“I got shampoo in my eye.”
I have my palm pressed against the affected eye, but my other, unaffected eye skims over Declan, taking in all the ridiculously defined muscles.
The showerhead does another twirl, and this time the spray gets him in the crotch, pulling my gaze down past the V that disappears under the waistband of his swim trunks. He raises a defensive hand and rushes across the room, nearly losing his footing on the slippery tile floor. He makes it to the bath mat and grabs the edge of the tub to steady himself.
Before the showerhead can make another full rotation, he nabs it and sets it back in the holder.
“Why are you in your bathing suit?” And why is my voice so pitchy?
“I wanted to be prepared in case you needed my help.” His eyes roam over me, stopping at my head.
I can make out my reflection in the mirror across the room. I resemble a drowned rat with a half-lathered head.
His eyes dart around, and he rubs the back of his neck. “Can I help with your hair?”
I feel awful that I lashed out at him, especially when I know he already blames himself for my current situation. I can struggle through and do a half-assed job, or I can let him help—alleviating my own frustration and some of his guilt. So I concede.
“Yeah, okay, thanks. That’d be great.”
“Okay. Good. That’s good.” He nods twice and then steps into the tub behind me. He carefully tips my head back so he can wet my hair without getting water or soap in my eyes. “Wanna hold this while I lather you up?” He nudges my hand with the showerhead.
I take it from him, and he grabs the shampoo bottle. It squirt-farts when he squeezes it and we both chuckle, some of the tension easing. He rubs his palms together before he smooths them over my hair.
It’s been awkward getting used to having him help me get to the bathroom. I’m also forever grateful for the gag gift of Poo-Pourri Jerome gave us last year before the Super Bowl, because that stuff really does work.
But this is different, less about function and necessity and more about my limitations. It makes me feel even more vulnerable. I expect him to rush through the whole process, but instead, he takes his time. He works the shampoo into a lather, thumbs pressing into the spot at the base of my skull, anchoring there. He rubs slow circles while firmly but gently massaging my scalp.
I groan, the tension in my neck starting to ease. I drop my head back farther and bump against Declan’s stomach. I jerk back up and mumble, “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.” He tips my head back again until it rests against him. “Just relax. Your body took a real beating, you’re probably all out of whack, huh?”
“It’s awkward with all the extra stuff attached to my limbs.” I raise my casted arm. “It’ll be easier when my body is working a little better, and I can do more than rot my brain with bad TV.”
“I know the downtime is hard to manage, but maybe when we see the doctor on Monday, they’ll give you some exercises or something. I’m sure they’re going to want to increase physical therapy soon, even with the casts.”
“I’m almost looking forward to that.” Almost, but not quite. I remember what it was like when I broke my ankle all those years ago. I thought being on crutches for six weeks was brutal, but it has nothing on this, or the months I had to spend in rehab before I could get back on the soccer field. Even then, it took a while before I felt comfortable on the field again and totally in control of my body.
Declan runs his thumbs down the back of my neck and then works his way back up until he reaches my temples. I hum my appreciation, almost disappointed when he takes the showerhead from me and rinses my hair. He moves on to conditioner, repeating the entire process, massaging my scalp and the back of my neck before he finger-combs my hair.
“Man, you’re good at this,” I murmur.
“Lots of practice with my hands.” He holds one in front of my face, ring finger and thumb bent in and the other three straight—giving me the shocker sign. I bat his hand away.
“That’s nasty! I do not want to think about you doing that to one of your randoms when your fingers are in my hair!”
“I’m kidding! It’s a joke.” He gives the back of my neck a squeeze. “But it’s nice to be able to get a rise out of you again. You’ve been pretty subdued since the accident, and I was worried maybe it was permanent.”
“Not permanent, just all the meds make me dopey. But the pain isn’t as bad as it was, so I should be able to cut my dose down and maybe use my brain again soon.”