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“Twenty still isn’t really… But it wasn’t just your age.”
“Then what?” I’ve finished his back, so I ease him down again.
He meets my eyes briefly and then looks away.
With a sigh, I get the washcloth wet again, wring it out, and then start to rub his neck. “I guess it was against your rules for the job.”
He doesn’t answer in words, but I feel an affirmative in his body. Like all his muscles tighten and then relax in resignation.
“We could have made something work.”
“Maybe. But you were already in a downward spiral when we met. I was supposed to be someone you trusted. You really think a guy in my position making moves on you would have been a good thing for you back then?”
“No. Of course it wouldn’t. But it makes me feel…” I gulp. “It makes me feel even worse. More guilty. If you had feelings for me. And I treated you the way I did.”
“You didn’t know.”
“Not about you, but I knew how to be a decent person. And I wasn’t a decent person to you.”
“We’ve already talked about this. I’ve forgiven you. I’m not holding anything against you.”
“I know. But you should. I don’t deserve… that kind of grace.”
The words linger in the room strangely. The air between us is thick and tense.
I’m stroking his face with the washcloth now, and he suddenly pulls my hand down. “You don’t have to do that.”
I frown and move back up to his face. “I know I don’t have to do it. I want to. So stop being an ass and let me help you a little.”
“I—” I can tell he’s starting to argue again, but he stops himself. His body softens. He isn’t meeting my eyes anymore.
I’m supposed to be cleaning him, but it’s more like I was caressing him. I don’t remember ever feeling so tender, so possessive, about another human being. Like he’s mine to care for, to take care of.
Like he’s mine and no one else’s.
When he’s relaxed completely, I say, “I’m still trying to make up for everything I did back then. I’m going to keep trying to make up for it.”
Caleb just shakes his head. His jaw is clenched.
“Why do you look so stubborn, so angry about it?”
He grits out, “Because you don’t understand forgiveness at all.”
“What?” I lower the washcloth.
“You don’t understand forgiveness.”
“I… I think I do.”
“Then you wouldn’t keep endlessly trying to make up for something I’m not holding against you. How the hell do you think it makes me feel? Wondering if every nice thing you do for me is an attempt to earn a forgiveness I’ve already given you?”
I gasp at that. Lower my washcloth. Stare at him. “Wh-what?”
“You heard me.”
“Yes, but… But it’s not. That’s not why I do things.”
“Isn’t it?” He’s staring up at me now, questioning and oddly vulnerable.
