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“I hate you!” she cries.
“Good. Hate me all you want. I don’t care,” I yell, shaking her shoulders.
She huffs, disdain still burning in her amber eyes. But I’ll take that emotion any day of the week and twice on Sunday if it finally destroys the sadness underneath.
Her oversized T-shirt begins to cling to her body from the spray of the water above us. I start to pull at the hem of her shirt, but she grabs my wrists, halting my next move.
“No.”
“I’ve seen you naked before, Valentina.”
“I said no. I can do it,” she replies, her temper simmering down.
“Fine, but I’m not leaving until you shower.”
She throws me another loathsome glare and pulls the large T-shirt off her body. She turns her back to me and puts herself right under the showerhead.
My cock—the fucking asshole—has the indecency to get hard, while my gaze only inflates it by trailing over her olive tone skin, her ass begging for me put my hands on her. But I don’t. I just keep still, getting my own clothes wet and not bothering to take them off.
She bends to grab the soap and starts washing her body. I lean as far away as I can, just watching her. My hands itch for my camera so I can record this image, but my memory will have to do.
After she’s cleaned her whole body, she picks up the shampoo.
“Wash my hair for me,” she asks, no longer a bite to her voice.
She hands me the bottle, spilling some of the shampoo onto my hands. I massage her scalp and watch her body relax. Valentina leans her head against my shoulder as I try to wash her hair to the best of my ability. It’s difficult this way, but the adrenaline that was pumping in her veins a few minutes ago has officially withered down. The way she melts into me shows that she no longer has enough strength to stand on her own.
After I’ve made sure her silky hair is clean, I rinse the shampoo off in quick haste and turn off the faucet. Her body is limp against mine, needing me to help her out of the shower. Wrapping her body in a fluffy towel once I’ve dried it, I pick her up in my arms and walk Valentina back into her room. If she had more energy in her, I’d comb her hair so it wouldn’t be an tangled mess later on, but her lids are already too heavy for her to keep them open.
I pull the duvet up over her shoulders and press a chaste kiss on her temple. Deciding it’s best to let her rest, on padded feet, I walk over to her door, but stop when I hear her voice once more.
“Thank you.”
It’s all she says before sleep takes her under to a place where I can only hope heartache can’t touch her.
Quaid
When Logan and I get back from the supermarket, Carter is sitting on the stairs, waiting for us. His black hair is wet, and he’s wearing one of Val’s dad’s sweatpants. I don’t ask what happened, but go to the kitchen instead with the paper bags I have in my grasp. I put everything away in exactly the spots I know Mr. E would have them. This used to be my home after all.
I take out some lasagna sheets, fresh tomatoes and basil, and a pack of prime minced meat.
“What are you doing?” Logan asks, watching me set everything up.
“Dinner,” I reply.
It’s probably a futile endeavor, since most of us won’t eat anything, but I need to keep myself occupied.By memory, I do everything Val’s dad did when he made his famous lasagna. I’m assaulted with memories of all the times he used to joke with me, saying that when I became a big football star, not to become one of those rich douches who didn’t even know how to boil an egg.
Even with all the memories I will never relive, it gives me some sort of comfort cooking. It reminds me of everything that man taught me. Before he came along, I didn’t know what it felt to be a part of a family. Sure, I had my brothers, Logan and Carter, but it isn’t the same thing. A child should feel a parent’s love. I never have. Until Val’s dad came along.
It takes me about an hour or so until it’s done. Carter and Logan sit at the kitchen table, talking in hushed tones, probably about me. I ignore them and make a simple lettuce and tomato salad, keeping a vigilant eye on my garlic bread so it doesn’t burn. Once the lasagna is cool enough, I cut up a slice and put it on a plate, placing it on a wooden tray I made in my freshman year in woodshop. I try not to remember I had made it with Mr. E in mind. I add a small salad, two slices of garlic bread, and a water bottle from the fridge to it, before going upstairs.
“I’m going to take this up to Val,” I tell them, Logan’s concerned eyes instantly softening.
“I’ll save you some, too,” he says, but we both know my appetite has been shot to shit. I love the fucker anyway for trying.
When I get to Valentina’s room, her shades are slightly closed, giving the room a somber feel to it.
“I brought you something to eat,” I mumble, and sit at the edge of her bed, placing the tray on her bedside table.
