“You look pretty proud of that . . .” I take the plate. “Peanut butter and jelly.”
“It’s all we have. Ryder loves this shit.” He takes a big bite, a glob of grape jelly falling to the plate. “Not bad. The key to
a great pb&j is the ratio of peanut butter to jelly. You gotta get it just right.”
“Is that so?” I giggle, biting into it. It’s so thick it sticks to the top of my mouth. “I think you’re a little heavy on the peanut butter.”
The words are practically indecipherable around the food in my mouth and we burst out laughing at the same time. He hands me a drink, flinching as he moves.
With a furrowed brow, I get the sandwich to go down and take a drink. “What’s wrong?”
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“You’re wincing again.”
“Just my ribs. Still sore as shit.”
“Come here.” I put my plate to the side and pat the blankets. He sits and I lift his shirt to see a purplish bruise marring his skin. “Dom, baby, that doesn’t look good.”
“It doesn’t feel good either,” he says, pressing on it with his hand. “It relieves some of the pressure when I do that.”
“You need a wrap. Do you have one?”
“Somewhere probably.”
“What kind of an answer is that?”
“An honest one?” He looks at me over his shoulder. “You’re really cute when you’re worried about me.”
“Then I must be cute all the damn time,” I say, getting off the bed. “Follow me.”
He does what I ask, his hand still on his side. “Where are we going?”
“To the bath.”
I expect an objection, but don’t get one and that pleasantly surprises me. I was ready for a fight.
We enter his bathroom and I try not to be heartbroken by the sorry state of the amenities. The flooring is a mess of ripped linoleum and shittier linoleum from God knows when. The sink sits on a wobbly cabinet with pressed-board doors and chrome-plated hinges. I lean into the tub, a shallow box that would never fit Dom’s body, and put the stopper in the hole. The water comes on, the pipes squealing in distress behind the paneling.
“Do you have bubble bath?” I ask.
He makes a face and disappears in the hall. He comes back with a bright pink bottle with a cartoon character on it. “This is Ryder’s. It’s all we’ve got.”
“Good enough,” I say, taking the bottle and lumping in a lot of the bubble-gum looking liquid. Immediately, I’m taken back to childhood and the garden tub in Mom’s bathroom that Sienna and I used to love to take baths in.
Testing the water, it’s perfect.
“You. In,” I say, nodding to the tub.
“I just got a shower.”
“And now you’re getting a bath.”
He nods, trying to act serious, but fails when the corners of his lips upturn. He drops his briefs and steps out of them and into the water. As he sits in the tub, his legs bent in a manner that can’t be comfortable, my heart hurts. Shaking it off, I squeeze myself in between the toilet and the tub.
Pooling water in my hands, I let it fall over his shoulders and down his back. Bits of the bubbles cling to his skin. Another splash ripples down his body, caressing the ridges of his muscles.
“Is that too hot?” I ask.