“Yeah, you do. I found it in the back of one of your laundry cupboards. It’s probably old enough to burn holes through your shirts, but obviously it’s doing the trick.”
“Obviously.” I mimic her eye roll. “Number three—exercise.”
She sucks in a subtle breath and I pause, waiting for the stereotypical female retaliation.
It’s clear she doesn’t need to lose weight. Her body is on point. What she requires is the shift in brain function.
“Right.” Instead of a protest, she nods and breaks eye contact to focus on the tiled floor.
“Don’t get huffy on me,” I warn. “I’d never comment on your body in a negative way. Not only because it’s fucking rude, but because you’re stunning. With or without the small village supply of material covering you at any given time.”
I wait for a smile that doesn’t appear and mentally berate myself for not prefacing my suggestion. “Exercise lowers cortisol, which is a stress hormone, while helping to increase endorphins. In your case, working out is about mood and mental health—not anything to do with appearance.”
“I get it.” She nods. “You don’t have to explain.”
“Yeah, I do. I can already see you creeping back into that shell of yours and it’s pissing me off.”
Making her feel like shit has a reciprocal effect. The only bonus is my resulting limp dick.
“Sorry,” she mutters. Murmurs.
Fuck.
I hold in the need to growl in frustration. “Number four—read a self-help book. Number five—meditate. Number six—go for a walk. Number seven—get plastered.”
She doesn’t respond, just keeps her attention on the floor.
“Penny?” We’ve come so far this morning. From no words to heavy conversation and even physical contact. I’d thought I was receiving the jackpot of recovery. Turns out it was only a slight detour. “You still don’t like the idea of a list, do you?”
“No, it’s not that.” She pushes from the counter. “Your ideas are great. I actually like them.”
“But?”
“No buts.” She gives me a placating smile. “You make it sound too easy, that’s all.”
“I’ve got no misconceptions about how hard this is going to be. Despite whatever warped perceptions you think I have, I know you’re trudging through hell at the moment.” I push to stand, the notepad hanging idle in my grip. “This list is only an attempt to get you to live a little.”
“I’m living, Luca.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. And the sooner you realize, the easier this will be. You deserve more than this limbo. And I’m here to help. I’m not going anywhere. You’re not going anywhere. We’re stuck together for now. So share the load, because it’s sure as shit harder for me to watch you struggle from the sidelines than it will be at your side.”
Her eyes turn somber, the wrinkle stretching across her forehead burrowing deep.
“I’m only asking you to try. I have no other expectations.” I hold out the notepad for her to take. “But, come on, Pen. Aren’t you at least a little excited to try and get out of your funk?”
“It’s not a fun—”
“You know what I mean.” I don’t want to give her struggle a toxic label, whether it’s depression or PTSD. All that shit has negative connotations. “Aren’t you the slightest bit interested in doing something different?”
She grabs the notepad and raises her other hand, cinching her thumb and pointer finger so they’re a breath apart. “A little.”
Good.
Fucking fantastic.
A little is all I need. For now. “What do you say if we keep the momentum going and cross an afternoon session of movie watching off the list?”
Her smile is subtle, the slightest curve of tempting lips as she lets out an exaggerated sigh. “What did you have in mind?”
5
Luca
We ticked the movie off the list without a hitch.
I don’t care if she fell asleep before the dramatic climax to have a two-hour power nap. If anything, I count it as a victory that she felt comfortable enough to sleep in the same room. Her rest was peaceful, too.
No nightmares.
No murmured cries for help.
The next day we moved on to the laundry. And props to her for giving it her all as she talked down to me, slow and demeaning, with her instructions on how to unscrew the lid to the fabric softener and pour the contents into the allocated tube of the washing machine.
Day by day, hour by hour, she starts to open up. Gradually. The lessening of her fear is incremental. But it’s there. That’s all that matters.
“So, what do you have in store for me today, GI Joe?” She