Page 77 of Wild Card
I draw the heavy curtains before padding back toward him. His eyes follow me, but every other part of him is still.
My knees bump against the edge of his mattress on the opposite side of the bed as I hold up my glass vial of lavender oil. It’s clear, and the actual sprigs are suspended within. “I’m going to kneel on your bed and rub this into your temples. Please try not to get a boner.”
The laugh he coughs out is sudden, and genuine, and something of a relief. “Okay, Gwen. If that makes you feel better.”
With a soft smile, I crawl onto his bed. “Yes, I’m doing all this to makemefeel better.”
His lips are upturned when he closes his eyes, and it strikes me that Bash has neverlet his guard down around me like this. Actually, I don’t think Bash lets his guard down around anyone at all.
He’s been hurt.
Clyde’s words echo in my head as I realize it’s more than that. I’ve been hurt. But this? Bash is actively hurting. It’s different, and I hate it.
I draw close enough that my knees press against his arm. Then I squeeze a few drops of the oil onto my fingertips, I rub them together to heat it before tentatively reaching over him and gently pressing my pointer and middle fingers onto each of his temples.
He tenses at first, but then he softens. I work in gentle circles, slowing slightly with each rotation, as though I might unfurl the tension within him with my fingertips alone.
“You’ve had a big year, Bash,” I say softly. “You’ve been through a lot.”
His cheek hitches. “Not really.”
“Yes, really. You’ve endured intense emotional upheaval. Tripp. Your ex. A major surgery.” I’m quiet for a few beats, the other thing that has caused him strife at the tip of my tongue.
“Me,” I finally say.
His eyes snap open, landing on mine as I continue to massage him.
“You’re crashing. Your nervous system has got to be in overdrive. And yes, your incision may be healed, and physically you might feel fine, but those six weeks they recommend might be accounting for more than that. How is your mental health? How is your emotional health? Stress is often the spark for starting illness.”
He watches me, lids slung low. He says nothing, so I carry on.
“If I were you, I don’t think I’d be okay. You need to take care of yourself, not just everyone else. Or it will come back to haunt you.”
“I know,” he whispers, eyes drawing shut once more, like he’s just too tired to even keep them open.
“Does this feel okay?” I ask, not wanting to carry on gently scolding him.
“Yes.”
I pause for a moment, adding more oil before moving away from his temples, letting my fingers pulse softly on the lymph nodes in his neck.
“You’re good at this,” he murmurs, dropping a hand on my thigh like it’s the most natural thing in the world to just casually touch each other.
I clear my throat, trying not to fixate on the contact.
“Thank you. Clyde likes it as well.” I can’t even mention the older man without smiling. I never imagined my relationship with him would bring me such fulfillment. It feels serendipitous that he strolled into the yoga studio that day. “He’s doing better, you know. I think he’ll be good to go around the timeline we agreed upon and if his occupational therapist agrees.”
Bash hums deeply as I touch him. “That’s good. What about you, though?”
My tongue darts out over my lips, a burst of nervousness tightening my chest. “I accepted a job at a resort in Costa Rica, so I’ll be out of your hair in no time. Figure I’ll go a little early and spend some time traveling to other parts of the country. I’ll be due for a new adventure anyway.”
Silence hangs between us, heavy and awkward. I can’t help but wonder if my words sound as hollow to Bash as they feel in my head. Several beats pass, and I turn my focus back to the task at hand, pressing harder to mask how self-conscious I suddenly feel.
I sneak an uneasy peek down at him, eyes catching on the flash of silver in his sideburns and the dark stubble that dots his cheeks. His lips part and the anticipation of his response sends my stomach hurtling off a cliff. I don’t know why I care so much about what he thinks, but I do.
And I expect him to say something about my upcoming plans—to give an opinion—but he catches me off guard when he asks, “What’s the deal with your dad?”
My breathing hitches as I incline my head in thought. It might be the first personal thing Bash has ever asked me, not that I’ve volunteered much information. But it has me realizing I know a lot more about him than he knows about me.
