Page 23 of Ravens
“You shouldn’t be getting these wet yet. Keep them out of the water.”
Releasing the grip across my chest, I rest my other arm on the opposite edge of the tub and watch him disappear for a moment, returning with a cup in his hand. He moves the stool behind me and then scoops up some water and trickles it over the back of my head. I wiggle my toes in protest when the heat of the water makes it sting, but he keeps going until my hair is soaked through, and then he massages soap into my hair.
“It looks like you cut your head open on someone’s teeth,” he says quietly.
“I thought it was just a bruise.”
“No.” He begins rinsing out the soap. “The hair is matted with blood.”
Great.
After a few minutes, he gathers my hair into a rope and wrings it out as I look at the blood-tinged bubbles floating around me now. Moving the stool back to the side, he grabs a washcloth and asks me to sit forward. I do, hugging my knees as I stare at the wall and wonder about this strange turn my life has taken.
When he finishes scrubbing my back, he goes over my shoulder gently and then works down each arm, stopping before the wrists. Finally, he cleans my face, wiping away the concealer from the edge of my mouth and swollen lip. There is no more talking, and when he seems satisfied, he wrings out the cloth and lays it over the side of the tub before setting the glass of wine on the stool and pulling the door shut behind him.
Alone again, I pick up the wine and take a small sip as I stare off into space.
I’m so confused.
***
The apartment is bathed in dull light as the sun gets blocked out by a line of trees on its descent. The warm glow from a lampin the bedroom and the flicker of candles on the coffee table in front of York break up the dimness and draw me forward. Soft music is coming from the record player as I grip the towel around me and pad to the coffee table where I left my bag.
“Clothes are on the bed,” he says without looking up from a folder he’s flipping through.
Taking my bag, I walk past the kitchen to the bedroom area and find a set of gray thermals laid out. Glancing over my shoulder, York is still on the couch with his back to me, so I remove the towel and pull the long-sleeved thermal top on. It lands partway down my thighs, but I can tell the pants will be too big on my waist, so I set them aside and pull out a small package of cotton panties I bought this morning and tear them open.
Comfortable and clean, I pull the throw off the foot of the bed and return to the living room, where I curl up on the other couch under the small blanket.
“What are you reading?” I set my wine down.
“Data.”
“On?”
“A job.” He sighs and closes the folder, looking at me. “I shouldn’t have handled you so roughly in the car. You are in no condition, so I apologize.”
“I shouldn’t have been such a bitch,” I reason as I pull at a thread on the blanket. “But I have no intention of apologizing for that. Besides, I’m fine.”
“You are far from fine.” He stands and goes into the kitchen, coming back with a small case.
He sits next to me and opens it, pulling out a flat silver pack and crushing it in his hands before fitting it between my shoulder and the couch. The cold seeps through the thermal layer into my shoulder.
After a moment of sifting through the case, he takes one hand at a time and applies ointment around my wrist before rewrapping each one in gauze and finishes by handing me a couple of painkillers.
“I’ll make dinner,” he says after a moment. He closes the case and goes back to the kitchen.
Thirty minutes later, I’m cradling a bowl of pasta in my lap and watching him read his file again.
Thirteen
Coffee pulls me from my sleep, and I roll over and look around. I know I fell asleep on the couch after dinner. The grimy windows above let through a bit of the morning light, but the kitchen lights are on too.
I prod my shoulder and move it around a bit before sitting up and throwing my legs over the side of the bed. York is moving back and forth through the kitchen, so I get up quietly and walk over, pulling out a stool at the edge of the counter as I smooth out my hair.
A steaming cup of coffee is placed wordlessly in front of me, and I lean over it, inhaling the aroma for a second.
“Omelet?” he asks, sounding borderline pleasant.
