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I chuckle, but he frowns, his smile slowly dropping as he watches me with a slight shake to his head. “But the only time I feel like I can breathe is when you’re around. Will you stay?”
My eyes drop to the tile, the vulnerability in his eyes not familiar. “Put your arms up so I can get your top off.”
He moves his crutch to the side of the sink, then lifts his arms. As I pull his T-shirt over his head, I take in the bruising that decorates his chest and ribs properly for the first time. His entire right side is mottled in black, purple, and blue bruising.
“Lance.”
“Shh.” He rolls his shoulders. “Don’t remind me.”
It’s one thing to know someone you… you care for is broken, but to see it. To see the physical marks in the aftermath hurts as much as the marks themselves.
Without thinking—following pure instinct—I reach out, letting my palm connect with his abdomen. Lance shudders, his head dropping back. I trail my fingers across his hard stomach, around to his side. My thumb strokes over the darkest part of the bruising. “A bath will help,” I say, not knowing what else there is to say. “It’ll ease the pain.”
He brings his head up, looking down at me. My stomach coils tightly, and I gently let my fingers slip off his skin as he reaches for his waistband with one hand, his chest and abs rippling.
I wait with my heart in my mouth as he pushes his boxer briefs and shorts down his thighs, letting them drop past his knees to the floor. My eyes seem to flutter as I force myself to look anywhere but at him. I turn toward the door.
He’s injured, Scarlet.
Battered, bruised, and broken.
Do not look at him.
I hear the water slosh then still. When I turn back around, I find him submerged deep in the water. His head rested on the rim of the tub as he watches me.
He smiles, a light chuckle leaving his chest.
I walk to the bath and sit down on the edge. “When was the last time you had a bath?”
“A long time ago,” he tells me, closing his eyes as his entire body relaxes. “I think it was here, with you.”
My stomach clenches even tighter. I don’t remember the last time we bathed together, but I know that I’ve had many baths since.
“Scar, I know there are things you can’t tell me. Things you don’t want to tell me. But will you tell me something? Anything?” His eyes barely part as he looks up at me. “I want to hear your voice when you tell me the things you put in those letters.”
“You’re reading them?”
“Slowly.”
I wonder how far he’s got with them. If he’s read about Waverley’s birth and everything after.
“What about the memorial balls you hosted? Will you tell me about them?”
A part of me screams at me not to open up to him. That if I do, I’ll leave myself open to more questions and with them, pain. But Lance knows I don’t want to talk about Ave or us.
I can give him parts.
Or at least I can try.
I stand and move around the bath, kneeling at his head. “I’ve hosted one every year. In the rain, pregnant, and with Ave as a toddler.” I reach for the showerhead that attaches to the floor standing taps, turning it on and directing the water flow over Lance’s shoulders and neck. He sighs, sinking down a little deeper in the water. I start wetting his hair. “It grew bigger and became more well-known year after year until it got so big, I decided it wasn’t what it once was, and I went right back to basics.”
“What changed?”
“Everything. People came for the wrong reasons, knowing they’d make it into the tabloids come Monday morning.”
“You had media?”
“Uh-huh. Megan comes with quite the entourage now.” I smile softly at the memories. “The last one before I downsized was the worst event I’ve ever organised.”
