Page 24 of Ghost of Ex-mas Past
“Hm. Maybe sit on the edge of the tub and I’ll get the water started.”
I sit down, stretching out my leg while Charlie fumbles with the faucet. I move my foot this way and that, inspecting it. There’s a bit of a twinge but I don’t think there’s any swelling beneath the compression lines from the bandage.
Steam billows out from behind the shower curtain. “Ready?” I ask.
“Ready,” Charlie confirms. His eyes are still closed, though now his hand isn’t covering them anymore. He holds out his hand instead. “Here, give me your hand and stand up.”
I do, and with his help I stand and maneuver around. Charlie ends up holding on to my shoulders while I face away from the showerhead and wash my hair. Then he holds one hand again while I use my loofah to suds up.
Throughout this, I keep glancing at Charlie’s face. Sometimes his lips twitch, possibly trying not to laugh or smile. But mostly he’s just quiet and relaxed.
He’s wearing one of those waffle-style long-sleeve shirts, and he’s rolled it up past his elbows, though his sleeves are pretty soaked.
Finally, I turn the water off. “All clean,” I tell him. He helps me sit and spin my legs out before retrieving the towel and holding it out for me.
I could take the towel from him and dry off. Ishoulddry myself off. I could sit here on the tub and wrap myself up, and he could open his eyes...
Instead, I hobble into the center of the towel and Charlie wraps it around me. I grip the top and curl it around myself.
“Can I open my eyes now?” It starts with a teasing tone, but in the silence afterward, it fades to something else.
He’s so close right now, and I study his face in a way I haven’t in a long time.
Charlie’s skin is darker than mine, a natural golden tan he gets from Susan. His eyebrows and hair are dark and thick, like hers too. A small mole on the right side of his face just under his eye is one I kissed a lot. Those features haven’t changed.
But there are new things, or maybe things I’ve forgotten about. A small scar on his upper lip, slightly darker bags under his eyes that make me think of how little sleep he got sometimes when he was away at college. I don’t know when the last time he shaved was, but he’s past a five-o’clock shadow now, the stubble on his jaw and upper lip thick.
I haven’t answered his question, and he hasn’t opened his eyes either. Instead, he runs his hands up and down my arms and my back, drying me off under the big, fluffy towel.
He gently tugs the towel out of my grip and it falls, catching on his hands. They move down my hips, rubbing slow circles down the front of my legs, and Charlie crouches. I hear his breath catch as his hands shift to behind me, drying off the back of my legs.
He’s on his knees in front of my naked body, his eyes tightly closed, taking care of me.
There’s a heavy moment, and Charlie clears his throat before standing. He wraps me tightly in the towel, firmly tucking the end in at my back.
“Can I open my eyes now?” He says it so softly I feel it deep inside my chest.
Where he’s already broken me once before.
I look away, catch sight of a second towel for my hair, and hop toward it. “Yup,” I chirp, trying to sound every ounce of casualness that I don’t feel.
The mood shifts and at my request, Charlie leaves me to get dressed myself, wiggling my sleep shorts up over my hips while I balance on the toilet again. Back out in the living room, I tell him my ankle is throbbing a bit, so I lie down and close my eyes while he carefully wraps it and lays the ice pack on it.
It does throb now that I’m paying attention to it, so it’s not entirely an excuse.
I keep my eyes closed while Charlie pulls a blanket up to my chin, and when I crack them open a few minutes later, he’s in one of the armchairs on his laptop, presumably working.
I don’t have to fake a nap for long before the door opens and our boisterous family comes rolling in. The moms cluck over me and Naomi rewraps the bandage. We graze on leftovers and cheese platters for dinner, spread out between the living room, dining room, and kitchen.
I’ve got a text from Marco, a picture of him and Brin with a ridiculously large pile of wrapped presents in our living room.
Bea
What are you two up to?
Marco
Getting paper cuts, apparently.
