Exmas

by Winter Renshaw

  I work from the conference room for two hours that morning before deciding to take a bit of a field trip to Mills Haven. With my laptop in tow, I let Pam know I’ll be telecommuting the rest of the day, and I make a quick stop before ordering an Uber.

  Holy shit.

  She looks like death warmed over.

  First of all, I’m surprised that she answered the door.

  Second of all, I feel a little bad for doubting her sickness. She’s clearly going through some shit.

  Greasy hair is piled in a messy bun on top of her head, and her skin is the color of the driven snow that surrounds her brownstone. From what I can tell, she appears to have on two layers of pajamas plus a robe, all of it hanging loosely off her frame.

  “What are you doing here?” she asks, voice scratchy.

  I lift the brown bag in my hand. “Brought you soup.”

  Her eyes go in and out of focus and she stands in the doorway for what feels like forever. I get the sense that she wants to say something clever, but she doesn’t have the strength, physical, mental, or otherwise.

  “You can come in,” she says, though it’s more of a defeated mumble than anything else.

  I follow her, latching the door behind me. The place feels like night, every shade drawn, every blind darkened.

  The TV in the living room is muted and paused on an episode of Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, and a messy pile of blankets rests on the floor next to the couch.

  Tissues and empty glasses of orange juice litter the coffee table, and I can’t help but wonder if she’s always been a bit of a slob or if this is purely the sickness taking its toll.

  Her office was always so tidy, and she was always so particular about putting things back exactly the way they were. I’m choosing to believe the latter.

  Joa collapses on the sofa, her hand slapped across her forehead as her eyes wince.

  “I’m sure you’re starving. Can you hold anything down?” I ask, taking the cushion next to her feet.

  “Yeah,” she says, half pointing to an open package of saltines on the side table.

  “Good.” I take the soup from its Styrofoam container and remove the lid. Steam escapes from the top as I place it on the coffee table and position it in front of her. “Eat, Joa. Even if you don’t feel like it.”

  “Why are you here?” she asks as I help her sit up. Reaching for the plastic spoon I’ve laid out, she turns to me. “You thought I was faking it, didn’t you?”

  I smirk.

  “Bastard.” She ladles chicken broth into her plastic cutlery and lifts it to her full lips. “Not everything I do is because of you.”

  “I know that.”

  She presses play on her remote and she doesn’t ask me to leave. Fifteen minutes later, she’s managed to finish a third of her soup, and I refrigerate the rest of it.

  “When was the last time you took something?” I ask, eyeing the vast collection of cold and flu meds accumulating on her kitchen counter.

  “I don’t know … last night I think?”

  I pop a couple of tablets from a tin packet and pour her a fresh glass of orange juice.

  Look at me—taking care of someone.

  If my friends could see me now ...

  This trip has been chock full of all kinds of firsts.

  Returning to the sofa, I hand over the pills and juice and help her get situated back under the covers. A moment later, she closes her eyes and she’s out cold.

  With her legs sprawled over my lap, I’m more or less pinned, and if I move too much I’m going to wake her, so I slowly reach for the remote and find something to watch to keep myself occupied until she wakes up or needs something again.

  I tune her TV to ESPN and keep the volume as low as I can. Every few minutes, I steal a peak at this Snow White incarnate with her onyx hair, fair skin, and ruby lips. She’d look so peaceful if she wasn’t shivering.

  Her eyes flutter open and she rolls to her side, tugging the covers up around her neck.

  “It’s so cold in here. Can you turn up the heat?” she asks, her voice muffled by the blankets.

  I slide out from beneath her legs and locate her thermostat, which is already set at 78. I bump it up to 80 and yank my sweater off, leaving my undershirt in place.

  When I return to the sofa, I place my palm across her forehead and then her cheeks.

  She’s on fire.

  “I’m freezing,” she says through chattering teeth. “Can’t get warm.”

  “The meds should kick in soon.” I watch her lying there, helpless, and it damn near kills me. “Here ...”

  I take my seat and then I take her hands, pulling her against me. Her skin burns to the touch, but she still shivers, even under five blankets. I’m hopeful my body heat might help a bit.

  It’s better than nothing.

  And it’s a hell of a lot better than sitting here watching her suffer.

  A few minutes pass when I finally realize she’s stopped shaking. Her eyes are closed, but I don’t think she’s quite asleep yet.

  I take the opportunity to watch her, to study her features the way I used to … before. The bend of her brows. The cupid’s bow of her upper lip. The fan of dark lashes splaying out from her hooded eyelids.

  “Reed?” she says my name so soft, I almost think I’m hearing things.

  “Yes?”

  “Why couldn’t you have just said no?”

  Her body melts against mine before I have a chance to reply, and her breathing steadies. She’s out now. And it’s for the best.

  She needs her rest.

  And I need more time.

  In three days, I’ll be able to tell her everything.

  Past

  Reed

  “Ow.” Joa picks at the pad of her left ring finger, her knees drawn up to her chest as she sits in a lounge chair off a breezy Aruban patio.

  The sea breeze tousles a strand of dark hair across her forehead, but she leaves it. She’s too focused on whatever’s going on with her finger.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, leaning against the frame of the sliding glass door, a coffee in my hand.

  “Splinter.” She frowns.

  “Let me see it.” I reach for her hand, but she jerks it away.

  “I’ve got it.”

  She’s a stubborn little thing sometimes. I guess it’s okay for her to Door Dash soup to my apartment when I’m out sick, but God forbid I try to help her with a splinter.

  “Clearly you don’t,” I say.

  The pad of her finger is growing red and irritated, and the fact that I can see it from where I’m standing tells me it’s a big one.

  I take the chair beside her and scoot it closer. “You’re making it worse.”

  Her shoulders fall and she blows a breath that moves the errant strand of hair out of her eyes. She knows I’m right.

  “Here.”

  She offers her hand to me, and I turn it palm-side up, examining the wooden sliver lodged beneath her skin.

  “It’s deeper than it was a second ago,” I say, trying to determine which end is the entrance point. Lifting her finger to my lips, I circle my tongue around the swollen skin until I feel the tip of the splinter.

  She says nothing, simply watches me work, and a second later, it’s out.

  “That was fast,” she says, checking it out when I’m done. “It’s weird having someone tend to me like that who isn’t my mom.”

  It’s weird for me too. Nurture isn’t something that’s ever come easy to me. Growing up, if I was sick, my mother would have the nanny run me to the doctor or the ER. She thought hospital waiting rooms were the epitome of disgusting, and of course she always had some trip coming up, so possibly contracting an illness before was a risk she wasn’t willing to take.

  So the nanny would take me.

  The nanny would answer the doctor's questions.

  The nanny would relay everything to my parents.

  There was never anyone to hold my hand during shots, never t
he soothing balm of a mother’s voice telling me everything was going to be okay or that it would only hurt for a second.

  “You can be pretty sweet when you want to be, York.” She sweeps her hair over her shoulder and wears a smile just for me.

  “Don't get used to it.”

  “Didn’t plan on it.”

  23

  Joa

  I wake with a dry mouth and drenched hair that clings to my neck and forehead, buried under a mountain of covers that I fling off my body with as much strength as I can muster.

  Sitting up, a rush of pain floods my head and neck.

  That’s what I get for sleeping on the couch … how many nights now?

  I don’t know what day it is or how long I’ve been sleeping.

  My pajamas cling to me and my itchy skin is covered in dampness. Without hesitating, I begin tearing them off, layer by layer, tossing them aside and basking in the rush of tepid hair that hits my flesh.

  For a moment, I begin to see stars.

  Maybe I stood up too fast?

  And then … everything goes black.

  When I wake, I’m sitting in my bathtub—covered in bubbles. The water is lukewarm but it’s quite comfortable. I reach to my forehead, sliding off a cool washcloth I didn’t realize was there.

  I’m so confused.

  Until I glance across the bathroom and find Reed leaning against the counter, aimlessly thumbing through his phone.

  “Ah, there you are,” he says, looking up.

  “You did this?” I ask, sitting up. Bubbles gather around my breasts.

  “You were burning up. And you passed out. As soon as you’re cooled off, we should probably get you to drink something. I’ve called out for some Gatorade.” He slips his phone back into his pocket. “I talked to one of my friends back home. He’s a physician. He said you should be fine once we get you rehydrated since your fever’s starting to break.”

  “You took my temperature?” I’d laugh at the image if I wasn’t so exhausted.

  He nods.

  “What day is it?” I ask.

  “Wednesday,” he says. “And it’s seven o’clock. At night."

  “When did you get here?”

  “Yesterday, just before noon. I brought you soup, remember?”

  I squeeze my eyes and inhale the scent of lavender bubbles, trying to think back to yesterday. I vaguely remember someone ringing the doorbell. At least I think I remember. It all feels like a dream at this point.

  “I let you in?” I ask with a slight chuckle.

  “I know. Crazy, right?”

  “What’s with the bubbles.” I lift a handful of them.

  “Modesty.”

  He’s thrown me another one of his curveballs, and I’m rendered speechless.

  I sink back against the tub until the nape of my neck hits the top of the water, and I stare at the popcorn ceiling above the shower.

  He’s making it nearly impossible to hate him, despite the fact that forgiving him still feels out of the question.

  I’m not there yet.

  It’s been a year, and I’ve yet to fully comprehend just why he did what he did and why he did it the way he did it.

  I’m just supposed to accept that “he had no choice?” I’m just supposed to believe that and be okay with it? How is that fair to me? And what kind of message would that be sending to him? That he can go behind my back and hurt me and I’ll give him chances every time?

  I’m not that kind of woman.

  I feel his eyes on me, and when I turn my attention in his direction, I find him lost in thought.

  “It’s too bad,” I say.

  “What’s too bad?”

  “That things didn’t work out for us. That things happened the way they did. We might’ve had something pretty amazing, Reed.”

  His arms fold across his muscled chest. “It’s not too late. I’m still there. I didn’t go anywhere. You’re the one who left, remember?”

  “Right. And your actions are the reason I left, remember?”

  “How could I forget? You remind me of it every chance you get.”

  “Can you blame me?” I ask, sitting up and drawing my knees against my chest. It feels odd arguing with him, reclined in a tub full of bubbles.

  “No, Joa. I can’t. And I’ve told you that. I’m sorry.” His full lips flatten and his arms tighten. His stare weighs me down and we linger in silence, shooting looks and holding our tongues.

  How many times has he apologized and not once has he said anything about wishing he hadn’t done it at all, wishing he could take it back, wishing he would’ve done it differently?

  Not once.

  If you hurt someone you care about and you don't regret it, are you truly sorry?

  His phone buzzes in his pocket and he checks the screen. “I have to take this.”

  He leaves me alone with my thoughts in a tub of tepid water. Chills begin to run through me and sweat collects across my brow.

  I think I’m going to be sick again.

  Past

  Joa

  My naked body slides against his, a rush of warm water passing between us, beside us, and all around us.

  This weekend has marked a handful of firsts for me.

  First time having sex in a bathtub.

  First time in Seattle.

  First time catching Reed looking at me like he’s hiding secret thoughts behind his glinting irises.

  I don’t bother asking him what he’s thinking about. He wouldn’t tell me if I begged. He’s the epitome of a closed book when it comes to anything deeper than his perfected exterior.

  “I think there’s more water on the floor than there is in the tub.” I sit up and move to the opposite side of the behemoth Jacuzzi in the condo we’re renting, waiting until I catch my breath. “We should clean up. I hope we have enough towels ...”

  He hasn’t moved. He’s still resting his back against his end of the tub, one muscled arm behind his head as he watches me.

  Bracing myself, I rise so I can climb out and mop up the wet floor, only before I so much as hike a leg over the ledge, Reed’s hand hooks around my left thigh.

  “What are you doing?” I chuckle. He can’t possibly be ready for another round.

  Saying nothing, he pulls me back into the warm water, guiding me onto him and slipping my arms around his shoulders.

  My body slides against his, weightless almost, and I can’t help but notice he isn’t hard. This isn’t him trying to get laid again.

  “What is this?” I ask, resting my chin on his chest and staring up at him.

  “Just lay with me for a little bit,” he says.

  I lift a brow.

  “Don’t read into it, Jolivet. It just feels really good—relaxing, I mean.” He’s quick to clarify.

  I don’t disagree, so I press my cheek against his chest and listen to his heart as warm water gently laps around us.

  We stay here, like this, until the water cools.

  24

  Reed

  I take my phone call with the SEC outside, on Joa’s front porch, watching my breath turn to clouds that quickly evaporate into a darkening gray sky.

  I try to keep it as brief as I can, knowing she’s still in the bath and will need help getting out, but by the time the call ends, the screen tells me it’s been thirteen minutes and four seconds.

  A car pulls up just before I go in, and a scrawny kid in a military-style parka runs a bag of Gatorade to me. I sign the receipt, slip him a tip, and head in.

  When I return to the bathroom, the tub is drained and Joa’s nowhere to be found.

  I find her a minute later, lying on the sofa, dressed in a t-shirt and plaid cotton shorts, a blanket half covering her lap.

  She’s almost asleep, but she’s due for her medicine.

  “Joa,” I say, veering into the kitchen and popping a couple of pills from a tin packet. “Don’t fall asleep yet.”

  I pour some blue Gatorade into a cup and bring everything to
her. She swallows them with two small gulps and lies back down. I thought she was on the mend, hoped maybe we were making progress, but now I’m not so sure.

  “Drink a little more before you go back to sleep,” I say, thinking back to what my doctor friend had told me on the phone earlier.

  “Fluids, fluids, fluids, and more fluids,” he’d said.

  She sits up a little, taking tiny sips from her cup, her eyes glassy and unfocused on the muted TV.

  “It’s New Year’s Eve,” she says.

  “It is.”

  She’s quiet for a moment, like she wants to ask if I’m staying or leaving, but she can’t bring herself to.

  I adjust the volume on the TV when I can’t stand the tension anymore, and she settles back into the sofa cushions, wrapping her blanket around her body.

  It doesn’t take long for her to drift to sleep again, and I head to her kitchen table to crack my laptop and get some more work done, but before I get started, I shoot a text to her mother with an update.

  Bevin had asked if she should come over, offering to relieve me, but I told her I had it and I’d keep her in the loop if anything changed. I get the feeling that backing off and letting someone else take care of her baby isn’t normally her cup of tea, but she didn’t protest. I did, however, ask if she could drop off some clothes for me since I didn’t want to run back to the city. Within twenty minutes, she’d sent Tom over with a grocery sack full of some of Logan’s old jeans and t-shirts, all of which appeared to be circa 2007 when he was clearly going through some kind of Ed Hardy phase.

  Why Bevin still has this stuff, I don’t know. I’m just grateful it fits.

  The screen of my phone lights as I pull up my email, and Bijou’s name fills the screen. A quick glance toward the living room tells me Joa’s out again.

  “Hey,” I answer, keeping my voice down. “What’s up?”

  “Are you ever coming back to this … quaint … little apartment you rented?”

  “I’m sorry. Some things came up.” I delete a couple of junk emails and read a memo from IT—not that it’s going to be relevant after this week. “You doing okay?”