His forehead is covered in sweat, and his breathing’s shallow. His bed is a king, and there’s room for both of us. I lie next to him in case his back seizes up again and he needs me.
I’m still here, two hours later, when he opens his eyes.
“Fuck.” He groans, barely moves. He’s waiting to see if it will hurt, but I did a good job and his back felt like putty by the time I was done.
“Does that happen often?” I ask. I’m partially lying, partially sitting. I hadn’t wanted to fall asleep in his bed, and I dozed in that sickly area between sleeping and wakefulness that left me feeling muzzy and nauseated. I never got my snack.
“No. I didn’t sleep well last night. After the accident, if I don’t get ten hours, it messes me up. That can happen.”
“You didn’t sleep because of me. I’m sorry.”
“Not just you.” His eyelids are heavy, and his whiskers have turned into a short beard. A lock of black hair falls over his eye and I want to push it back, but I don’t dare. He’s tolerating me in his house. Maybe he’d tolerate me in his bed too, if I wanted sex and he felt like giving it to me, but he wouldn’t tolerate affection. Compassion.
I wiggle until I’m sharing his pillow, his scar hidden by his half. “But some of it.”
“I’m not as social as I used to be.” He lets out a sigh and his eyes drift closed.
“Before you go back to sleep, I brought you a drink and some ibuprofen. You should take them. It’ll help with inflammation.”
He lifts onto an arm just enough to swallow the pills with the gulp of whiskey in his glass. Settling into the mattress he asks, “Where did you learn massage?”
“In Cedar Hill. I took a few beginner’s classes. My sister needs them sometimes. They help her relax, and I learned for her.”
“Thank you.” His voice is a mumble, and I’m going to lose him in a second.
“Do you want me to stay?”
He opens his left eye, a narrow slit. “Do you want to stay?”
I know before I say it how big of a mistake it will be, but I can’t help myself. “Yes.”
“Then stay.”
It’s dark when I wake. The little rectangular window cut into the wall of the lighthouse doesn’t offer any light. In Minnesota, that could mean it’s five in the evening or midnight or later. I won’t know until I get up to check the time.
Rick’s body spoons mine, solid and warm, our figures touching from shoulder to toe. I didn’t let myself miss companionship after Talia called and asked for my help. Before she came back into my life, I’d dated a little, someone at the Times who had the same career aspirations I did. That relationship faded away as Talia demanded more of my time. Rick’s arm is strong and rests against my stomach, his even breathing feathering over my neck, his lips centimeters away from my skin.
I wiggle closer.
It wouldn’t be like me to roll over in his arms, press my lips to his, and ask for something to help get me through the next little while. I could unzip his jeans and push my leggings down to my ankles. We wouldn’t have to undress. He could slide into me, and with a light touch between our bodies, I wouldn’t need much to come. It wouldn’t be like me, but I wish it were.
Rick’s out cold, and reluctantly, I roll off the bed not worried I’ll wake him.
I pad into the kitchen and snoop around for something to eat. In the fridge, I find fixings for a ham and cheese sandwich, and I make a thick one to tide me over until breakfast. I open cabinets and close them while I chew the first couple of bites. Dishes, glasses, coffee mugs. There’s a floor-to-ceiling pantry, and laughing to myself, I find a bright blue bag of Doritos Cool Ranch.
He works with his employees and munches on chips. He suffers from pain that will never go away, but his arms are still strong enough to keep me close while we slept. He’s angry, but underneath the rage is a wounded lion, roaring in agony and warning. Can I be the brave little mouse who pulls the thorn from his paw? What would that do for me? What would I hope to accomplish? I don’t have feelings for him. Wanting to crawl into his bed and asking him to touch me isn’t the same as having feelings for him, is it? No, that’s not, but me wanting to touch him again, me wanting to give him pleasure to experience instead of pain, that is. Those are feelings. And they couldn’t have come at a worse time.
After I eat, I text my sister and wish her a goodnight. She messages me back right away and asks me to call her tomorrow but assures me she’s not in trouble. While I was massaging Rick’s back, Walt texted me and told me Talia’s all right and asked if my drive to Old Harbor had gone okay and if I had any updates. I ignore his text and promise Talia I’ll call her in the morning.
I brush my teeth by the light of my phone, not wanting to disturb Rick. If he needs that much sleep, I don’t want to be the reason he’s hurting. While I’d been able to help this time, I might not always, and in this weather, medical help could be hours away.
I’m not tired, but I change into pajamas and sit with the lights dimmed on the couch in the sitting room where I’d fallen asleep last night.
I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting when the door creaks open and Rick walks toward me dressed in the cotton shirt I imagined unbuttoning, the jeans I imagined unzipping.
“You’re still awake? It’s after two in the morning.”
“I couldn’t sleep,” I say, watching him warily.