicks away and then back because she’s human.
She clears her throat.“Um?”
