“Really. I’ve been a grown man who takes pride in washing his own shit for over ten years now, but my clothes have never smelled as good or felt as soft as they have since you’ve worked your magic.”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s called fabric softener, Luca.”
“I don’t have fabric softener.”
“Yeah, you do. I found it in the back of one of your laundry cupboards. It’s probably old enough to burn holes through your shirts, but obviously it’s doing the trick.”
“Obviously.” I mimic her eye roll. “Number three—exercise.”
She sucks in a subtle breath and I pause, waiting for the stereotypical female retaliation.
It’s clear she doesn’t need to lose weight. Her body is on point. What she requires is the shift in brain function.
“Right.” Instead of a protest, she nods and breaks eye contact to focus on the tiled floor.
“Don’t get huffy on me,” I warn. “I’d never comment on your body in a negative way. Not only because it’s fucking rude, but because you’re stunning. With or without the small village supply of material covering you at any given time.”
I wait for a smile that doesn’t appear and mentally berate myself for not prefacing my suggestion. “Exercise lowers cortisol, which is a stress hormone, while helping to increase endorphins. In your case, working out is about mood and mental health—not anything to do with appearance.”
“I get it.” She nods. “You don’t have to explain.”
“Yeah, I do. I can already see you creeping back into that shell of yours and it’s pissing me off.”
Making her feel like shit has a reciprocal effect. The only bonus is my resulting limp dick.
“Sorry,” she mutters. Murmurs.
Fuck.
I hold in the need to growl in frustration. “Number four—read a self-help book. Number five—meditate. Number six—go for a walk. Number seven—get plastered.”
She doesn’t respond, just keeps her attention on the floor.
“Penny?” We’ve come so far this morning. From no words to heavy conversation and even physical contact. I’d thought I was receiving the jackpot of recovery. Turns out it was only a slight detour. “You still don’t like the idea of a list, do you?”
“No, it’s not that.” She pushes from the counter. “Your ideas are great. I actually like them.”
“But?”
“No buts.” She gives me a placating smile. “You make it sound too easy, that’s all.”
“I’ve got no misconceptions about how hard this is going to be. Despite whatever warped perceptions you think I have, I know you’re trudging through hell at the moment.” I push to stand, the notepad hanging idle in my grip. “This list is only an attempt to get you to live a little.”
“I’m living, Luca.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. And the sooner you realize, the easier this will be. You deserve more than this limbo. And I’m here to help. I’m not going anywhere. You’re not going anywhere. We’re stuck together for now. So share the load, because it’s sure as shit harder for me to watch you struggle from the sidelines than it will be at your side.”
Her eyes turn somber, the wrinkle stretching across her forehead burrowing deep.
“I’m only asking you to try. I have no other expectations.” I hold out the notepad for her to take. “But, come on, Pen. Aren’t you at least a little excited to try and get out of your funk?”
“It’s not a fun—”
“You know what I mean.” I don’t want to give her struggle a toxic label, whether it’s depression or PTSD. All that shit has negative connotations. “Aren’t you the slightest bit interested in doing something different?”
She grabs the notepad and raises her other hand, cinching her thumb and pointer finger so they’re a breath apart. “A little.”
Good.
Fucking fantastic.
A little is all I need. For now. “What do you say if we keep the momentum going and cross an afternoon session of movie watching off the list?”
Her smile is subtle, the slightest curve of tempting lips as she lets out an exaggerated sigh. “What did you have in mind?”
5
Luca
We ticked the movie off the list without a hitch.
I don’t care if she fell asleep before the dramatic climax to have a two-hour power nap. If anything, I count it as a victory that she felt comfortable enough to sleep in the same room. Her rest was peaceful, too.
No nightmares.
No murmured cries for help.
The next day we moved on to the laundry. And props to her for giving it her all as she talked down to me, slow and demeaning, with her instructions on how to unscrew the lid to the fabric softener and pour the contents into the allocated tube of the washing machine.
Day by day, hour by hour, she starts to open up. Gradually. The lessening of her fear is incremental. But it’s there. That’s all that matters.
“So, what do you have in store for me today, GI Joe?” She enters the doorway to my weights room, hands on hips, the baggy sleeves of her sweater scrunched at her elbows.
She’s lighter today. Brighter. Her eyes have a healthy glow.
And even though her nightmares haven’t disappeared, at least our new routine of a daily movie session has ensured she’s getting a nap during the daylight hours. The time she now spends reading might be doing the trick to distract some of her negative thoughts, too.
“I want you to go for a basic run.” I keep pushing out my muscle-up reps, dragging myself over the bar again and again.
“Basic run?” She steps into the room, moving toward the treadmill with trepidation. “Define basic.”
“I want you to run a mile.” I drop to the floor and shake out the burn in my arms. “Without stopping.”
“That doesn’t seem so bad. A mile isn’t far.”
“It is if you’re not used to running. Hell, even a couple hundred yards can be difficult on the body if you haven’t exercised in a while.”
She climbs onto the machine and attaches the safety clip to her sweater as I approach the side of the conveyor.
She presses buttons, placing the starting pace high. Far too high for a beginner.
“You might want to dial it back a notch. You can work up to a fast pace over time. Today is about getting through the mile however possible. I don’t care if you have to granny shuffle over the finish line.”
“Granny shuffle? Where’s all that faith you’re supposed to have in me?”
“I’ve got faith. I just don’t want you falling on that pretty face right out of the gate.”
She huffs. “Fine. I’ll start with a light jog.” She presses buttons again, turning on the machine, the conveyor slowly sliding into gear. “Do you have any music?”
“Yeah.” I return to the chin-up bar and grab my cell from the floor. “What’s your preference?”
“I don’t mind.” She undoes her ponytail, her stride flawless as she refastens it higher and tighter. “Whatever you usually listen to will be fine.”