Page 130 of Dial L for Lawyer
She collapses against me, crying, and I let her, my own eyes burning as I hold her against my chest. The water's getting cold,so I add more heat. I'd sit here until my skin pruned completely off if it meant she felt safe enough to fall apart in my arms.
"I'm sorry," she hiccups against my shoulder. "I don't know why I'm?—"
"Don't apologize," I murmur, stroking her hair. "You've been holding everything together for so long on your own. You're allowed to break a little."
She cries harder at that, like I've given her permission to feel everything she's been shoving down. I just hold her, whispering nonsense into her wet hair, letting her purge whatever poison Maya's betrayal and her past has left behind.
When the tears finally slow, she pulls back to look at me. Her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen, her face blotchy from crying. "I'm a mess."
"You're perfect," I tell her, meaning it completely, even though it makes her roll her eyes.
"Come on." I reach for the drain. "Let's get you warm."
The water gurgles away, and I step out first, grabbing the oversized towel from the heated rack before I help her stand. She's unsteady, whether from exhaustion or emotion or both, and I wrap the towel around her before she can start shaking.
I dry her slowly, methodically. Her arms first, then her back, kneeling to get her legs. She stands there letting me tend to her, one hand resting on my shoulder for balance, and there's something sacred about it. This woman who fights every battle alone, who armors herself in shapewear and sharp words, lets me take care of her in the smallest, most essential way. It’s a perfect surrender.
When I stand, she's watching me with those dark eyes. "Your turn," she says softly, taking a second towel.
But she doesn't dry me off so much as map me, learning the territory of my shoulders, the valley of my spine, the solid expanse of my chest where her tears just lived. Her touchis reverent and possessive at once, like she's claiming what's already hers or at least figuring out that she owns it, owns every part of me.
"Bed or couch?" I ask when we're both dry enough.
“Bed.” She makes the choice, but when I move to walk, she doesn't follow. "Caleb?"
"Yeah?"
She opens her mouth, closes it, then just reaches for me.
I scoop her up without hesitation, her skin still faintly damp and smelling like lavender. She burrows into my chest as I carry her to the bedroom, her weight nothing compared to what she's trusting me to hold.
I pull back the covers with one hand, then lower her onto the sheets. She immediately curls onto her side, making herself small, but when I slide in behind her, she backs up until every possible inch of her is pressed against me. I wrap my arm around her waist, my hand splayed over her heart where I can feel it beating sure and steady.
"I'm trying," she whispers. "To say it. I want to, but the words just..."
"Hey." I press a kiss to her shoulder. "I told you. I know."
She turns in my arms, her face inches from mine. "How are you so patient with me?"
"Because I know you," I tell her simply. "At that gala, for one amazing night, we shared more with each other than I think either of us had ever put into words before. And that was just the start of it. Our late-night texting sessions only revealed more. So, I know your heart. I know your dreams—like how you used to sneak into your dad’s home office when you were ten to look at with his marketing materials, arranging the pamphlets and color samples like you were running your own agency. I know you still keep that ratty Northwestern sweatshirt from college in your closet because it reminds you of the first time you felt likeyou belonged somewhere." I brush a strand of hair from her face. "I know how brave you were telling me about your mother, about your body, about all the ways you were taught to apologize for existing—just like you know I used to practice closing arguments to my reflection because my father said weakness was visible from across a courtroom, and how I still catch myself doing it when a case really gets under my skin." My thumb traces her cheekbone. "And I know you're worth waiting for. All of you. Even the parts that can't speak yet."
She presses her mouth to mine, not with heat but with something deeper. Promise, maybe. Or recognition. When she pulls back, she tucks her head under my chin and tangles our legs together, an intricate knot of limbs that would take dedication to undo.
"Don't let go," she murmurs against my chest. "Even when I'm being impossible. Even when I can't say things. Don't let go."
"Never," I promise, tightening my arms around her.
Her breathing evens out slowly, her body going heavy and trusting against mine. And as I lie there in the middle of the day, holding this brilliant, broken, brave woman who loves me in every way but words, I realize something.
She doesn't need to say it. She's writing it with every breath she takes in my arms, every soft sigh that escapes her lips, every minute she chooses to stay instead of run. She's spelling it out in trust, in the simple act of letting herself be held.
"I love you too, Serena," I whisper to her sleeping form, knowing somehow that she hears it in whatever dream she's drifting through. "However you need to say it. However long it takes. I love you too."
CHAPTER 32
Serena
My apartment looks like a cardboard box factory exploded. We've been at it since eight this morning, systematically dismantling my life to rebuild it at Caleb's place. The afternoon sun streams through my windows, making the dust motes dance as we tape another box shut. The sound of packing tape ripping off the roll has become the soundtrack of my day.
