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For a moment, I almost argue, telling him I don’t need a bath, but unfortunately, I know that isn’t the truth. With not having to get myself up and out of the house for work each day, I’ve kept my daily activity to the absolute minimum, taking my pills and feeding myself just enough to survive another day, but not much more than that.
At my worst, that’s the most I can do to survive day the day until it starts to ease.
I look from the water to him and shrug.
“Nothing you haven’t seen before,” I say, my words low as I tug the shirt I’ve been wearing for at least two days over my head and push down the shorts with a similar fate before stepping into the tub. He makes me hold his hand as I do like he’s afraid I’ll fall if he doesn’t.
Sighing, I settle into the tub, leaning my head back on the edge of the tub and closing my eyes.
“You didn’t have to do this,” I say. “Or clean up. I hope you didn’t do too much.”
“Nothing I didn’t want to do, Stell.”
We don’t speak as I sit in the tub, Riggins sitting on the toilet seat, watching. Not in a way like he thinks me naked in a tub is hot, but in a way like… god, I don’t know.
Like he can’t believe he has the privilege of sitting here, watching over me.
A few minutes later, I can feel him moving behind me until he's behind the big tub. “Sit up,” he whispers.
“What?’
“Sit up. Let me do your hair,” he says.
“Riggins.”
“Humor me.”
For some reason, I do as he asks, sitting up, then tipping my head back when he asks. He starts gently working on the hair tie which I know from experience of coming out of one of these episodes is tangled with my hair.
When it’s free, a thumb presses into my shoulder, and he whispers, “Tip your head back.” I do what he asks, not questioning it, and he takes a cup, slowly pouring warm water from the tap over my head, avoiding my eyes diligently. His fingers work slowly once it’s all wet, scrubbing in shampoo, using the tips of his fingers to rub at my scalp, and slowly loosening knots before rinsing out the suds. Next is conditioner, which he slathers in my hair, then takes a comb he must have found somewhere and slowly, meticulously begins to brush out the week of neglect.
As he does, silent tears roll down my cheeks, the quiet, kind gesture ripping through me, both healing and painful somehow.
He never questions it, never asks if or why I’m crying, never even mentions it. Instead, he just keeps brushing my hair until it’s smooth. He rinses it out once more, and then he leaves, coming back with a fluffy white towel.
“Stand, Stella. The towels are fresh from the dryer, and I have new pajamas on the counter.”
I look to see a folded stack of grey sweats and a tee shirt. I'm unsure of when he grabbed those, but I'm thankful all the same. The water sloshes as I stand and step out, and I don’t have any modesty left in me as he wraps the towel around my body and then a second around my hair. When I dry off, I forgo lotion, instead sliding right into my pajamas before Riggs grabs my hand, leading me past the bedroom and to the kitchen.
It’s clean now, a mix of relief and embarrassment passing through me, and he sits me at the table, putting a grilled cheese and a soda in front of me.
“Do you need to have food in your stomach for these?” he asks, lifting the orange bottles I know so well. I keep my eyes down, avoiding his, but shake my head no. I know he stands there reading the labels as I lift the sandwich and take a bite, suddenly hungry.
A good sign in the grand scheme. My appetite is the first thing to return as I’m stepping out of a depressive episode.
“You didn’t have to do this,” I whisper to the sandwich as he puts pills onto the table next to me.
“I know,” he says. “I didn’t do it because I felt like I had to.” Gracie comes into the kitchen, her dog tags clinking, and she rests her head on my lap. I scratch behind her ear before responding.
“Then why did you?”
“Because even if you aren’t ready for that again, you’re mine. That means you’re also mine to take care of.”
I could cry then, but I choke it down and start back on my sandwich.
It’s after my dinner, after Riggs unraveled my hair from the towel and gently brushed it out, and long after I got back into my bed with clean sheets and bedding, Riggs climbing in with me wearing a pair of sweats he didn’t come here in.
“When did this start?” he asks, his body wrapped around mine.
