I struggle not to cringe with every move, because each time it happens—which is often—it incites another round of apologies from him.
On day number three, Declan seems more ramped up than usual. He’s been working from home and spends a lot of time with his laptop on the couch. When he has to make calls, he moves to his bedroom so he doesn’t disrupt my frequent naps or my TV bingeing.
While Declan takes a call, I occupy myself by checking the Spark House social media accounts. Usually Harley is the one who takes care of that stuff, but with me off until I’ve healed enough that I can take care of my basic needs, she’s had to take over a lot of my duties. It means she’s behind on responding to some of the messages. I take it upon myself to answer all the most pressing ones, and to answer any of the questions in the comments as well.
My sisters have been by every day to make sure I’m doing okay. I love them, but between them and Declan, I’m feeling ridiculously babied. It sure is motivation for getting my mobility back as quickly as possible.
Declan returns to the living room, all shifty-eyed, with his hands shoved in his pockets.
“What’s up?”
He bites his bottom lip, chewing three times before he releases it. It’s one of his major tells that he’s nervous about something.
I raise a brow and wait.
“Tomorrow is Monday.”
“Okay.” Since I’ve been home, the days all blend together. I’ve basically been binge-watching TV shows because my brain is too mushy from the pain meds to be able to do anything that requires actual focus or attention. I can maybe make it through a chapter in a book before my mind starts to wander and I have trouble remembering what I just read.
“The guys were hoping they could come over. They want to see you, and I’ve been putting them off ’cause I don’t want to it to be more than you can handle.” He removes his hands from his pockets and rocks back on his heels.
It’ll be beer and wings and sports and loudness. Things I’ve missed. Something normal when all I’ve had is not normal. “I can totally handle it.”
“Are you sure? Mark can always go to Jerome’s place if it’s better for you.”
“It would be great. I’d love to see the guys, and it’s nice to have something to look forward to.”
“Okay.” His shoulders come down from his ears. “I’ll let them know. We can make a list of things you want, and I’ll get the guys to pick up snacks and stuff.”
“Candy. I want candy, and chips. And chocolate-dipped Oreos, barbecue kettle chips. Oh, and gummy bears! And Jerome has to bring his bacon-wrapped jalapeño poppers. And nachos, let’s make nachos!”
Declan smiles for what seems like the first time in days. “Looks like your appetite is coming back.”
“Hanging with you and the guys always makes me hungry.”
My buoyant mood takes a graceless swan dive when I have to use the bathroom. I’m getting better at the whole thing, and the awkward has come down a level or seven since we’ve done the routine so many times now.
It’s also a lot easier now that I’m only wearing long nightshirts and I’ve given up on underwear and pants until the pain is more manageable and I’m strong enough to do it on my own.
I catch my reflection in the vanity mirror—something I’ve tried not to pay much attention to since I have two mostly healed, but still discolored black eyes. Green and yellow bruises color my cheeks from when the airbag deployed. On the upside, my nose isn’t broken.
I reach up and touch my hair. I haven’t bathed since I’ve been home, apart from running a wet washcloth over my exposed limbs. My hair is disgusting, and I’m sure I must stink.
I’m worried about how difficult the whole bathing situation is going to be. And how much help I’m going to need from Declan to be able to manage it. I don’t know how long I sit there, but eventually Declan knocks. “Ave, everything okay in there? You need some help?”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you ready for me, or…” He trails off.
“Just give me a minute.” I’m even more horrified when tears of frustration prick at my eyes. I try to stifle them, but they keep coming.
“Ave? Are you sure everything is okay? I’m coming in.” He throws open the door. My hair is pulled up in a messy ponytail so I can’t hide my face behind it, not that I would want to, considering how greasy it is. His eyes go wide. “What’s wrong? What’s going on? Does something hurt? Do I need to call the doctor? I’ll call the doctor.” He scrambles for his phone.
I hold up my hand. “I don’t need the doctor.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
“I need to fucking bathe, that’s what’s wrong!” I snap.
“Oh. Okay. I can set that up for you. I’ll get everything ready and it’ll be fine,” he says gently, as if he’s speaking to an upset toddler. Which is pretty much how I’m feeling.
And I go off, because I’m frustrated and tired and I hate this. “It’s not going to be fine, though, is it, Declan? I can’t get into the tub on my own. I can’t do anything on my own. I can barely pee on my own. Do you have any idea how humiliating this is?” I motion to my broken, beat-up body.
“I know this is hard for you—”
“Do not tell me you know how this is. You don’t. I hate this! I hate being dependent on someone else to take care of my basic needs. I can’t make my own cereal because I can’t stand up long enough to get a bowl. I can’t make myself a sandwich. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t!” I slam my fist down on the counter.
“Avery, stop, you’re going to hurt your hand.” He rushes forward and grabs my wrist before I can slam my fist down again.
“Let me go!” I scream, completely irrational, out of control mentally, emotionally, because my physical body isn’t mine to command right now.
I try to wrench free, but his grip tightens. “I’m sorry, Ave. I’m so sorry.”
“It wouldn’t be like this if you weren’t such a selfish fuck boy.” I spit the words at him and they have the intended effect, piercing him like knives. I’m angry and lashing out. Aggravated because I’m confined and he’s not.
He drops to his knees, bringing my clenched fist to his forehead as he bows forward. “I know. I fucked up, Ave, and I’m so sorry. I made a really shitty mistake, and I wish I could take it back. Every day, every time I look at you, every time I see you in pain, I know it’s my fault, and I hate myself for it. I should’ve gotten my ass out of bed and gone with you. I should’ve made sure you had my SUV. I shouldn’t have gone out. I shouldn’t have brought anyone home.”
“Yeah, well, should’ve doesn’t get me out of this mess, does it?” I yank my hand free, pissed off, wishing I could stop my mouth from running, but wanting to inflict some kind of pain on Declan that matches my own. And I’m succeeding. That it gives me some sense of vindication makes me feel horrible.
“I know, and I’m sorry. I hate that I did this to you. You’re my best friend, and I love you, and it kills me to see you like this.”
“Why? Why did you have to go out and find a hookup when you knew we had a drive ahead of us the next morning?” It doesn’t make sense. We were looking forward to the trip, and then he went and screwed it all up for both of us.
He turns away, so I can only see his profile and not his eyes. His jaw tics and he exhales heavily. “I don’t know. I made a bad call, and now it’s going to haunt me for the rest of my life, because the end result is that I broke you.”
I feel his remorse, but my frustration overshadows everything, particularly since his answer doesn’t tell me anything. What makes everything worse is that all I want is to be left alone for a while, but I can’t get myself out of this bathroom without help. “At least it’s nothing permanent, right?” It comes out bitter and with venomous bite. I’m not being a very nice version of myself.
“I know how much you hate having to rely on someone else, Ave, and I’m sorry that it’s me you have to lean on right now, but please let me help y
ou however I can. I’ll do whatever you need me to. Do you want me to call your sisters and see if one of them can come over to help with the bath? Tell me what you want me to do, and I’ll do it,” he pleads.
I close my eyes on a long sigh, hating myself for taking this out on him. “Don’t call my sisters.”
If London thinks this is too much for Declan to handle, then she’ll most definitely try to get me to move in with her and Harley. They’re already under enough emotional and mental strain as it is without me to help manage Spark House. I can’t be dependent on them to take care of me too. There is a lot that I want for Spark House and that can’t happen if their attention is on me.
“Let’s get this shower thing figured out, so I’m clean and frustrated instead of filthy and frustrated.”
9
SHOWER TIME
AVERY
I manage to get myself into a pair of bikini bottoms and a top, but I require Declan’s help to tie the one side and fasten the clasp in the back. The bath bench has been moved into my bathroom shower, and Declan helps me into the tub and hands me the removable handheld showerhead.
I’m inordinately thankful for waterproof casts. I can’t soak in a tub or anything, but at least I can get clean without worrying about keeping them out of the spray. “I’ve got it from here. I’ll let you know when I’m done.” I’m calmer than I was before, still frustrated, but not quite as heated.
“Okay, call me if you need me for anything.” He closes the door behind him, and I exhale a slow, steadying breath.
This is so much harder than I thought it was going to be.
The hot water feels like heaven, though. I set my body poof in my lap, squirt some shower gel on it, inhaling the sweet vanilla scent—so much more appealing than the generic crap at the hospital. I take my time washing away several days’ worth of grime. I can’t move very fast regardless, but this is the first time I’ve had a shower in the privacy of my own home since the accident, so I’m going to enjoy it, challenge or not.
I spend longer than necessary between my thighs; even with the cleansing wipes I’ve been using post-bathroom trips, my lady bits can use the extra attention. I exhale a shuddering breath as my fingers skim over sensitive parts. I have no idea how long it’s going to be before I can get myself off. My dominant hand is casted, and everything is awkward and unnatural with my left hand. I shut that line of thinking down, aware it’s not helpful with my already dour mood.
I manage to shave my leg and under one arm, but I can’t get a grip on the razor with the casted hand because my thumb is stiff, and I have very limited range of motion.
I give up and move on to my hair, which proves to be another difficult task. One-handed hair washing is a serious pain in the ass. I can’t adjust the spray properly, and my hair is so dirty it needs a solid lather and more than one round of shampoo for it to feel properly clean. Beyond that, keeping my arm above my head makes my ribs ache. I end up with soap in my eyes and shout my displeasure, dropping the showerhead. It clatters into the tub with a loud bang, my shampoo topples over, and it has a domino effect, sending a bunch of bottles tumbling into the bottom of the tub.
The showerhead bumps around and spins out of control, spraying across the vanity and floor. It’s a damn mess.
Declan doesn’t bother knocking, just busts right in, eyes wide and frantic. “What happened?” His timing couldn’t be more perfect; the showerhead does a spin, spraying him across the chest. His bare chest.
“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 brai
n again soon.”
“You want me to wash your back after I’m done with your hair?” He begins the process of rinsing out the conditioner.
When Declan offered to help me with the shower, I anticipated it would be a little awkward and clinical. But this is the opposite of that—it’s comforting and soothing, like a warm blanket on a cold winter’s night.
“Ave?”
I shake my head, realizing I’ve been lost in my thoughts. “Sure, yeah, that’d be great.”
He doesn’t reach for the body poof; instead, he lathers up his hands and smooths them down the sides of my neck and over my shoulders. “Can I unclasp this?” He tugs at the back of my bikini. “You’ll need me to help you out of it anyway, right? It’ll be easier to get your back if it’s already out of the way.”
I hesitate for a fraction of a second before I say, “Uh, yeah, sure.”
Even with soapy hands, he manages to get it open with one quick flick. I bar my arm across my chest and his palms move down my back, thumbs on either side of my spine, pressing firmly.
My eyes roll up and I relax further, dropping my head. “Oh man, that feels freaking awesome.”
His hands are warm and soft, but strong. It’s been ages since I’ve had a massage, and even longer since I’ve been touched by anyone for any reason other than necessity, or a hug from my sisters. This feels … different. He rubs slow, lulling circles, rhythmic and almost sensual.
“I’ll rub your back for you after your bath, if you want.” His thumbs follow the curve of my spine all the way to the base of my neck.
“Really?” It’s a half groan.
“Yeah, for sure. We can put on a rom-com, I’ll make you something to eat and give you a back massage.”
“Guilt is a strong motivator for you, isn’t it? Not that I’m going to say no to any of that.” I curl forward, humming when he hits a particularly tight spot between my shoulders.
His hands still for a moment before he runs them back up my spine and kneads my shoulders. Suddenly his chest is pressed against my back, warm and so solid. He wraps his arms gently around me. The connection sends a shock through me that I feel everywhere, from the crown of my head all the way to my toes.
When Sparks Fly Page 8
