It must be frustrating, scary, bewildering.
“Did you need something?” I ask, remembering he was getting up. “I can bring it to you. Your leg—the worst of your injuries—will have been mostly treated in the machine, but the skin and underlying muscle are still healing, and you’ll experience some discomfort for a while.” I look at my watch. “You’re due for your pain meds. What’s your pain level right now?”
Luca swallows, thinking. “About a five, maybe.”
This hurts my heart. I won the husband lottery in many ways, but this very specific one has always been something I particularly noted: Luca never complains about pain or illness.
“Let me grab your meds and some water.”
He stops me with a hand on my forearm when I move to stand. “Emery?”
I look down at him, trying not to cry. I have to swallow a few times. “Yeah?”
“I really need a shower, too.”
“Oh.” I mean, obviously. I don’t know why this didn’t occur to methe moment I saw he was awake. My husband is an objectively gorgeous man, but right now I must admit he looks a bit worse for the wear and smells… not great. “Of course. Sorry. Um…”
We both frown and then look away. It’s clear to me just watching him work to balance his torso while sitting on the bed that there’s no way he’ll be able to stand up yet, let alone shower by himself. And I’m not sure I’d be comfortable leaving him alone in the tub. Maybe I can wash him in a bubble bath? With lots of suds over his lower half so he can have some privacy? Given how sensitive he seems to be to contact, I’m afraid to even touch him. How am I going to manage to help him bathe?
God, this is just… so weird.
“Let me help you up.”
We sling his arm around my shoulders, and with careful, shuffling steps, make our way into the hallway and to the bathroom. Luca braces his hands on the sink, and we lower him slowly to the toilet lid. He’s out of breath from the exertion it took to make it just one room over. I crouch beside him while we catch our breath and figure out the logistics of what comes next.
Our bathroom is nice enough, but beyond paint and some new plumbing fixtures, it’s pretty much exactly how it was when we bought the bungalow a couple of years ago. Luca always hated the bathroom. He hated the tiny counter, the dinky bathtub and shower in the corner. Since we moved in, he’s landscaped the front and back yards, remodeled the kitchen and bedroom, painted every wall, and crafted the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in the living room. The bathroom was next on his list.
Luca reads my uncertainty. “Emery, if we’re married, you’ve seen it all before. And you’ve seen it recently—I was naked when I woke up in the machine. You put these clothes on me.”
I laugh. “I know. But I also know this is all new to you and don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
“This is just one of many things that are going to be weird and new, so let’s just do away with the awkwardness.” He gazes down at me with those clear blue eyes and my God, Luca is still Luca, even without any of his memories. He’s always been pragmatic, sunny, and calm.
And I’ve benefited from it.
Time for me to treasure it.
“Good point.” I lift my chin toward the tub. “I think a bath would be safest.” He scrunches his nose at the tiny tub, and I laugh. “Okay, yes, I expected that reaction. Shower it is.”
I stand and turn on the water to get it warming. Putting on my mental big-girl pants, I help Luca stand to undress him. He lifts his arms, and I guide the shirt up his torso and off, tossing it into the laundry hamper in the corner.
Under any other circumstances, I would be giddily running my hands up his flat stomach, over his toned chest, and pulling him down to me. Our sex life was the one area of our relationship where I never felt like the weak link; no matter how tired I was, how late I came home, Luca and I always found a way toward each other in bed, in the shower, in the living room.
A terrible thought occurs to me: What if the last time we had sex was actually thelast?
The darker thought resurfaces: What if he doesn’t fall in love with me again?
And an even worse thread winds its way into my brain:Whydid he ever love me to begin with?
Stop it, I hiss internally.You need to work to earn his love back. You need to believe that you can. But I have to focus on getting him safely into the shower; none of these are paths I can explore right now. Straight to the to-solve-later file they go.
I turn my attention to the tie at his waistband, tugging it loose and coaxing the soft pajama pants down his hips.
Intentionally averting my eyes from the part of him I most definitely would not, under normal circumstances, ignore, I shift my attention to his injuries. The wound on his thigh is so much better than it was a couple of nights ago—the BioVIVE really is amazing—but the skin is still shiny and red, the muscle beneath slightly puckered. Bruises usually look worse before they look better, but Compound Y lowered his body temperature enough to minimize swelling, while the BioVIVE used lasers to target hemoglobin, the protein in red blood cells that gives bruises their color. It means he’s healing much faster than he would have on his own, but it all still looks incredibly painful.
Carefully, I help him step out of his pants and those, too, go into the hamper.
Luca has never been self-conscious—not that he has anything to be self-conscious about—and it’s reassuring to see another aspect of him that wasn’t changed by the BioVIVE. He doesn’t move to cover himself or even reach for a towel. Instead, his arms hang loose at his sides, eyes trained on where I’m kneeling in front of him.
