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“I wasn’t.”
“Good.”
He takes off the rest of his clothes while I run the water. I test the temp, remembering the first time he stood beneath the shower and I pretended the bathroom fan was the most fascinating object in Missouri.
That feels like it happened months ago.
Locke steps into the tub and lowers himself into the water. His knees come up because there isn’t enough room for six feet of wicker man to stretch out, and the water rises almost to the damaged place when he settles back. The change begins immediately. Dry strands darken, the small leaves along his arms and throat lift, and his hands unclench at his sides. He exhales.
I sit on the closed toilet lid. “Better?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
I keep watching his chest until Locke follows my attention.
“Rachel.”
“What?”
“You’re doing it again.”
I frown. “Doing what?”
“Looking at the broken place and getting scared.”
“I’m not getting scared.” His eyebrows shift, and I sigh. “Fine. I’m already scared.”
“I thought so.”
I point at him. “You’ve been hanging around Blair too much.”
He smiles. I’m nowhere near ready to smile back.
The bathroom goes quiet except for the water moving when Locke shifts. He soaks one of the fresh willow switches until it bends easily between his fingers, then starts working on the broken place in his chest.
I crouch beside the tub. “Tell me what you’re doing before you start dismantling yourself.”
“I’m not dismantling myself.”
“Excellent start.”
He loosens two crushed strands and lays them on the edge of the tub. Nothing bleeds. Nothing leaks. My brain still hates every second of it.
Then he begins weaving the fresh willow into the damaged section. His hands move with the same easy certainty they had when he worked on the bear, except this time every strand belongs to him.
Bit by bit, the opening closes.
The ring is still visible between the strands.
“Should we try to take it out?”
Locke presses two fingers beside it. “No. It’s inside the part of me that beats.”
“Then nobody touches it.”
He nods and keeps working.
