Page 111 of Road Trip to Forever
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m ruining your day.”
“Honey,” I whisper, trying the endearment out for size. I like how it feels on my tongue, slipping out without any thought. “It’s okay to not be okay around me. Our relationship has always been showing parts of ourselves that aren’t perfectly put together. That doesn’t change now that I’ve seen you naked. In fact, I want to see even more. Tell me how I can help you.Letme help you.”
“Can you get in here with me? I always feel better when you’re nearby, and you’re too far away.”
“Of course.” I take off my shirt and slip out of my shorts and underwear, adding them to the pile of clothes. I set my phone on the vanity with the flashlight angled down, making sure it’s pointed away from Patrick’s face.
I’ve done research on migraines, wanting to be prepared if I’m ever with him when one strikes. Light sensitivity and loud noises are a big culprit of prolonged pain, and I want to do everything I can to mitigate any further ailments.
I lower myself into the tub, water sloshing over the sides and making a puddle on the tile floor. I’ll worry about the mess later. Patrick opens one eye, and for the first time since last night—when the moon cast his face in shades of silver and gray and he gave me a sleepy laugh after one of my half-delirious jokes—I see him smile.
“Hi, sweetheart.” He reaches out and takes my hand. His lips graze over my knuckles, kissing each of them. “I didn’t think the first time we shared a bathtub would be when I was in pain and nearly out of commission. I had so many other ideas. Candles. Music. Flower petals. You riding me.”
“Don’t worry. There are many more baths in our future,” I say, laughing at his vision.
His hum is soft and low, and even in the darkened room I see his smile pull wider around the edges of his mouth. “Why don’t you head downstairs? You have plenty of time to make the event. I promise I won’t drown.”
I know he’s trying to prove to me that he’s fine. That he doesn’t need my care and attention, but I don’t believe him.
“Because I’m not going.” I glide through the water until I’m in front of him. I spin so my back is against his chest, and I rest my head in the crook of his neck. “Is this okay?”
I can feel every inch of him—the bend of his knee, his arms as they settle around my front, the broad shoulders almost caging me in. I like his body behind mine, a sturdy rock and a puzzle piece that fits me perfectly.
“It’s perfect. Lo, this is your career we’re talking about. I’ll be fine by myself for a few hours. Honestly.”
“I’m sure you will be, except I’m not going anywhere. I’d think about you the whole time I was gone. What if you needed me? It would take me forever to get back up here. The walk from the elevator alone is nearly a mile.”
“I think it’s more like a few feet,” he mumbles, a laugh in the words.
“Math has never been my strong suit.”
“Fine. I’m warning you, though. If I start to feel better, I’m kicking you out.”
“I’d like to see you try.”
Water runs down his elbows and across my chest. We’re so close, and even though I don’t think it’s possible to be any closer without sewing myself to him, I wish there was a way.
We stay like that for a while, our limbs intertwined and our hearts beating in unison, synced up in a tempo only lovers get to experience, until the water turns tepid and still. The steam dissipates and I know I need to get Patrick back in bed before he starts to get cold.
I climb out of the tub first, wrapping a towel around my body and offering him a hand. He steps over the ledge carefully, and I drop to my knees to dry off his legs and feet. Patrick cups my cheek, and his fingers twirl in my hair.
“You’re not feeling well. Now is not the time, Walker,” I say.
“I’m weak, Jones. I can’t help it. You’re so pretty on your knees.”
“And you’re as white as a ghost. Come on, we’re going to bed.”
“I’ve dreamed about hearing you say that.”
“Back tosleep,” I amend, leading him to the sitting area of the room. “Wait here. I’m going to change the sheets.”
I deposit him in an armchair and get to work. I strip the bed and find the spare set of sheets on the top shelf of the closet. I switch the pillows around, arranging them so he has the more comfortable ones on his side to keep his neck supported. I put a glass of water on his bedside table, and when I finish, I find Patrick asleep in the chair.
I take his momentary state of unconsciousness to put on a big T-shirt and a pair of his boxers, hustling down the hall to fill up a bag with ice. When I slip back into the room five minutes later, Patrick is still sleeping.
“Hey,” I whisper, gently waking him. “Let’s get you into bed.”
“Don’t want to move,” he grumbles.
