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Blond hair down to his shoulders, hanging over his hard eyes as they neither welcome nor smile at the photographer.
His hard,greeneyes.
Like my mom’s. And mine.
Like Ciaran’s.
It’s my grandfather in the picture.
I glance at Farrow, reclined with eyes closed, and that stern Pierce set to his eyebrows.
I wonder if he knows.
“You want to take her a snack, Constin?” Farrow asks as Fletcher wipes down his face and applies an antiseptic.
I look over at Constin, seeing him stand at the window, staring across the street.
He’s had his eyes on her all day.
“She’s got to be hungry,” Calvin chimes in. “We didn’t leave her any food.”
They didn’t?
And then I didn’t let her eat lunch.
Shit.
Farrow’s seat pops back up, and he rises, rubbing the aftershave into his skin.
“Come on, son,” Fletcher slaps the back of the red leather chair twice.
I walk over, taking a seat, and he immediately tilts me back, removing a hot towel from the warmer.
He fans it out, leaning over to put it on my face.
I jerk away. “I don’t need all that.”
“Yes, you do,” he states clearly. He wraps the towel around my face, and I’m forced to close my eyes, the heat coursing straight down my arms, and it’s fucking heavenly.
“Your generation—and your parents’ generation—for that matter,” he points out, “need to relearn that living is an art. To do things with care and pride, instead of speed, just for the sake of convenience. You understand?”
“I’m sure the old dudes in your time had their complaints about your generation, too,” T.C. retorts.
“Yeah,” Fletcher fires back. “They hated us, because we fought against segregation and Vietnam, you little shit.”
I hear quiet laughter from my left, but I don’t know whose.
Fletcher presses down on the towel, forcing the heat in to open up my pores or whatever the hell it does. I can’t argue that it doesn’t feel good, though. My nerves start to settle for the first time since they put her in that house yesterday.
“Doing one little thing with regard makes you feel better,” Fletcher explains. “And if you feel better, your day will go better. How you do anything, is how you do everything.”
“Amen,” Farrow says.
Pulling off the towel, Fletcher dispenses some hot lather from his machine and works it between his hands.
He closes in with it, and I shut my eyes as he covers my jaw, cheeks, and neck with the warmth.
My head starts to float high, and I expel all the breath I was holding since she arrived. That actually feels really nice.
