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“Come on,” I say, opening the passenger door and getting her in the car.
I round the front, ignoring the honks, and climb into the driver’s seat, reaching back and handing her the Tupperware container filled with cookies.
She releases a long breath and smiles over at me. “Thanks.”
“Not sure they’ll do the trick today, but I wanted to try.”
Opening the lid, she holds the container out to me. “No thanks, I had enough of the raw dough.”
A small laugh falls out of her because when she’s around when I make them, both our fingers are always in the dough. So much so that we only get about half of the cookies baked.
She picks out one with the most chocolate chips and covers up the container, eating it as I drive.
“Is it okay if we go to my place?” I ask, thinking maybe she wants to be in her bed.
“Yeah, but no company,” she says.
I reach over and squeeze her knee. “No problem.”
I take the long way, hopping on Lake Shore Drive, and turning on the Scorpions “Wind of Change.” She closes her eyes and rests her head on the headrest. I don’t open the window because it’s chilly, but I do drive, and it takes us an extra half hour to get back to my place.
When I pull into the parking garage across from The Den, she shuffles out, and we walk across the street. She’s holding up well, but it’s that facade that scares me.
She beelines to the couch once we’re in my apartment, opening up the container and taking another cookie.
“You want a shower, or do you just want to veg?”
“No, I need a shower.” She sighs.
I turn on the water and shut the bathroom door, so it steams up nice for her. She’s yet to tell me the specifics of what happened to Mr. Euing, and I learned the first time experiencing this with her to wait until she’s ready. Not to rush her through the process because I have no idea what she’s going through.
“It’s probably ready,” I say a few minutes later.
She walks toward the bathroom and goes in, shutting the door behind her. It’s then I hear her start to cry again. There’s no way I’m letting her face this all on her own, so I strip out of my clothes in my bedroom and open the bathroom door.
“It’s just me,” I tell her, opening the glass shower door and stepping in behind her.
She’s yet to dip her head back to get wet, and when she turns to me, her mascara is streaking down her cheeks more. I run my thumb under her eyes to dry the tears, even though I know more will come.
“Come on, let me,” I say, easing her head under the stream of water. When her hair is wet, I take some shampoo in my palms, lathering it up and rubbing it into her blonde hair. My fingers massage her scalp, working the shampoo in. She leans on me, her head tipping forward.
“I should have called the police that day,” she says quietly.
“What could they have done?” I ask, tilting her back to rinse the shampoo out of her hair. Once the water runs clear, I take the conditioner, working it through her beautiful locks.
“I don’t know, watched the area more, checked the shelters.”
“Where did it happen?”
While the conditioner works in her hair, I grab the washcloth and soap, running it over her body to wash her. “The paramedics picked him up right where he always stayed by Nordstrom. You know how he was always fighting for that area.” She shakes her head. “I should have done more.”
“There’s nothing you could’ve done. He didn’t want your help.” Again, I nudge her head back to rinse the conditioner out and the rest of her body off.
I turn off the water and wrap my arms around her, but she begins to shiver. I grab a towel, holding it out for her. She walks into my waiting arms, and I wrap the warmth around her. She turns and steps into me, and I hold her. Hell, I’ll hold her for a lifetime if she’ll let me.
We go into the bedroom, and I dress her in one of my sweatshirts that hangs down to her knees and a pair of my pajama pants she has to roll five times at the waist. Turning back my sheets and comforter, she slips into bed, and I join her after dressing in my sweats and turning on the television. Although she might not laugh, she always asks for a comedy with Vince Vaughn in it during times like this because she doesn’t want to wallow.
I turn on The Break-Up, and she cuddles into my chest. I wrap my arms around her, wishing I could take the pain away for her.
