“Beck,” she snaps, “the doctor said no showers for the first week. Baths only, so unless you are going to delay your healing process, then I suggest you do as you’re told. Go pee. I’ll be back to draw you a bath.”
“Draw me a bath.” I laugh.
“Beck,” she says once more, firmly.
Now, I’m not sure if it’s the painkillers or because even though my main focus should be on getting better, all I can think about is how I hurt her and yet she’s still here for me, but as soon as I open my mouth to mention it, her eyes capture me, and I swear they sayplease. Please don’t do this to us.
I simply nod, and then she’s out the door.
I call for her when I’m done, and she does exactly what she said and starts a bath.
She helps me into the warm water and then leaves me to my thoughts. They are of her, of course. I should have pushed harder to have my mother or sister stay with me. Having Calla so close but still so far away hurts worse than my entire body.
I sit until the water turns cold.
What can I say to Calla to make this better? I miss her. My bed feels wrong without her. My life feels wrong now that I know she’ll soon be out of it. I don’t want her to go. I want to make this better.
“Beck, is everything okay?” She pokes her head in the door.
“Yeah, I’m ready to get out.”
I feel like a toddler asking my mom to get my towel, but I watch Calla’s every move, and she doesn’t even try to sneak a peek. She’s fully respectable, and I want her not to be.
I dry off and get dressed, hobbling to the bed with her help.
“I’m sorry about the book,” I say in almost a whisper. “I’m going to tell Doug to pull all the contracts for the books and the movies.”
She doesn’t say anything as she straightens my sheets.
“I should have talked to you first. I’m so sorry, Calla.”
Still nothing as she opens one of my prescription bottles and sets two pills next to my water.
“Please, say something.”
“You need to take these in an hour.”
“Not about that.”
She takes a deep breath. “Don’t pull the book, Beck.”
I let out a huff of a chuckle. “I can’t let them release it now. Every time someone reviews it, I’ll be reminded of how I hurt you and how—”
“Our story didn’t hurt me, Beck. You did. Not telling me about it hurt.”
My heart stings.
“But I forgive you, okay? Now, get some rest.”
She forgives me. Is that a sign that we can get past this?
“Will you stay with me?” I look up to gauge her reaction. She was already leaning over to adjust the pillow behind my head when the words left my mouth.
She pauses mid-fluff.
“I just… I miss you, and I assume I’ll need help during the night. It would be nice just to know you’re here.”
I don’t know why I can’t outright tell her to stay because I want her to and because she wants to. A lot has happened in the past few days—maybe I don’t want to rush her. Just because she’s forgiven me doesn’t mean we can go back to how things were.
