Page 46 of Run to Me

With another nudge from me, she tips her face up and meets my gaze. My stomach clenches at what I find, but I force myself not to look away. The last time despondency dulled her eyes—the day on the porch when she lost all hope—I was the reason for it. Back then I looked away like a coward. Never again.

Someone put the hopelessness back in her eyes, but I refuse to let it claim her. She has more fight inside her than any person I’ve ever known, and I’ll remind her of her strength until she grows tired of me singing her praises.

“I’ll fill the bath, then leave you to get undressed and scrub yourself. Okay?”

She nods again, and I realize it’s her way of submitting while trying to maintain control. We’ll work on changing that. I’ll need her verbal consent in certain situations, but this isn’t one of them.

While she soaks, I dig through her suitcase in the bedroom, gathering the items to wash her hair. Shampoo. Conditioner. Wide-tooth comb. I also retrieve a plastic drink pitcher from a kitchen cabinet.

When I return to the bathroom, she’s sitting in the large tub with her uninjured cheek resting on bent knees. I dip a hand in the water to test the temperature, then flip on the taps to add warmer water.

“I’ll wash your hair.”

“I can do it,” she says on a sigh, as if all the fight has left her.

“Let me.”

I offer her a hand towel to cover her breasts and kneel beside the tub and get to work. First, I thoroughly wet and shampoo her hair, careful to keep the product away from the open wounds. Once the suds are rinsed out, I massage conditioner into her curls from the roots to the tips. Her eyelids grow heavy, and her head becomes pliable in my hands when her neck muscles relax.

“How do you know what to do?” she asks. Her tone carries no judgment or suspicion, only exhaustion.

“Vera used to wash your hair in the kitchen sink.” I work the comb through her curls starting at the ends, careful not to tug too hard when I encounter a difficult tangle.

“You have a gentle touch.”

“Because I can’t stand it when you suffer.”

“Hmm.” A sad smile forms on her bare lips, and her gaze sweeps across the fading bruises on my face. “We seem to hurt for each other, don’t we?”

“We do, but we also feel each other’s happiness. We’ve never had any control over the connection between us, birdie. It’s always been there. Stop trying so hard to fight what’s meant to be.”

She considers me, her hazel stare penetrating my every living cell. “Don’t tell me you, of all people, believe in fate.”

“I believe in us. Nothing else.” Before she can respond, I say, “Tip your head back.”

Refilling the pitcher several times with clean water, I rinse the coconut-scented conditioner from her hair. I’ve never been to the ocean or a tropical beach resort, but I imagine those places smell like Maisy. Sweet, light, refreshing.

With the conditioner rinsed out, I ask, “What’s next? Do you want me to use any products or⁠—”

“I can take it from here,” she says.

I sense our night together is nearing its end, so I ask the question I already know the answer to. “Have you decided if I should stay or go?”

She avoids my gaze and runs her hand along the surface of the water. “I think you should go.”

With a finger beneath her chin, I tilt her head up, begging her to read in my eyes what she doesn’t want to hear from my lips.

I don’t want to leave you.

Let me be here for you and hold you in my arms.

Trust me.

Instead, I throw one last, desperate Hail Mary and say, “I still have to treat your wounds and tuck you in.”

“You’ve done enough. Thank you.” She blinks away the tears welling in her eyes. “Be careful driving back.”

Sighing, I grab a towel from the shelf and place it on the edge of the tub. “Are you sure you’ll be okay alone?”