She lets out a breath and forces a smile. “I’ll be okay, Luke.”
Sure, her mind is a fucking tilt-a-whirl. Overcome by everything and everyone. But she’s not afraid. She’s spent too long in the dark. She wants back everything she can’t remember. She wants the light to shine on in.
Inside the bathroom, Sal starts a shower in the clawfoot tub. She’s relieved at the silence. At finally being away from prying eyes, from worried glances. The photographers made her jumpy, and as much as she wants to be all ballsy bravado, she’s crawling out of her skin.
As she lets the old pipes heat up, Sal goes to the vanity and unpacks the meager belongings she’s been sent home with. A variety of pill bottles. Nutritional supplements and migraine meds.
Slowly, Sal undresses. It feels as if her body has been to the impound lot and back. She’s sore and stiff and, frankly, fucking exhausted. She wants nothing more than a nice hot shower and a plush bed. She’s even ready to skip dinner, she’s so tired. Although that’s probably a bad idea.
Sal inspects her bony form in the mirror. She runs shaky hands over jutting hip bones, bony ribs, a hollow stomach. She knows she’s too thin; it’ll take ages for the clothes in her closet to fit her again. Her lips kick up at the corners. Or at the very least a few hearty breakfasts.
Sal angles her body, thinking of the woman she saw beaming back at her in those wall photos. Someone with curves, with a smile for days, with eyes that still sparkled. Her nipples tighten at the draft of chilly air, her pale breasts swaying—the only part of her body still packing some weight.
What Sal sees next in the mirror makes her breath catch. It always has. The entire left side of her torso war-ravaged by ripples of ugly scar tissue. She’s always wondered where she got the scars on her body. And now she knows. A plane crash.
She frowns at her reflection. She wonders what Luke sees when he looks at her. His wife or a hot mess of a woman.
When the shower’s so hot it’s steaming, Sal steps inside, letting out a little moan of satisfaction. Christ, it feels good. She relishes the warmth, the water cutting hard against her skin like a Brillo pad, ready to scrub her raw, ready to erase her past with Roy.
Sal would give anything to delete every single memory of Roy and replace them with her lost memories of Luke.
She wonders if she was the type who showered or bathed. Maybe she took a bath alone and a shower with Luke? Soaping up, sudsing, those lean, chiseled hands holding her close. Making her—
Covering her face, Sal lets out a laugh. One thing’s for certain—at least she’s been left with her imagination intact. Hell, she doesn’t even know if Luke’s hers anymore.
Still, she can’t help smiling at her mind-in-the-gutter thought. Preoccupied with her daydream, Sal dips to pick up a washrag, and when she rises, she cracks her head on the porcelain soap holder.
“Shit,” she swears, watching the floor beneath her dip and bob. Small splotches of red begin to appear between her toes. She touches her temple and it comes away bloody. As black spots pepper her vision, Sal reaches out to grab onto the filmy shower curtain.
Sit, Sal, sit. Before you fall over ...
Slowly, she lowers herself to the bottom of the tub, tucking knees to her chest.
Bowing her face into her knees, Sal grips the side of her aching head, begging for Roy, for the dizzy spells, for her old, awful life to be washed away forever.