He mumbled something she didn’t quite catch.
“What?” She leaned closer, until a bare inch would have meant kissing him.
His eyes closed again, this time as if in defeat. “Always wanted to have someone sitting next to me. Dad said…weak.”
That asshole better hope she never encountered him, because her pointy-toed shoes were good for more than just fashion. “When you were sick or hurt, you wanted someone beside you?”
He sighed. “Yeah.”
“Of course you did. All kids do.” His features relaxed when she stroked his brow, so she kept doing it. “Did your mom ever keep you company when you didn’t feel good?”
“Sometimes. Until Dad came home.”
“Hmmmm.” Slowly, she eased her weight down onto the mattress at his side. “My dad left before I was born. But when she wasn’t working, my mom would sit next to me whenever I got sick. Bring me juice or flat soda or whatever I needed.”
Most of the time, Rose had stayed home alone when ill. But on the rare occasions when her mother insisted on calling in sick to work or missing class to nurse her daughter, she’d spread a threadbare quilt over the couch and cocoon Rose inside, positioning them so they could both watch cartoons.
In those moments, getting sick had almost felt like luxury. Like grace.
Like shame and despair too, given the likely consequences.
“Sounds… nice.” His breathing had turned slow and steady. “Where does…she live?”
Rose forced her hand to keep moving. “She died while I was in college.”
His hand rose to cover hers on his forehead, his palm warm and dry. “I’m sorry, Rose. So sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
It hadn’t been. Not for a long, long time. But now…yes. Mostly.
His forehead moved back and forth under their hands. “Not okay.”
“Shhhhhhh.” With gingerly movements, she lifted his hand and placed it back by his side. “Sleep, Martin. I’m here.”
She slowly scooted back until she could prop herself against the headrest and stretch her tired legs in front of her. Then she kept stroking his forehead as his brow cleared and his chest rose and fell in the steady rhythm of sleep.
He hadn’t even asked how she’d gotten inside. Hadn’t questioned her right to come. Hadn’t hesitated to fall asleep under her touch.
More trust from him.
Maybe it was about time to return some of it.
Twelve
When Martin wokea couple hours later, he stared at Rose as if she’d risen from the sea in an oversized scallop shell, wonder and confusion battling for supremacy in his expression.
“I thought the muscle relaxants were causing hallucinations, but I guess not.” He frowned, eyes still fixed on her. “Unless this is a hallucination too.”
“The nature of reality is suspect,” she agreed. “But as far as I know, we’re both here. I stopped by my house for a few supplies while you were asleep, which is why I look different.”
“Different…” His voice was husky from sleep, his features softened. “Different doesn’t begin to express how you look right now.”
After she’d gathered what she needed for an overnight stay, she’d changed clothing. Instead of her usual tailored pieces, she’d chosen a pair of soft knit gaucho pants and a slouchy silk tee, along with her favorite ballerina flats. Essentially, they were really expensive pajamas and slippers. All black, of course. All clothing she’d never worn outside her home before.
Before she’d left, she’d also taken down her hair and gathered it into a loose braid, as she often did in the evening. A generous application of makeup remover took care of her usual foundation and blush and everything else that announced her readiness to do fashionable battle on a daily basis.
This was as naked as she ever got, except during actual sex. And Martin, drugged but perceptive soul that he was, appeared to realize it.
