Maverick doesn’t respond when I knock on his door and after three tries, I no longer wait for an answer and instead, push it slightly open.
He’s not in the room and I’m about to close the door when I hear the faint sound of water in his bathroom. I slip into his room and decide to wait on the sofa. More than just a few minutes pass and he still hasn’t emerged.
My fingers rap against the French wood of his door and I get no response.
“Maverick,” I call out.
Still nothing.
The door opens when I turn the handle and I can see him through the glass doors of his shower.
Besides the tattoo wrapping around him, his skin seems flawless through the fogged glass. His muscles bulge under the weight of him as he leans forward and braces against the wall, letting the water run down his body. The steam coming from the stall worries me so I knock on the glass, but he doesn’t budge.
I pull the door open. “Maverick?” I call softly, but he doesn’t respond, and fear grips me. I test the water coming out of the showerhead with my hand and it’s piping hot.
“Are you insane?” I panic, jumping in to turn the tap off, biting down to stop myself from yelping at the pain.
“You shouldn’t be in here,” he says, but there’s no anger in his voice, just sadness and pain.
“Neither should you,” I respond, stepping out to grab a towel; handing it to him. He wraps it around himself and thankfully steps out of the shower, his skin red from the heat.
I scan the mess on the floor of his bedroom to see if there is anything on his nightstand good for burns, but come up empty.
Next, I rummage around his drawer and find a small jar of Vaseline in time to see him come out into the room and pull his pants on.
“Sit,” I say gently, acknowledging that I have no experience with a harmless Maverick.
He sits without much fuss and I climb onto the bed behind him, armed with the Vaseline.
Did he not feel this? I wonder as I add a thin layer to the slightly burnt parts of his back. He has a game tomorrow. This could throw a wrench into everything and it would technically count as being my fault. I had to be nosey and poke around his private property.
My hands smooth over his firm back. His tattoo is bigger than I realized and far more intricate. The scaly dragon’s tail wraps around him almost twice, crowding a castle sitting to the lower left side of his chest, close to his heart.
When my hands reach his side, he stops me, placing his hand over mine.
“Does it hurt?” I ask, checking to see if he had any serious looking burns on his side, but he shakes his head.
His fingers are shaking slightly so I keep still, waiting for him to decide what to do next. He breathes a heavy sigh and releases my hand. I continue up towards his shoulder, moving around to do his chest.
I still don’t understand how he could just stand there and do this to himself. Could the pain inside of him be so damn powerful that everything that happens on the outside pales in comparison? My heart hurts thinking that that might very well be the case.
The muscles in his chest ripple as I massage him, and he closes his eyes and grits his teeth. I don’t know if I should stop or continue. If creating the burns didn’t hurt, why should this?
His breathing is shallow and the lower my hands wander the more rugged his breathing becomes.
The tattoo is more detailed at the front. The knights on his rib cages are standing guard at the castle. It’s a strange choice of art, but I digress. The more I look at the castle, the more the details become more apparent. There’s a date scribbled in and a female stuck inside the tower covering his heart.
Something wet falls onto my hand and I look up at him to see tears falling out of his closed eyes.
“Am I hurting you?” I ask softly and he shakes his head. “Should I stop?” His shoulders sag as he shakes his head.
When my hand goes lower, I have to use all my restraint not to flinch. I can feel the scars hidden beneath the artwork and my fingers start to tremble as I choke back tears. I would have never guessed. His skin is far from flawless.
He reaches down and takes my hand in his, bringing it to his lips briefly.
I blush at the abnormal gesture before taking my hand back and covering the Vaseline jar.
“You should get some rest. You have a game tomorrow,” I say, turning to leave, but he hangs onto my wrists.
“Stay,” he says and for a second I forget where I am, who I am and who he is.
“What?” I ask, trying not to sound too affected by his simple demand.
He’s asking me to stay? In his bedroom? With him?
I shuffle over to the sofa and sit with my hands in my lap.
“Can you tell me about her?” he blushes, and I don’t think I’ve ever realized until now, just how beautiful he really is.
28
Somewhere in the middle of the night, I had found myself awake and aware of her presence in my room. Her breathing was light, and she barely took up much space on the sofa, but from the warm comfort of the master bed, I could tell that she was here, and I also knew she had to be cold.
I dragged my feet and a blanket off the bed and walked over to her quietly. Her back was turned to me and her legs were drawn up in a fetal position.
I intended to cover her but when I reached down, she turned to face me and in the soft glow from the only lamp in the room I had managed to not destroy, I could see the softness in her face.
Leaning down, I picked her up effortlessly and she turned her face into my neck, her limp arm draped over my shoulder as I carried her to the other side of the bed and tucked her in before climbing in beside her and drifting back to sleep.
At around midday, my eyes flutter open and my body immediately comes alive. I’m pinned to the bed by her tiny frame, her arm across my chest and her head resting against my shoulder.
There is nothing remotely sexy about her pajamas, yet somehow, just having her body so close to mine, knowing that from the feel of her hardened nipples against my bare chest, she isn’t wearing a bra, turns me on.
It’s game day and I need to prepare my mind and body for the day ahead.
Especially my mind.
After last night’s revelation and story-time, I feel wildly disoriented. There’s a part of me that feels like Beth has inserted a large chunk of a puzzle that has been missing for years but there are still holes and dents inside me that I doubt even her superior memory can fill.
Still, I’m grateful for what she shared and now, as I try my hardest not to smile while looking down at her fluttering eyelashes, I don’t know where we stand.
I try to move quietly off the bed, but her arm tightens around me and I chuckle at her reflexes. I don’t know whether or not conscious Beth would ever reach for me…or why I want her to.
Last night was a whirlwind of emotions and unexpected revelations and I don’t imagine for a second that I can hold her to the same level of kindness that the shock of our connection brought on in her. My chest isn’t at all bruised from the heat whipping I gave myself in the shower and I only have her to thank for that.
I don’t know if I will ever understand her.
How is she still here after watching me unravel like that? I know how pathetic I must have looked. Every bit the wuss my father always said I was.
After how shittily I’ve treated her all throughout our time at school, I’ve now given her enough ammo to ruin me for years. So how can she possibly be so gentle and kind to me?