Page 98 of Hopeless
“Woman, you’re out of control.” I wipe at the corners of my eyes, smelling the non-scented lotion that smells like a hospital to me.
“Come on. You gotta tell me why we’re silently sitting here side by side, rubbing cream onto our feet in the middle of the night.”
I’m still chuckling when I offer her an explanation. “Phantom burn pain, according to Google.”
“And your doctor?”
I grunt.
“Beau.”
“I haven’t asked. Not a big doctor guy.”
“Therapist?”
I give her a wry look. “You saying I need therapy?”
“I’d go if I could afford it. Gotta take care of yourself, Beau. If you don’t, who will?” As she scolds me about taking care of myself, she crawls out from under the covers, moving down toward the end of the bed. Then she peeks up at me, folding her hand in a come-hither motion. “Give me a foot.”
“Apparently, you will.”
She yanks my foot into her lap, hands wrapping over the sensitive skin so gently. The burning sensation instantly soothes under her touch. Her dainty fingers trail over my limbs with a feather-light touch. She spreads the moisturizer up over my ankle, pressing more firmly at the back of my calf.
“Someone’s gotta do it.”
“Might as well be my fiancée,” I say, eyes fixed on her face.
When she looks at me, I wonder if she’ll correct it tofakefiancée. I’ve used the term twice tonight. I’m testing our boundaries, waiting for her to put me back in line.
But she doesn’t.
“Might as well be,” she agrees softly.
Her hands work and we both get lost in watching until she asks, “What did you eat in that cave for eight days?”
“Rations from my kit. A sip of water here and there. It wasn’t much, but just enough for us each to have a bit each day. We ran out the day before they rescued us. Micah was starving, so he got more of the dried rations.”
“So you just didn’t eat?”
“I didn’t say that. I had to at least stay strong enough to get us out when the time came.”
“Alright. So … ”
“Cockroaches.” I grin as I say it, ready for her to get all squeamish. But I should know better by now. She doesn’t.
And she doesn’t offer me sympathy for it either, which is something I constantly brace for when I talk about those days. I don’t want sympathy; I want to feel normal again.
I want to feel something again, and with Bailey, I do.
Her hands keep working, and her lips part and close. Like she was about to say something and then thought better.
“Were they good?”
That’s what she comes up with. She is priceless.
“They kept me alive. Not gonna be ordering them at a restaurant anytime soon.”
She smiles, switching to my other foot and propping it over her thighs.
