“No, you’re fine.” He steps left, and I step left.
“I’ll just—” I step right, and he does the same.
“Go ahead.”
This is ridiculous, and also the longest we’ve been in the same room since he settled me into the guest room a week ago. He’s been giving me space to heal without hovering.
He hands me the grain bowl and retreats to the other side of the island with his coffee. The silence stretches.
“How was your run?” I ask to fill it.
“Hot.”
“It’s July.”
“That would explain it.”
The rest of the day passes at a snail’s pace of inactivity. Antonio works in his office. I sit on the deck with my laptop, willing the words to come.
They don’t.
Every time Antonio walks through the living room, I’m aware of him. Every time he speaks, I catch myself watching his mouth. Every time he looks at me, I feel the weight of his hands on my waist.
When it starts drizzling after supper, I retreat to my room and run a bath.
The water is warm, and the bathroom fills with steam. My laptop is balanced on a bath tray with the screen tilted toward me.
When I first started writing, I’d soak for hours, letting scenes unfold in my mind while the water relaxed my muscles. Words used to come easily in the tub.
Now I stare at the page, holding back my tears.
I type a sentence. Delete it. Try another. Delete that too.
The water cools. I add more hot. The words don’t come. They haven’t come in so long that I’m starting to wonder if they ever will again.
When the water turns cold for the third time, I accept defeat. I close my laptop and set it on the floor beside the tub.
I push up with my uninjured hand and swing my leg over the edge of the tub, but my arm gives out and I slip back, heart pounding.
Water sloshes over the side, soaking the bath mat. I try again, slower this time, but my muscles won’t cooperate. I drop back into the water with a splash that sends more water onto the floor.
This is fine. I’m fine. I just need to figure out the right angle.
Ten minutes later, I’m still in the tub. I’ve tried pushing off the wall, using the faucet as leverage and hooking my leg over the edge, and pulling myself up.
Nothing works. My arm is too weak, my ribs too sore, and the porcelain too slippery.
I’m stuck.
A week ago, I would have stayed in this tub until hypothermia set in rather than asking Antonio for help. But he’s shown up every day without being asked. That kind of consistency is hard to ignore.
I reach for my phone on the bath tray and type out a text before I can talk myself out of it.
I need help.
His response comes immediately.
What’s wrong?
