Page 40 of Those Two Words

Pulling my hand backward and shaking my head, I stare at her with pleading eyes. “I know you can, but let me do this. I don’t know how else to help you.”

Her head tilts to the side, and she looks like she might protest again, and I’m glad she’s got some of that spark back. She chews on the corner of her rosy lip and turns, the comforter twisting with her until her back is to me.

Moving to my knees, I shuffle forward and gently pull the wet strands over her shoulders. Bringing the brush up to the ends that sit at the small of her back, I drag it through her hair, the bristles gliding through easily with each pass. I slowly work my way upward, being careful not to tug on her scalp.

“You do help,” she says out of the blue. “You said you didn’t know how to help. But you just being here with me now. It helps. Having you close helps.”

I’m at a loss for words, concentrating on my task while I try to find the right ones. I don’t want to open up old scars, not like the other night at the bar, but I have to let her know what I’ve always wanted to say. What I’d planned on telling her when I flew out to see her.

“That’s all I’ve ever wanted. To help, to be there. To be the person you needed.” To be the person you wanted.

Her hair is now smooth, like woven gold, so I place the brush on the mattress. My hands come to the base of her neck and collect the sleek strands; my fingers threading and twisting through them like muscle memory, something I’ve done countless times with Lottie.

“Are you…Are you braiding my hair?” she whispers.

My fingers continue to work methodically through her hair until I come to the ends, and I take in the braid running down her spine. With my teeth, I pull at the pink scrunchie wrapped around my wrist and use it to secure her hair. “I did a pretty good job, too. You have a lot more hair than Lottie.”

With my hand still holding on to the ends of her hair, I slowly stroke my fingers against the soft material at her back. She relaxes into the touch, melting into the bed, until she’s resting against my knees.

“That feels so good,” she breathes, and with those words, we freeze.

Clearing my throat, I climb off the bed. She turns around to settle against the pillows behind her, a pink hue creeping across her neck. The moment that I shouldn’t have allowed to happen has ended. Slowly backing away from the bed, I point toward the bedside table.

“I made you some ginger tea, but it’s probably cold now. There’s also some water and aspirin. I’ll let you get some sleep. I’ll be across the hall if you need me.”

She shoots up, the dark gray comforter pooling at her waist. “Don’t leave.”

How can I tell her it’s not a good idea, when she stares up at me like that? The pleading in her voice makes it hard to say no. She’s much more herself now, but vulnerability and unease still swirl in her eyes.

“Please,” she whispers.

My eyes fall shut, because I don’t have the will or the way to deny her. When I open them again, her shoulders slump as I turn toward the door, but I only make it as far as the light switch. The room is bathed in darkness, but a streak of light from the streetlamps outside cuts across Jo’s face. Her shoulders visibly relax as I walk back to the bed.

“I’ll stay,” I assure her and point to the floor next to her. “I’ll be right down here.”

“No, up here. Please, Patrick. I need to know someone is next to me right now.”

If she says please one more time, I’ll give her the world and ask her what more she wants.

Reminding myself I’m here to comfort her and this means nothing, I round the bed and take a deep breath. I know she needs me right now, so I pull back the covers and climb in beside her. Her hands are tucked underneath her head, the raw terror and panic long gone. Her face is bare, making her look so much younger. So like the Johanna I remember before she left, but also different.

Mirroring her position, I give her a small smile. She looks like she could fall asleep any second, so I don’t expect one in return. But when a soft smile pulls at her lips, that stupid organ in my chest takes off again.

Distracting myself from our closeness, I absorb all the details of her face. The constellation of freckles across the bridge of her nose remains the same, but there are new additions on her cheeks and forehead, tempting me to trace each one. Her hair is the same sun-kissed shade of honey, just longer. She always wears it up, but I love it when it’s free, flowing down her back endlessly. And those eyes. Such a hypnotizing deep blue, that you could get lost in them and be thankful. Like me, the lines around her eyes and mouth are a little more prominent, only adding to her loveliness.

As I file away every detail—new and old—bitterness blooms. I’m bitter about the years we’ve missed together. Bitter that I don’t know which summer she gained a new freckle. Bitter that I don’t know if the lines on her face are from laughing at another man’s jokes.

A tender touch to my forehead drags me from my sullen thoughts.

Jo runs her thumb between my eyebrows. “Why the frown? You look like Graham.” There’s a lightness in her tone, and like a calm breeze, it blows the unpleasant feeling away.

“I take great offense to that,” I say and poke her teasingly in the side.

A carefree and airy laugh leaves her lips. But it’s not her laugh that threatens to tilt my world on its axis. It’s the blinding smile that breaks across her face. The smile I’ve been waiting to see since she came back to town. Would that smile taste as good as it’s making me feel? Are her lips still as soft as it makes my heart?

A few inches are all it would take to answer those questions.

But now isn’t the time. And perhaps that’s the soundtrack to our story: “Never the Right Time.”That thought doesn’t stop my next words, though.

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