Page 164 of The Professor's Wife

She dried each finger carefully and rubbed cream into her knuckles. Her movements were controlled, but I knew her well enough to see the strain beneath them. Her shoulders were too high. Her mouth had been pressed into the same tight line for twenty minutes.

She moved to the bed and opened a book.

She didn’t turn the page.

Ten minutes later, she closed it.

Then she stood, checked the door, returned to the bed, and started rearranging the books beside her. Largest to smallest. Then smallest to largest. Then back again.

“Daze.”

She didn’t look at me. “What?”

“You all right?”

“Fine.”

I stared at the side of her face.

She knew I didn’t believe her.

I knew she knew.

The rain kept coming.

I wanted to cross the van and put my hands on her. I wanted to drag her against my chest until whatever held her body so tightly finally let go. I wanted her in my lap, her face buried against my neck, my hands under her shirt where I could feel the warmth of her skin and prove she was still here.

I wantedinsideher.

The need came so hard sometimes it felt violent, but it wasn’t fucking I needed from her then. It was proof. I wanted to be the thing her body reached for instead of the sink, the locked door, the spotless counter, the books she kept rearranging because they were safer to control than whatever was happening inside her head.

I wanted to crawl into her and stay there until she understood she didn’t have to carry everything alone.

That wasn’t possible.

So I stayed where I was and watched her wipe an already clean counter for the third time.

Eventually, darkness came.

The storm didn’t move on. Wind pushed at the van, making the suspension groan. Daisy changed into one of my shirts, washed her face, brushed her teeth, and cleaned the sink after herself.

She placed a fresh glass of water beside the bed. The other five remained where she had left them.

I didn’t touch any.

She climbed beneath the blanket and turned her back to me. I switched off the lamp and lay down beside her, leaving enough space that she wouldn’t feel trapped.

For a long time, she didn’t move.

Neither did I.

I listened to the rain and her breathing. I could tell she was awake. She breathed differently when she slept. Deeper. Less deliberate.

Almost an hour passed before she turned over.

I felt her looking at me in the dark.

“What?” I asked quietly.