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“You can do anything, Gerard Gibson.”
“Most things,” he agreed, and it broke my heart when I felt the tremor running up his arm. “But not this.”
“Trust me.”
“Trusting you isn’t the problem here, Claire-Bear.” He continued to stare at the giant, oval bathtub in my parents’ downstairs bathroom like it was the enemy. “It’s the sheer, unadulterated terror that’s clawing its way out of my throat that’s causing me a problem.”
“I know you’re scared,” I urged, turning to look at him. “And it’s okay to be scared, but you need to be able to sit in water before I can teach you how to swim. So, I was thinking the bathtub would be the best place to start. It’s private and no one will see you, so you don’t have to feel awkward or embarrassed.”
“I don’t need to learn how to swim,” he strangled out, eyes wild and fearful. “Because I have no intention of putting myself in a position where I need to enforce that skill ever again.”
“I have so much faith in you, Gerard Gibson.” Reaching on my tiptoes, I cupped his face in my hands and stroked his nose with mine. “You can do this.”
His hands moved to my hips, fingers kneading the fleshy part of my hips as he breathed deeply and slowly, clearly trying to self-regulate. “It’s just a bath.”
“Yes,” I agreed, voice barely more than a whisper as I continued to stroke his cheeks with more affection than was healthy.
His breath fanned my face when he whispered, “And you’ll be with me.”
“Always,” I vowed.
A pained groan escaped him, and he dropped his brow to rest against mine. “I’ve got this.”
“You have,” I breathed, shivering from the feel of his hands on my bare skin.
His entire frame was rigid for the longest time, and when he didn’t say a word for a solid three minutes, I honestly thought this was as far as he was prepared to go, but then he surprised us both by saying, “Fine. Let’s just get this over it.”
“You’re sure?” I asked warily.
“No, but you are, and that’s good enough for me,” he replied, sounding just as uncertain. The way he was eyeing the water broke my heart, but I didn’t let him see. Instead, I plastered on the brightest smile I could muster and stepped into the tub.
“You’ve got this,” I said, holding a hand out to him. “And you’ve got me.” Always.
His gaze flicked from my outstretched hand to the water lapping at my shins. A long beat of tense silence settled between us before he finally made a move. Gingerly, he stepped into the tub, one foot at a time.
The minute both of his feet were submerged, he exhaled a ragged breath and looked at me in surprise. “I did it.”
“You did it.” Bursting with pride at his huge, monumental breakthrough, I beamed up at him. “Now, I need you to turn around.”
“Turn around?” he repeated uncertainly.
I nodded brightly. “Trust me.”
Blowing out a shaky breath, he turned around achingly slowly until his back was facing me. “Good job,” I praised, resting my hands on his waist. “This is excellent, Gerard.”
Asking Gerard to do this had been an extremely risky move on my behalf, because there was a very big chance that it could have gone the other way. While I couldn’t relate to what he had been through, I could relate to the panic. Because I had felt that panic when I was five years old and he disappeared beneath the waves. I’d endured that helpless panic while he was in the water, and for many minutes afterward when they were trying to revive his lifeless body.
The image of seven-year-old Gerard blue and limp lived rent-free in my mind. I rarely suffered from bad dreams or nightmares, but when they came, it was always the fear of losing him twice.
“What now?” he asked.
“Now we sit.”
“Nah, I’m good standing, thanks.”
Fully expecting my request to be met with refusal, I lowered myself into the tub until I was in a sitting position. “You’ve got this,” I repeated, holding my hands out for him to join me. “I’m right behind you, I promise.”
“Why don’t we have a shower?” he asked, twisting around to look at me. “I’m good with showers.” Sounding panicked, he pointed to the chrome shower fitting on the wall. “I have no fucking problem with showers.”
