Page 30 of Wall

“That’ll do.” He helps me stand, and he bears my weight while I hop to the en suite. I prop myself on the edge of the tub, and he grabs some cotton balls from the jar on the shelf above the toilet.

I screw up the courage to look at my knee. It’s bloody, and it definitely needs to be bandaged, but I don’t think it needs stitches. My cheeks heat. That was a really stupid thing to do.

I clear my throat. “I’m sorry about that. I lost my temper.”

John glances at me. His shoulders go almost wall-to-wall, and he had to duck his head to come in the door. I couldn’t get past him if I wanted to.

“Fair enough.” He kneels in front of me, and dabs my knee with a cold, wet cotton ball. It fizzes. “You can take it out on me, you know. Instead of the china.”

“I’ve never hit a person in my life.”

“I know. Might make you feel better. I can take a punch.”

I suck in a breath as he hits a raw spot. He instantly stops and blows on my knee. It’s not hygienic, but it does ease the hurt.

“What if I knocked you out?” I babble on. “You’d put a hole in my floor.”

“We could take it outside.”

“The neighbors would call the police.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Chaudhry? They’d place bets.”

“They’d bet on me,” I brag.

John’s applying the bandages now, and the sting is ebbing. The teasing comes so naturally. It makes me sad—it feels familiar as home.

“Of course, they would. The odds would not be in my favor,” John says, finishing with the bandage. He leaves his hand on my leg. His thumb strokes the inside of my thigh, almost behind my knee. Little shivers follow his touch.

“But you’d fight me anyway?” I should push his hand away, but I don’t. It’s nice. Not too ticklish. My belly stirs with flutters. Nice. Nervous, but nice.

“I would fight for you,” he says.

“I don’t believe you,” I whisper. We’ve both lowered our voices.

“I left without a fight last time. I ain’t gonna do that again.”

I drop my head, stare at the white and black tile. “Why did you stay away, then, if you didn’t want to go?”

I can’t bear to look at him while he answers. It takes him a minute.

“I told myself I stayed away ‘cause you asked. And doin’ what you asked was the least I could do after I fucked up so bad. But then, after a time, I came to understand that I was full of shit.”

He pauses. I wait, steeled for words to rip me apart where my scars are barely mended.

“I was punishing myself. For hurting you. For letting you down. For beingweak.” He sighs, and it’s a beatdown kind of sound. “And I was ashamed of myself. Simple as that, really.”

He reaches for a washcloth, and turns on the faucet. “Shame’s a powerful thing.”

I don’t know what to say.

He takes the warm washrag, and gently wipes away a streak of blood that dried on my calf. The cloth is rough against my skin, but his touch is so careful.

“You want an aspirin?” His voice has dropped an octave. He’s so close, I can see the stubble on his chin.

“No. I’m good.”

My brain’s all muzzy, piecing together what he said, matching it with how I feel. The man I knew. This man kneeling on one knee in front of me, taking up an entire bathroom, more intent on my leg than anyone’s ever been on any part of me.

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