Chapter 9
This was the thirdday in a row Grace had arrived at his bath time, the sixth and final day of her visit and the first time he internalized that she’d be leaving.
In Spanish, his mother said, “This is one nice girl. I am proud of you.” And then some shit about how beautiful their babies would be, and that was probably one of the ten Spanish words Grace recognized, so, yeah, he was fucked.
Grace and Mamá couldn’t converse beyond a mixture of hand gestures, nods and Spanish worse than a presidential candidate’s, but somehow she conveyed to Grace that she’d go to the lounge while Grace said goodbye. Another person fooled with this web neither of them could unravel.
“My flight’s in a few hours. No time for Scrabble.”
Oddly, he could build words with letter tiles, but not write. He raised three fingers. “Lose.”
“I wouldn’t lose again! But I have to return to work.”
Each morning that she bathed him, she pushed the sheet an inch or two farther, washed a rib-span lower, and the cloth in herhand made longer, slower strokes. He noticed but doubted she did. No man alive, even one who could speak, would point it out.
“Good.”Of you to come, of you to help my mother, your hands feel good on my skin, goodbye,but he realized she probably heardgood that you’re leavingbecause the corners of her mouth drooped. “Not good. No.” His voice rose, but he didn’t know how to share his feelings.
There was one way to explain what he meant, a crazy way, but he used to be a crazy dude. She barely had time to squeak before his hands gripped her shoulders and he yanked. She was slighter than he’d expected. Under those sweaters she must be tiny, but he didn’t stop to consider her size or shape, because he had one hand buried in her hair and her mouth on top of his.
Her lips were soft and partially open, and miraculously she didn’t shut them. She tasted like mint, one of those women who could make brushing teeth erotic. Thankfulness and desperation, loneliness, connection and gratitude—a pack of feelings too complex for even an articulate man to explain—fought in his chest, but he had to keep this light. He trailed kisses from her lips to her jaw and back, nothing to scare her into flight or spoil their last minutes.
Neither of them spoke once their mouths connected. Neither could misunderstand. This was the basic grammar of man and woman. Her tongue followed and stroked his like a secret dance, and he thought he’d never tasted such a reward. Then in one superfine flash he felt the part he’d despaired was dead finally twitch. The surge ofhot damnlifted his shoulder blades from the mattress and thrust another squeak out of her chest, until he flopped to the pillow and laughed at the ceiling. That kiss—perfecto.
“Oh.” She pulled up and blinked at him, something a woman might do with any man, injured or not, while she caught herbreath. Like dozens of women had done with him before his injury. “Oh.”
“Ohhhh.” He stretched her word, deepened it, and knew she’d grasped his change of meaning when she swatted his shoulder.
“You are unbelievable.”
He wished he could feel more of her but settled for tucking her hair behind her ear as she stared into his eyes.
“I was specifically informed when I arrived that I should feel free to do that.” The contrast between her kiss-thickened voice and her prim language sent another surge of life through his body.
“Kiss?” Wait, did that mean he’d wasted an entire week?
With one finger she lifted his chin and closed his mouth. “We could treat it like physical therapy. Exercise for your mouth.” She leaned over the bed rail until her hair fell on either side of his head, fragrant and dark and so beautiful that he wanted to crush her flat on his chest and absorb her. “What do you think?”
“Holy shit.”
“Three syllables. Working already.” Then she kissed him.
Her plane should havelanded two hours ago. He could calculate time differences in his head, nothing wrong with whatever lobe performed simple math, and there was a number on a slip of paper by the room phone. She’d left it for his mother, saying, “Mi teléfono número, er, número teléfono,” as if she’d remembered that adjectives went after nouns in Spanish. His mother had nodded, understanding even before Grace spoke because she’d made a universal hand gesture of fingers connecting ears and chin. Leaving her number had beena courtesy for the nice hometown lady, but his mother would never call someone who didn’t speak Spanish.
He could call. Had Grace thought of that?
Maybe.
He reviewed the situation. He could dial, no problem. But what to say?
Nothing if he didn’t try.
“Hello.” Sounded fine in the empty room. “Hello, Grace.” Even better. His tongue refused to push out the initial sound ofsafe, or maybe it did push, but surreptitiously, so he replacedsafe tripwithgood tripand green-lighted his mission before he choked.
Punching the squares on the old beige hospital phone was like jumping out of a plane. Don’t think. Stand up, hook up, shuffle to the door.
“Hello?” Her voice was a husky reminder of a kiss that he wasn’t in danger of forgetting.
“Hello, Grace.” Target acquired.
