She sighs, leaning back into me, allowing me a rare glimpse of the vulnerability she keeps under lock and key—buried, like treasure. “We make everything work…” she echoes.
“We do. I like to think that our intimacy isn’t just about sex and body parts. It goes beyond fulfilling some primal urge to screw, my dear.Ourintimacy looks like safety. The kind where you can be fully seen, fully known, and fully loved. Now, can you letmeclean the rest of everything up, and then allow me to take you to bed?”
She nods, and the tousled ringlets of her messy bun bob like peacock feathers. I lightly kiss her cute little nose. And fuck, she’d jam one of her elbows into my ribs if she knew I just referred to any part of her as “cute” or “little.” Lauren is still every bit of that dark rose I liken her to.
“Alright, good girl,” I hum, mocking her for calling me agood boyearlier.
I do a final sweep of the house—turning all the lights off, locking the door and shit—while she brushes her teeth. When she steps out of the bathroom, I scoop her up in my arms and carry her into our bedroom. Laying her down gently, I change into just a pair of sweatpants and scooch in behind her, snapping off the light on my nightstand.
“Love you, Polo.” I whisper, kissing her cheek.
She sighs, curling into me and nuzzling my neck. “Love you too, Marco.” Then, she sniffs a couple of times. “Did you seriously steal my underwearanduse my bodywash all in the same night?”
I chuckle.
“You did,didn’tyou? We’re fighting.”
“Nah. We’re not,” I hum.
“Wesoare.”
“Goodnight, Lauren.”
“Fuckyou, Marcus.”
“You did that already.”
“I hate it when you’re right.”
“Go to sleep.”
Chapter Three
“Oh man, it’s right here, isn’t it?” The physical therapist—whose name I didn’t catch during his introduction because my thoughts were diverted elsewhere at the time—digs his thumbs into a spot in my upper back. Pain lances through me, nearly lifting me off the exam table. I don’t even need Lauren to interpret for me, I’m pretty sure he’s certain he’s hit the right spot.
“Oh yeah, that’s a big ol’ knot,” he continues, driving his thumbs in deeper and swirling them around roughly.
I’d tell him to fuck right off with that shit,ifI still had use of my vocal cords.
“I think I might try hitting that with a TENS unit,” Mr. Sadistic Thumbs notes, stepping away from the table to rifle around in one of the cabinets. “So, tell me again how you originally injured your back?”
Oh, right. I got distracted then too. Imagine that.
I prop myself up and begin signing to Lauren. At least with no voice, there is no hitch in my response when I take in just how smokin’she is today. I mean, she is every time I see her, but for this appointment? She came in looking extra fierce—her shoulder-length, dark-walnut colored hair loose and wavy, smokey makeup accentuating her gray-green eyes, and just a hint of mauve coloring her full lips.
Interpreter Lauren would, without a doubt, render me speechless if I weren’t already.
When she relays my response, I almost forget to make sure she recites the information properly—her sultry voice is justthatintoxicating. “I was trapped under an avalanche a couple of years ago, while out snowboarding on Tucks,” she tells the PT.
Sadist Thumbs whirls around to regard me—a first since having to utilize an interpreter for my appointments, if I’ve ever seen one—a look of shock on his face. “Wait…Tuckerman Ravine? Pardon my language, but holy shit, dude… that’s insane. You’re lucky to be alive!”
My eyes fall to the floor. I wish I could say that I don’t particularlyfeelso lucky. That I wish it had beenmethat had taken the brunt of what happened on the mountain that day, and not Aaron. That everyday I curse my stupidity in thinking we were ready for Mount Washington when clearly we weren’t. I’ll live with that guilt for as long as I’m topside of this earth.
When I peer back up again, a worry crease has formed between Lauren’s brows as she waits for my response. I sigh and sign, “Yup. Very lucky indeed.”
She repeats me, but her tone lacks as much conviction regarding that statement as I do in my soul.
The rest of the visit carries on with me getting a TENS treatment, then learning a few stretches. By the time I leave, I deduce that I must have looked like acompleteidiot in front of the PT because we didn’t actually do any working out on the equipment like I thought we would—which is why I came dressed in my best rendition of RichardSimmons, puffy wig on and everything. Lauren, bless her heart, had a good laugh and explained it all to the physiotherapist though, and come to find out, according to my after-visit summary, his name is actually Burton Bruckheimer.
