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“No way. Your bandage would get messed up, and I’m not good at fixing it.”
He makes a face but doesn’t argue.
I take a sip of water and think of an idea. I leave the room and find a couple of washcloths, fill a bowl with water, get soap out of the shower, and bring everything over to the bed.
Caleb’s eyebrow cocks up. “A sponge bath? Really?”
“If you mock, you’re not going to get one.”
“No mocking. No mocking from me.” His expression is still slightly ironic, but it’s also very soft. “You really don’t have to do that.”
“I want to.”
I do want to, but I also feel strangely self-conscious about it. I’ve never done anything like this before.
But he must feel absolutely terrible right now, and this is something quite small I can do to help him, to make him feel better.
I’m going to do it.
He doesn’t have on a shirt and he’s just wearing a pair of gym shorts, so he doesn’t have anything to take off. I put down my stuff and go get a big towel from the bathroom, and then I ease him up and spread it out beneath him so I won’t get the sheets wet.
I wet the washcloth and start to wipe down his chest, shoulders, and arms, putting just enough soap on it to clean him without making it necessary to use a lot of water to rinse it off.
Caleb doesn’t say anything as I work, but his eyes never leave my face.
I don’t know why I feel so self-conscious, so aware of myself, of each movement of my body—and so aware of Caleb, his body, his expression at the same time. But I do. It feels so intimate, doing this for him.
I’m amazed he’s even letting me do it.
I work on his chest, the tight skin, firm muscles, and coarse hair nakedly masculine. I run the washcloth up and down his arms, carefully avoiding the tightly wrapped bandage, over his shoulders, and then lift his arms to reach his underarms. When I’m done, I move down to his abdomen. I clean the skin there and then gently tug at his shoulder until he sits up enough for me to reach his back.
As I wash his back, I say softly, “Trey said you called dibs on me.”
I had no idea I was going to say that. Absolutely no idea at all. I’m obviously stretched emotionally to the point where the words tumble out without planning or qualm.
Caleb’s whole body stiffens.
“That’s what he said.”
Caleb lets out his breath in a loud exhale. “Did he?”
“Yeah. Back when he first started working for the Worthings. He said you’d called dibs on me. Marked your territory.”
“I didn’t say a word about that.”
“Maybe not directly. But he said he got the point really quick.” I pause, gently running the washcloth over his lower back. My eyes are focused on his damp skin. “Was he wrong?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. The silence stretches on a long time.
I don’t prompt him or say anything else. I just keep working on his back.
Finally he says, “He wasn’t wrong.”
Something new, inchoate, is trembling inside me. It takes me a minute to get any words out. “I didn’t… I didn’t know.”
“You weren’t supposed to know.”
“Why? I was old enough by then. I mean, I was what? Twenty? Twenty-one? Hardly a child.”
