Page 110 of Road Trip to Forever
“What about a bath?”
“I haven’t taken a bath since I was six.”
“It’s been that long? You strike me as a bath guy.”
“Mhmm. The idea of swimming in my filth is disgusting.”
“I’ll make it nice. It’s dark in there. And quiet.”
“Okay,” Patrick agrees. “I’ll give it a go.”
“Stay here. I’ll be back in a few minutes. So help me god if you try to get out of this bed on your own, I will kick your ass.”
“Your threats are useless, Jones,” he mumbles.
I kiss his cheek and head to the bathroom. I keep the lights off, using my phone’s flashlight to guide me as I turn on the faucet and test the water temperature. It’s warm enough to relax his muscles but not scalding where he’ll be uncomfortable or overheat.
When the water fills to the brim of the basin, I make my way back to the bedroom. I squeeze Patrick’s hand so he knows I’m there.
“I’m going to help you up now, okay?”
“This is embarrassing,” he says through gritted teeth. “I’m sorry you have to see me like this.”
“Like a human being with a chronic health condition? The horror,” I say. “Use my shoulders to hoist yourself up.”
Patrick slings his arm around me, and I help lift him from his hips. There’s a moment where I think we’re both going to topple back onto the mattress, but I keep us steady, evening out our center of gravity. He lets out another groan as we shuffle across the carpet.
“Can you give me a minute? I need to use the bathroom.”
“I’m not leaving you alone. I’ll turn my back and cover my ears if it bothers you that I’m here. You could fall and crack your skull open. There would be blood everywhere. Imagine the cleanup,” I say.
Patrick huffs. “Your imagery is vivid. It’s like I’m in the middle of a crime scene.”
“Well you could be if you don’t let me stay in here with you.”
“You don’t care about hearing me pee?”
“I care aboutyou,Patrick. Not bodily functions.”
“You’re so good to me.”
“Because you’re good to me. That’s what people who really, really like each other do. They look out for one another and lend a hand when the other is in need.”
“I do like you, Lola. I like you a whole fucking lot.”
After he uses the bathroom and washes his hands, I pull off his shirt and start a pile of dirty clothes. I hook my fingers in the waistband of his boxers and tug them down his thighs, over his tattoos, the little markings I never knew existed.
Now that I know they’re there, I want to study them every day so I can memorize every detail. The exact size and shape and the way they’re shaded so I could write a dissertation on them if asked.
“How’s the temperature?” I ask when he’s settled in the tube after some careful maneuvering and a slew of curse words.
“Perfect,” he says.
I lather a washcloth with soap and rub it across his chest and down his arms until his skin is pink and clean. He closes his eyes, his head lolling back and a sigh escaping from his lips. There’s nothing sexual about my actions as I move the terrycloth to his stomach. It’s tender and caring andloving, seeing someone at their lowest low and doing whatever you can to help them back to their feet.
My heart aches to know Patrick is in pain and I can’t do anything more except wring out the washcloth and kiss the slope of his jaw. To whisper soothing words in the quiet room, telling him it’s okay.
I’ve never seen him so vulnerable. The man is usually so put together, and now I’m watching as he comes apart, his neck resting against the rim of the porcelain and his fists curling into balls.
