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“Why? Because that tyrant told you to?”
“That tyrant is my dad.”
“I know,” I said, nodding. “But you’re going to hurt yourself.”
She continued to shake her head. “No, I’ll be fine.”
“Darling…”
Her movement stuttered, her hands let go of the rower and it snapped away from her. She looked at me in shock, like I had slapped her. She breathed but said nothing.
“Darling,” I started again. “You don’t have to do what he says just to please him. He’s your father, he loves you…”
She scowled, grabbed up the handles and resumed her workout with a new vigor.
“Rose…” I whispered.
“I’ll finish.” She insisted, breaking eye contact with me and staring at the screen that displayed her calories. 690.
“You don’t have to do this–”
“–Do your parents love you?” She interrupted me, but not stopping her motion.
I reared back at the question. I narrowed my eyes, then nodded, unsure where she was going with this.
“Do you have a family?” she continued.
I nodded again.
“Do they like you?”
I stopped answering, as I realized that my responses meant nothing to her.
“I don’t.” She gasped for breath, pulling hard. “Have a family…” She came forward in the seat, her knees coming to her chest, “And when I did, they didn’t care for me.”
She was silent for a few minutes, just rowing, and I was fascinated by a bead of sweat that went down her temple, over her high cheekbones, and it dangled precariously on her jaw before it fell to the ground beneath her. The floor was covered in droplets of her sweat.
“I have someone now who likes me–”
“–He loves you.” I interrupted, but she didn’t hear me.
“–And I won’t fuck it up.”
She meant every word. She didn’t understand that love was not as fickle as she made it sound. She was breaking my cold, brittle heart.
But there was something about the sinews under her paper thin skin. The way her body was an efficient machine, and her mind could push her to these extremes without complaint. I wished half my soldiers in the SAS had a drop of her dedication.
I wanted to pull out my hair, but knew that wouldn’t help her. Or me.
I got up and walked away. She only had 250 calories left.
While she continued her pointless workout, I went into the clinic where she still slept on a hospital bed, surrounded by the gauze and other supplies we kept. I touched her pillow, dented by her head. A strand of her long hair lay on the white pillow, and I pulled it, twisting it around my finger. I brought it to my lips and kissed it, before placing it in my pocket.
She was right here, under my own roof, and I couldn’t reach her. I didn’t have the right to run my fingers through her hair or place my lips against her skin.
I closed my eyes and simply breathed, her scent filling my lungs. Her scent was, like the woman, complex. She had high floral notes from her soap and lotion. Then there was the sting of antiseptic, and the lotion she still put on her healing wound. Then there was the scent of her skin, like almonds and honey. Rich and sweet.
She came into the room not long after, limping and gasping for air. When she saw me, she didn’t say anything. She simply walked in, closed the door, and leaned against it.
