She grips them tighter and squeezes her eyes shut, color flooding her face. “No. God, no. It’s disgusting.”
I clasp her fist. “Babe, it’s not.” I plant a kiss behind her ear and tug on the paper towels. “It’s your body. Nothing about it is disgusting.”
When she opens her eyes, I see her lashes are wet, and I wrap my free hand around her middle and kiss her cheek.
“I mean it, Greta,” I say. She lets me take the wet towels from her. “I’ll take care of the couch. You take care of you, okay.”
She heaves a wet sigh. “Okay.” But she doesn’t look at me as she trudges up the steps. She shuts the pocket door firmly behind her.
Ten minutes later, after Googlinggetting blood out of upholstery,the stain is nothing more than a wet spot on the pullout couch. I couldn’t care less if the mark was permanent, but I know Greta would be mortified.
I wash my hands at the kitchen sink and then grab the bottle of Ibuprofen from the cabinet next to the pantry. I’m pretty sure the heating pad is still in Greta’s room, so I fill my water bottle, climb the steps, and knock on her door.
“Babe, can I come in?”
I hear her groan, which could either be a yes or a no, but I take my chances and slide the door opens. I spot the gray yoga pants and a striped pair of pink and purple panties dripping from the rod in the shower.
Greta’s lying on her belly under the covers, her face turned. A power cord snakes under the blankets, so I know she’s already busted out the heating pad.
“I’m fine,” she mutters into her pillow.
“I brought you some meds and water,” I say, setting the bottles on her night stand.
Greta lifts her head from the pillow and turns to face me. She looks grumpy. “Why do you have to be so sweet to me?”
I chuckle. “Is that a complaint?”
She drops her head on the pillow, hiding one eye. “Yes. No… I don’t know. I’m just embarrassed.”
I sit on the edge of her bed, never breaking eye contact. “I know. Wish you weren’t.”
Her back rises and falls with a sigh.
I grab the bottle of pills and shake out three into my hand. If nothing else, I know the drill. She props up on her elbows, pops the gel caps into her mouth, and accepts the water bottle from me.
After she sips from the bottle and hands it back, she drops her face into the pillow with a groan.
“I hate that I’m such a hot mess.”
At least, I think that’s what she says, but the pillow stuffing muffles it a lot.
I lay a hand on her back. “Now you’re just throwing a pity party,” I mumble.
She shifts her face back to me, scowling. “If you gushed blood from your junk every month, you’d throw one too.”
I crack up and start rubbing her back in slow circles. “I think I’d be rather alarmed.”
In spite of herself, she giggles. And then groans.
I look around her room. I haven’t been in here since the night of the roof leak. I haven’t let myself set foot in here since we kissed. I haven’t wanted her to feel pressured in any way.
I know if I went to bed right now, she’d be fine.
But I don’t want to leave her.
So I don’t.
Instead, I peel off the undershirt I’m wearing and toe off my socks, leaving me in just the pair of sweats I put on after my shower.
