David has left most of his clothes in the bags from the store and he’s still dressed in his scrubs. “Mind if I use your shower?” he asks.
“Of course not. Help yourself.”
I watch him as he carries his brand-new pajamas and the bag of just-bought toiletries into the bathroom with him. As he closes the door, my mind envisions him undressing on the other side. I know the first thing he’ll do is shave, standing stark naked in front of the sink, running the razor over the right side of his face first, then the left, moving to his neck next, and then the mustache area, finishing with the sideburns. After that he’ll brush his teeth for a full two minutes, finishing off with a Listerine rinse. Then he’ll hop in the shower and wash his body before he shampoos his hair. I can see that body—tall, lithe, and fit—in my mind’s eye. David is a well-built, attractive man and as I imagine him lathering himself up, I feel myself getting turned on.
I settle on the couch with Hoover at my feet, turn on the TV, and start flipping channels, cursing my fickle loins and trying to focus on anything besides David naked in the shower. By the time he comes out of the bathroom wearing his new pajamas, with his hair damp and his face flushed, I’ve successfully shifted my attention to my back and shoulders, which are stiffening up with each passing minute. I’m not sure if it’s because of my workout at the gym, my efforts with David during the fire, or a combination of the two, but I have a feeling I won’t be moving well in the morning. Rubbish has curled himself up in my lap and even the minimal movement I’m making to pet him is growing more painful with each stroke.
David fetches himself a glass of ice water from the kitchen and then walks over and plops down next to me on the couch, making Rubbish leap from my lap and dash into the bedroom. Most likely Rubbish will hide under the bed for a while. He doesn’t take well to strangers in the house and the only person he’s not run from is Hurley, which is ironic when you consider that Hurley harbors a strong dislike of cats and often wants to run from Rubbish.
David smells fantastic and my mind starts thinking evil thoughts again. “How are you feeling?” I ask, hoping to keep the conversation as far away from delicate personal territory as I can.
“I’m okay. I still have a bit of a headache and I coughed up some nasty-looking stuff in the shower, but at least I don’t feel like I’m one step away from slipping into the grave.” He looks down at my foot, still encased in its Frankenstein shoe. “What about you? Are you doing okay?”
“My toes are throbbing quite a bit,” I admit. I shrug and roll my neck to try to loosen things up. “And I made the mistake of working out at a gym today and now my muscles are stiffening up in protest.”
“You worked out?” he says, looking as shocked as if I’d just told him I’m really a man.
“Yes, I did. Why are you looking at me like that?”
He laughs. “It’s just not like you. In the past you’ve taken to exercise the way cats take to water. Plus I noticed your freezer is well stocked with Ben & Jerry’s.”
I roll my neck again and wince. “Well, based on how I feel at the moment, I think my aversion to exercise is justified. Though I suppose my pain could also be from my having to drag you out of bed and down the stairs to save your sorry ass,” I add, unable to resist one small jab in my defense.
I get the satisfaction of seeing David look properly chastised. He gets up and goes back into the bathroom, returning a minute later with three ibuprofen tablets and a glass of water. “Here, take these,” he says.
“Thanks.” I chug the pills down with a couple of swallows of water.
“You’re welcome. Now turn around and face toward the end of the couch.”
I stare at him, confused by the request.
“Just do as I say,” he says with a smile. “Trust me.”
Those last two words are loaded ones, given our history. Trust is the one thing sorely lacking in our relationship, but I decide to take this baby step and see what happens. A second later his hands are on my shoulders, gently kneading the muscles there. “Wow, your muscles really are tight,” he says, moving toward my neck. “Is this helping?”
“Yes, it is.” It’s not only helping, it feels utterly glorious. His hands work magic on my tired muscles; I can feel them unwinding already. For the next fifteen minutes, his hands rove over my shoulders, my neck, and my back. I’m so lost in the sensations that I end up lying on my stomach on the couch at one point with no memory of how I got there. By the time he’s done I feel utterly relaxed . . . and completely confused.
He leans down and kisses me on the nape of my neck—a spot he knows is a sensitive one for me. It triggers a deep longing in my groin and it’s all I can do not to flip over and kiss him back. I half expect him to try to go further but instead he retreats, pats my fanny, and says, “Now you need a hot shower to keep those muscles loose.”
I get up from the couch and stumble into my bedroom to get a nightgown. When I come back out, David is making up the couch with the linens Dom gave me and Hoover is watching him curiously, his head cocked to one side. I hurry into the bathroom and as soon as I shut the door behind me, I lean against the wall and try to get a grip on my senses.
But I know what happened. Somehow David managed to reawaken feelings in me that I thought were long dead and gone. Was Izzy right? Had my attraction to Hurley somehow enabled me to bury my true feelings for David?
I turn on the shower and get it as hot as I can stand, and then I strip myself naked and climb in. At first I just let the water beat on my neck and shoulders for a while, fighting the images in my head. But no matter how hard I try, my mind keeps playing mini scenarios where David enters the bathroom and climbs into the shower with me.
Frustrated, I wash up, get out, and dry off. Then I spend another twenty minutes lotioning up my skin and blow drying my hair. By the time I emerge from the bathroom I’m still mightily confused and afraid of what might happen next. But David is sound asleep on the couch with the TV still on and Hoover curled up on the floor beside him. I turn the TV off, half expecting David to awaken when the sound cuts out. But he doesn’t and I realize that a small part of me is disappointed.
I stand there watching him sleep for several minutes, admiring his patrician features, the lean lines of his body, and the almost childlike expression he has on his face. A part of me wants to crawl in next to him and spoon the way we used to. Another part of me remembers his horrible betrayal, and with that remembrance comes the realization that what we once had will never be the same. But just because it can’t be the same doesn’t mean it can’t work, does it? Maybe we can build a new relationship, one that’s even stronger than what we had before because of the many obstacles we’ll have to overcome to get there.
I’m irritated with myself for thinking about any of this. While I clearly have some heavy thinking to do about David and me, I don’t want my marital issues to cloud my focus on Hurley’s situation. Plus there is a part of me that feels like I’m selling out by even considering giving David another chance.
I turn off the one lamp in the room that’s on but it makes it too dark and I’m afraid David might trip or stumble into something in this foreign environment if he can’t see. So I turn on the bathroom fixture and pull the door partway closed, allowing a small trapezoid of light into the living room. Satisfied, I turn my back on David both physically and metaphorically and head for my bed. I briefly debate whether or not to shut my bedroom door, but in the end I decide to leave it open so I can hear David if he does awaken. As soon as I’m under the covers, Hoover, who has followed me, lays his chin on the edge of the mattress, looking at me with those wistful brown eyes. Happy to snuggle up to any warm body along about now, I give him the okay and let him hop up on the bed with me. A few minutes later Rubbish comes out from beneath the bed and curls up on my other side.
Just as I’m about to drift off to sleep, I remember that I didn’t lock the door. Given everything that’s happened around here lately, it would be foolish of me not to. Annoyed with myself for forgetting, I toss the covers back and climb out of bed. Both Hoover and Rubbish awaken and watch me, but neither of them leaves the warm comfort of the bed to follow, apparently sensing that I’ll be back.
I tiptoe past the couch and David’s sleeping form, making a concerted effort not to look at him again since I’m convinced my hormones are inclined to flame like a Molotov cocktail and I can’t trust myself any longer. It only takes a second to flip the dead-bolt, but the act doesn’t imbue me with a sense of security because I remember
