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“Do you want to talk about it?”
He stared at where she grasped his hand, seeing the way her fingers squeezed, how her thumb traced his knuckles, but not feeling the sensation at all. He swallowed. “I don’t even know what to say.”
And so he said nothing and the minutes stretched on.
She lifted her hand to gesture to the waiting board game. “You weren’t actually thinking of playing tonight, were you?”
“No.” The confession slipped out before he could think better of it. He had been thinking that a game — that time with Audrey — would make him feel better. But his heart wasn’t in it.
Audrey sighed. “You know you don’t need a—” Her nails clicked against the table. “A pretense to talk to me about these kinds of things.” He stared at the spot where he’d left the letter next to the box. It had not been exactly a subtle aside. But how the hell else was he supposed to bring it up?
“I know,” he responded softly. He needed the pretense. He needed her to tell him he didn’t. He needed to reassure her he knew. But he still needed the pretense.
The feet of her chair whined against the floor as she stood. He focused on sliding the letter back into the envelope. He couldn’t get both corners in. A glass clunked down in front of him, sloshing with whiskey. “Have some of that and then we’ll get you upstairs.” Audrey plucked the envelope from him and easily replaced the letter inside. She took it with her, but he trusted she was keeping it safe.
He drank deep and didn’t care how it burned his throat. When the glass was empty, he refilled it and went trailing after her.
He didn’t have the presence of mind to speculate what she was up to, but even if he did, he likely would not have come up with this. Siegfried found Audrey in the bathroom, fussing with towels and soaps. She had his robe waiting already. The silence stretched on. She laid a towel down on the floor.
“Mrs. Hall?” She looked over at him, expectant. He was scared to ask, but it had been gnawing at him ever since he got the news. He was desperate to know her answer. Even though he knew she’d protest it, he held her as an authority on Christian matters. “Do you-” He swallowed. “Do you think Maurice will go to heaven?”
She stopped her fussing and met his eye. “Without a doubt.”
“But the Bible—”
“I know what it says.” Her tone was firm, but forgiving. “If someone’s already lived through that much pain, if God has any mercy at all, He wouldn’t let them suffer any longer.” She paused. “I am certain Maurice was a good man.”
“He was,” he agreed softly. Her answer was comforting and entirely like her. He needed her to be right and, fortunately for him, she always was. Maurice would be in heaven now. Maurice would be at peace.
He felt the tightening of tears again then Audrey stepped up next to him. “Shirt off,” she directed. He winged lifting his arms as he pulled the shirt over his head. With his current state of mind, he hadn’t even realized what she’d asked him to do until the garment was wadded in his hands. He was now shirtless. In front of Audrey. And he hadn’t even hesitated.
Any butterflies stirring in his stomach abruptly vanished at her frown. She hoisted his arm up to get a view of his left side. This was his first look at the extent of the bruising along his ribs, as well. It promised to be a nice purple tomorrow.
Audrey clicked her tongue in disapproval and rotated his elbow to study the scrape there. His skin was raw from the middle of his forearm down. She looked up at him, meeting his eye, her head still tilted. “Were you going to tell me about this either?” Her tone had a light scold to it. Siegfried didn’t answer.
She guided him over to the bathtub and sat him down on the edge. She fetched a first aid kit from the cupboard and started dressing it. He could do it himself — it was essentially the same as treating any wounded animal — but he let her do it without complaint. He didn’t want to be alone just yet.
“I’m sorry,” he breathed.
She dabbed at his wound with an ointment-soaked swab. It stung. Her face remained stoic, giving no indication she’d heard.
He continued, even though his throat felt constricted. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you.” His knee bounced. “I do need an interpreter.” He swallowed and met her eye. I do need you.
She grabbed his shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Thank you for the apology.” She smiled softly at him. “I know how hard it can get when you’re hurting. Next time, remember I just want to help, all right?”
He nodded, carving it into his heart, hoping he really would remember next time. She just wanted to help him. She always had. “I’ll try,” he said, not promised. He was already attempting to soften the sting of her disappointment in case he forgot.
She was his interpreter. She would tell him things he would not want to hear. She would bear the brunt of his emotions again and again. And, inexplicably, she would stay.
She gave his shoulder a pat before leaning in. She placed a kiss on his cheek. For the first time all night, he felt his heart beat. Like she’d brought him back to life.
“You take a nice long bath and then straight to bed, okay?” Her voice was as firm as a hug. He wanted to hug her.
“Okay,” he echoed, not reaching for her as she stepped away. He flexed his hand, searching for a pretense or another question to ask. There had to be something else he hadn’t apologized for yet. Some reason to make her stay.
But he was still shirtless, there was a bath waiting for him, and she had her own bed to crawl into. There was no way to ask her to stay. At least not how they were. And he was in no place to ask them to be anything more tonight.
“What is it?”
He snapped to attention. She stood in the doorway, ready to close it. One of her brows arched, prodding for an answer.
“Um— I—” Stay, he begged in his mind. Hold me. Make it go away. He cast his gaze around for an excuse and his eyes snagged on a bottle on the shelf. Her bath salts. He pointed at them. “Can I use those?”
She nodded, a smile curving her lips. “Of course. Good night, Siegfried.”
“Good night.”
She closed the door, leaving him alone. The bathroom felt colder, hollower. His skin pebbled with goosebumps.
He turned the faucet on. The gush of water was not quite loud enough to drown out his thoughts. Taking the bottle from the shelf, he hesitantly added some to the bath. Then some more.
The water went murky. He stirred with his hand, testing the temperature. He stripped off the rest of his clothes and stepped in. He slouched into the bathtub, dunked his head.
As he rose from the water, the soap stung his eyes, making them well with tears. He let them fall and it was exactly what he needed. Here he was, naked and beaten, in private, without a soul demanding anything from him. He could rest here. He could breathe deep. And so he did.
Between sobs, he took a gasping breath, inhaling the faint steam rising from the water. It smelled just like her.
It made it all hurt a little less.