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His back rises with a deep breath, but he doesn’t lift his head. His shoulders still, then resume a slower, gentler rise and fall. My hand reaches for him, but I stop before I meet his skin.
“I’ll get a towel for you,” I whisper.
Does he like his washcloths cold or warm? Maybe I should go and not invade his space. I war with myself as I hold the rag under warm water. Then I see his shoulders twitch, a sad little aftershock, and I’m not sure I can go. Not unless he asks me to.
I crouch back down beside him, and after a moment’s debate, decide to drape the warm towel over his bicep. As I rock there on my heels a few feet from him, Barrett takes the towel. He lifts his head, but before I can see his face, his towel-covered hand covers it.
I can hear the air whoosh from his lungs into the terrycloth, see his shoulders rise and fall a few more times. He’s struggling to get himself together, and I want so much to soothe him—but I’m scared to do the wrong thing.
“You okay?” My words are soft and quiet. Useless.
Barrett pulls the towel down his face, cupping his throat with it. His blue eyes are strangely luminous, his handsome features fragile in a way I can’t explain or understand. He blinks at me, his thick brows scrunching in what looks like confusion.
“Gwen?” The word sounds caught in his throat.
“Hey…” I scoot closer to him, putting my arm awkwardly around his shoulders. He freezes for a moment. Then I tug him closer, and he wraps his heavy arms around me.
“You’re okay…” His voice cracks as he leans back, looking into my eyes.
“Yeah, I’m okay. Are you?”
He leans his face against my shoulder. I remember what he said—about the dreams. Did he have a dream about me? One so bad it made him sick?
I stroke his neck. “You must have had a nightmare.”
“I’m sorry.” His words are warm and quiet.
“Why are you sorry?”
He shakes his head. I feel him take a heavy breath.
“Do you still feel bad?” I whisper.
“No.”
The word itself belies him: soft and pained.
I stroke his hair. “You want a shower?” I hug him more tightly. “I’m not leaving. Not unless you want me to.”
His grip on me loosens, then he lifts his head and blinks. “Gwenna?” He squints, as if the lamp beside the sink is too bright.
“Yeah, it’s me.”
He frowns and looks around, confused. Then looks down at himself. His eyes widen. His gaze flies to the toilet.
“Did I get sick?” His voice is hoarse.
I nod. I stroke a curl that’s pasted to his temple.
Barrett cringes. He brings a hand up to his forehead, shuts his eyes. I notice it’s his left hand, and my heart squeezes as the thumb and index finger curve around his head.
“I’m so sorry I didn’t hear your dream. I was really out, I guess.”
He moves his hand, so I can see his anguished eyes. “Don’t be sorry. I’m sorry I touched you. Go back to bed, Gwen. I’m just going to get a shower.” His eyes drop to his knees, his face expressionless as his gaze lifts back to mine. “Maybe I should go,” he says more firmly. “I’ll come back in a little while. I’ll bring you breakfast. Anything you want.” He gives me a small smile.
“Did you dream about me?”
I see his throat move as he struggles to swallow, and I wish I hadn’t asked. I put my hands on his knees.
