Page 144 of Slapshot Baby

My jaw aches from clenching. I make myself unclench it.

I want to go back in that bedroom and make Ava explain why she decided that doing this alone was better than letting me sit beside her. Why she thought I'd be fine learning about it from a phone call that ended with silence.

Don’t think about it, I tell myself. Ava needs you now, and that’s all that matters.

So I fold a towel and set it on the edge of the tub.

She's sitting up when I come back. Her legs are over the side of the bed but her hands are flat on the mattress, holding herself steady. Biscuit walks out of the room, tail wagging.

"Bath's ready."

"I can walk."

She stands, makes it three steps before her knees fold. I catch her around the waist and her weight drops into me, her forehead pressing against my chest.

I walk her to the bathroom and gently undress her then guide her to the bathtub. She hisses when her feet touch the water. I hold her arm, letting her lower herself until the water is to her chest.

She gives me a tired, lopsided smile. Her head tips back against the porcelain, eyes half-shut.

I grab a washcloth from the shelf, soap it, and reach for her hand. She gives it without looking at me.

I wash her arm from wrist to shoulder slowly. The skin is soft under the cloth. I feel the fine bones of her wrist, the lean muscle of her forearm. Then I move over to the other arm. I wring the cloth and run it across the back of her neck where her hair is damp and clinging then wash her back in slow circles.

Her shoulders drop. A long breath leaves her. The tension she's been holding in her spine uncoils and she slides lower in the water.

My grip on the washcloth tightens. I force myself not to think of how she didn’t let me help her with that tension long before now.

When the water starts to cool, I help her out. Wrap the towel around her.

She stands with her hands braced on my forearms, dripping onto the bathmat.

"Thank you," she whispers.

I nod. “Have you eaten?’

I find clean shorts and one of my t-shirts in her drawer, and hand it over to her.

“Dress up while I get you something to eat.”

Today, her kitchen is well stocked with eggs, bread, and butter. There’s a container of fruit salad and another of leftover soup. I heat the soup and make toast, buttering it the way she likes, then take them with the fruit salad to the room.

She isn’t dressed. She’s just lying there on the bed, looking exhausted.

She sits up against the headboard and eats slowly from the tray, wincing between bites like her body is reminding her of something I can't see. Her hands wrap around the bowl, holding on to the warmth.

"This soup is good," she says.

"You made it."

She smirks. "I know. I'm complimenting my own cooking. Leave me alone."

I don't smile back.

I take the tray when she's done and set it on the dresser. When I come back, she shifts against the pillows and winces.

"My back is killing me. I was locked up on the hospital table for an hour and everything is letting go at once."

"Lie on your stomach. I’ll give you a massage."