Page 32 of Pretty Thing

The house is too quiet when we get back. Not peaceful and quiet like it used to be, but dull…dead. The kind of stillness that makes every sound feel too loud. The furnace kicking on, the refrigerator humming, even the old pipes rattling.

Felix helps me get my outdoor gear off. My entire body throbs from physio, and crying, and existing, and yet he looks…sexy, put together, calm. He lost his younger brother, he has a broken foot, and here I am needing his help.

Pathetic.

“You should sit down,” Felix suggests.

I immediately shake my head.

“I need a shower.”

His expression changes ever so slightly, but the look is gone in a blink.

“You sure?”

“I feel disgusting.”

My skin is coated in antiseptics, disinfectants, and stale grief. The crash has left me feeling grimy. I’ve watched movies and documentaries where something tragic happens, and the person says something along the lines of, “I scrubbed at my skin until it was raw, trying to erase the images from my mind.” I didn’t understand until now. When I look at my hands, I see blood. When I turn my head too quickly, I get a whiff of smoke. I close my eyes and I see the woman burning and my parents far too still bodies.

The images and sounds are just as vivid now, and even though reality tells me I can’t wash away the trauma, something in me wants to try.

Felix watches me carefully, making me fidget. It’s as if he is looking right through to my soul

“Okay, fine,” he says finally. “But I’m helping.”

Heat floods my face instantly.

“No.”

“Eden.”

“No way. I can shower by myself.”

“You almost fell getting off the physio table.”

“That was different.”

“How?” Felix crosses his arms as he cocks an eyebrow.

“I don’t know, it just was.”

The words stammer out in a rush. Just the thought of him being in the bathroom with me, let alone helping me, is mortifying. It might be cliché or old school or whatever, but I’m still a virgin, and the thought of him seeing me naked or even partially naked is…it’s just…unfathomable.

His jaw twitches as he stares me down, silently demanding that I come up with a better argument. It only unnerves me more because it’s like he already knows how this ends.

“Your ribs are cracked, and your broken arm is in a cast,” he says calmly. “Your balance is shit with your ankle. All it will take is one fall in there, and you can do even worse damage. A broken leg, torn ACL or MCL. Not to mention that a repeat hit to the head while healing from a concussion can lead to ICP or death. Do you want me to go on?”

“No. But thanks for the reminder that I’m useless.”

I look away and can’t even believe that I’m contemplating this.

Felix huffs out a sigh in obvious frustration.

“You know what I mean.”

I do, and that’s the problem.

“Felix, I can do it myself.”