When she stands and flushes, she sways on her feet. I was almost convinced. Her leg is still weakened from being in the cast for so long. I finish undressing her, pick her up, and place her on the bench in the shower. Her head lolls back against the tiles as the hot water hits her naked body. When I get onto my knees and pick up the sugar scrub and the shaving foam, her eyes flex wide.
“Wh-what are you doing?”
I wave the razor at her. “Shaving your legs, what does it look like I’m doing?”
Her mouth drops open like it’s the most ludicrous thing she’s ever heard. “But why?”
Shrugging, I uncap the scrub and squeeze a healthy dollop into my palm. “I want to take care of you. You’ve had that cast on for months. I figured you’d want to exfoliate, shave, and moisturize. It’s bound to be dry and itchy after being locked up for that long.”
Her eyes glisten as she nods. She’s barely had a trace of hair on any part of her body in all the time I’ve known her. She grumbled to me last week about how she needed to get to the salon for somemaintenance. But thus far, she hasn’t gotten around to making an appointment. At least I don’t think so.
“Did you book an appointment to get waxed yet?” At the stitch between her brows, I hurry to elaborate. “I don’t care if you grow the biggest lady bush and never trim or wax it, but I know it bothers you.” I rub at her pale calf and shin with the sugar scrub, taking particular care not to put too much pressure onto her leg.
She sighs. “It’s really bothering me. I hate being so hairy.” She shakes her head. “I guess I don’t hate it, but it’s not what I’m used to, what I enjoy.”
Nodding, I scrub the other leg a little more aggressively. “I booked you into the spa tomorrow. With Ares’s manscaper. Bikini area and underarm, face if you’d like.” My body heats. “I have no idea what you usually get. But when you’re done getting waxed, I thought we could get massages. You know, glasses of champagne, fluffy-as-fuck dressing gowns, plush slippers, and his and hers baths while we read a few chapters together.”
She folds her arms as I lather up the shaving foam gel between my hands.
“What?”
“If I’d known how high you’d level up your game when we became more than friends, I’d have done it years ago.”
I’m laughing as I drag the razor down her leg, taking care not to slice her open around her knee, and again around the ankle. Dark red scars stand out against her stark white skin. It’s hard to believe that those are the only external marks left on either of us from a night that I was convinced I was going to lose her.
When I’m done shaving both legs to her satisfaction, I’m not ready to stop taking care of her. She lets me shampoo and condition her hair, sugar scrub the rest of her body, and when I’m done patting her dry with a soft towel she lies face down on the bed and lets me cover every square inch of her with lotion.
By the time I’m done, she’s snoring. So I climb into bed beside her and stroke her skin until I fall asleep too. I’ve never been fucking happier.
CHAPTER43
Edith
(MAY 22ND – DAY 46 POST OP)
My legs shake as I wait to be called for my first PT appointment since my second surgery. I’ve done everything I was told this time. I’m even wearing my boot sometimes, when my leg feels like it needs that extra bit of support.
Sven calls me back into his office. It doesn’t take long before his noises and facial expressions tell me that my ankle isn’t moving the way it should. After a series of what he calls diagnostics, he talks about treatment for an immobile ankle, tells me it’s like it’s fused, even though it isn’t.
He says it’s not abnormal, that because it wasn’t used for months I’ll need physical therapy for rotation, flexing, and sideways movement.
He takes my hand when he tells me he thinks I’ll get most of the movement back in my foot, but not all of it. He says when I point my toes up and down they’re particularly limited—it’s just as well I haven’t picked a career that involves flexibility in my feet or anything, right?
When I tell him my balance is off, he nods thoughtfully, telling me that the ligaments and tendons in my foot are going to be weak, then says the dreaded “Be patient.”
I want to smash his face in with what’s left of my fucking patience.
By the time my session is up, I’m drenched in sweat, my foot throbs with a bone-deep pain, and I’m hoping it’s the good kind of pain, the healing kind.
My dance teacher, Miss Smith’s words rattle around in my head.
“Miss one day you'll know it, miss a week and your peers know it, miss a month and the audience knows it.”
I’ve missed five months.
I likely couldn’t go back even if by some miracle my foot came out of the cast fully mobile.
I wasn’t stupid enough to believe I could start dancing anytime soon, or that I’d be landing any major roles on stage, but I’d hoped for... more.
