I’m struggling to string a sentence together. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
I’m about to make some parting shot about when those test results are coming in, but I refrain. I don’t want to piss Luke off, and especially not when he’s actually smiling again.
I sit on the cushion where his legs are stretched out. “I fixed up the guest room down here so you don’t need to try to tackle the stairs,” I say. “You ready to go to bed?”
“I’d love a shower, actually,” he says. He finally looks at me. “But I’m going to need some help with that.”
“I’m here, Luke. For whatever you need.”
“Yeah,” he says thinly, his voice soft in case Michelle isn’t completely out of earshot. “I guess it’s in your contract.”
His words stab my heart.
I know what he’s doing. He’s lashing out because he’s angry about his injury, and I’m the closest target to take it.
I can’t take it personally even though it hurts.
“That’s right,” I say. “It’s the in sickness and health part of the marriage pact since I’m not aware of any other contracts you might be referring to.” I smile sweetly, and he simply grunts in response.
Well if the reminder that our contract no longer exists since he ripped it up isn’t enough, I guess I’ll just have to work my magic in the shower.
And I try. Man, do I try.
I help him out of his clothes. He winces a lot. He mutters some curses. He grips onto the countertop for support—or maybe so he has something to clutch to help with the pain.
“Did they give you any painkillers?” I ask.
“They tried,” he says.
“And you wouldn’t take them?”
He just sighs in response. So it’s going to be that kind of conversation.
I get it. He’s a big, tough man. But that doesn’t mean he can’t take help when it’s needed.
I help him slowly over to the shower, where the glass door is already open for him. It would be easier upstairs in our shower since it’s big enough for two—or five—but that’s not our current situation. I get undressed too, in part to try to take his mind off his injury and in part because I don’t want to get my clothes wet from helping him.
“Do you want me to wash your hair?” I ask.
“I’m not a fucking child,” he mutters, and I hand over the shampoo bottle. He’s really in a mood.
He washes his face next, and most of his body. I kneel down to help him wash his legs and feet, and while I’m down there, I get a little idea in my head.
I glance up at him, and our eyes lock. A bit of heat passes between us.
Or, at least I think it’s heat. I move toward his dick, ready to suck it to the back of my throat just to try to take his mind off things and give him a few minutes of happiness again, but he pushes me away.
He pushes me away.
I feel hurt. I feel rejected. I feel humiliated.
But this isn’t about me, I remind myself.
So I finish washing him. I quietly get out of the shower and dry myself off, and once I have a towel wrapped around me, I help him dry his legs. He handles the rest himself because, in his words, he isn’t a fucking child.
He brushes his teeth while I get dressed, and then I help him into his boxers and over to the bed.
He’s silent through the entire process. I ask him little questions here and there, and I offer help where I think he needs it without assuming he can’t do something for himself. And once he’s in bed, I feel a tiny bit of sweet relief.
Once this surgery is over, I’ll feel more of it.
“I’m going to sleep,” he says, flicking off the bedside lamp.
“Okay.” I set the television remote on his nightstand next to a bottle of water and his phone. “I’m going to work a while. I’ll be back in a bit.”
“’Night,” he says.
“I love you,” I say.
He doesn’t say it back. I try not to feel hurt over that. Maybe he’s already asleep or something, but somehow I doubt it.
I close the door behind me, and I set a hand on my lower belly as I lean on the wall in the hallway. And then I let the tears freefall down my cheeks.
CHAPTER 4
I can’t decide which is preferable: feeling lonely because I’m actually by myself or feeling lonely because I’m sitting beside Luke.