He looked so tough, so wounded as he stood in front of her dressed in nothing more than a pair of boxers. The scars on his chest still looked angry, even after all this time, and it was impossible to ignore the missing limb. He’d been through so much.
“I’ll be done soon.”
She stepped closer. “What do you have to do?”
His jaw tightened. “I have to clean the socket, charge it up, wash my arm, and moisturize it.”
“Can I help?”
There. At her offer, there was a flicker of emotion. He wasn’t as immune as he was pretending to be. But he’d accepted her. If she was going to be with him he deserved no less from her.
“Jess…”
She entered the room and saw soapy water in the sink. She grabbed the washcloth, wrung it out, and with her heart in her throat, reached for his arm, lifting his elbow so that his handless forearm was extended her way, over the basin of the sink. Gently she applied the cloth, wiping along his arm, slowly soaping the skin and rinsing away the suds. The air in the room grew heavy, weighted with emotions and unanswered questions. Jess put the cloth back in the water and reached for a towel, patting the skin dry.
Then, without saying a word, she reached for the lotion on the counter and squirted a healthy amount into her palm. Slowly she worked the lotion into the skin.
The muscle and bone were firm beneath her fingers and she massaged the lotion into his warm skin
. Rick’s eyes were closed, his breath slow and steady. She hoped that what she was doing felt good. That it helped relax the muscles in his arm. She kneaded with her fingers, starting above his elbow and working her way down.
“Do you ever get phantom pain?” she asked softly, still kneading.
“Sometimes. Not as often as I used to.” His voice was gritty. “That feels good, Jess. Real good.”
“I’m glad.” She got more lotion and started over. “It hurts me to think of this happening to you. It must have been so hard.”
He shook his head. He turned a bit, resting his hips against the vanity, allowing her better access to his arm and relaxing his shoulders. “The physical stuff wasn’t as bad as the other,” he replied. “That’s what most people don’t get. Yeah, adjusting to an artificial limb’s a challenge. It’s not what keeps me up at night, though.”
Her heart gave an odd little thump. “What does keep you up at night?”
His eyes opened. “People.”
Keep your fingers moving, she reminded herself, wanting to keep him talking. She sensed they were on the verge of something important. “Anyone in particular?
“Does there need to be?”
There was an edge to his voice that reached out to her. “I think so, yes,” she answered, her fingertips stroking the soft skin now. “I think that something happened that keeps you up at night. Something that you try to escape, or at least cancel out, first with your drinking and now with your painting.” She stopped rubbing and looked up into his face. “Am I right?”
“You trying to psychoanalyze me, Saint Jess?”
The nickname told her she was on the right track. “Maybe I get it, Rick. I started doing all these crafts and projects to keep my mind and hands busy after I left Mike. It was important that I was able to make something, to build something that was maybe not necessary but added a bit of beauty to a world that could be pretty damned ugly. I made it my livelihood, but I think it’s pretty cool that I was able to take something that started out as a kind of self-therapy and now make my living at it, you know?”
She put her hands around his forearms, linking the two of them together. “I know your painting is your therapy. I wish you’d talk to me, though. Tell me what happened.”
He pulled his arms away. “I’m doing better. I’m not sure bringing it all up again is such a good idea.”
Rick put the lotion back in its spot and tidied the supplies on the vanity. Jess’s heart ached for him. He was so defensive she knew whatever he was keeping inside was still eating him up. “Rick, you helped me, more than you know. Won’t you let me return the favor?”
He put the cap on the rubbing alcohol and then turned back to face her. “You don’t want to know, Jess. It’s not pretty.”
“Of course it’s not. If it were pretty, it wouldn’t be hurting you so much. What really happened when you were wounded? Why is it so hard to forget? If it’s not the injury, what? Did you lose someone important?”
“Dammit, Jess!” His patience at an end, Rick snapped out the words and pushed his way past her to the door. She sighed as his feet hit the stairs heavily, taking him to the lower level of the house.
With soft steps she followed him in the dark, down the stairs and past the porch door to the living room beyond. She found him sitting on the sofa, his elbows on his knees. She couldn’t help but notice his arm, an obvious physical reminder of so much else going on underneath the surface.
“Rick,” she said quietly, going to him and sitting beside him on the sofa. The only light in the room came from whatever filtered through the windows from the streetlamp two houses away. “You don’t have to do this alone.”