by Sarah Smith
“You need help whether you admit it or not,” he says.
He wheels me to the elevator, then to the entrance, where I wait while he fetches his car. He tries to take my folder of papers and purse from me, but I clutch them to my chest.
“I’ve got it.”
The drive to my duplex is mostly silent. He peppers me with questions about the temperature of the car and if I want the windows down. When he parks in my driveway, I try to wave him off, but he insists on helping me out and seeing me inside. His kindness is so damn sweet, but all I want is to be alone in my groggy, sore state.
“I don’t want you to fall or trip,” he says as I unlock the front door. He follows me in before I can shut it.
“I’m fine. Really. I just need to get cleaned up, and then I’ll go to sleep,” I say.
Stuffy hot air hits me in the face. I switch on the AC.
“You like it warm, then?” Tate trails behind me.
“We never had AC in Hawaii. When we moved to the mainland, my parents always turned it off when we weren’t home to save money. Old habits die hard.”
He nods before peering around. If I weren’t mortified by my super-personal confessions to him over the past couple days, I’d have the decency to feel ashamed of the state of my home. The decor of my duplex is college-grad minimalist. Hand-me-downs make up the bulk of my furniture. Tea mugs and books are strewn everywhere. My laundry basket sits in the middle of my living room, overflowing with clean clothes I neglected to fold days ago.
“Nice place,” he says.
“Thanks.” I drop my purse and papers on the couch. “The thrift-store coffee table and bookshelf really tie the room together.”
He chuckles. I turn around and see his face just as it transitions back to blank.
“Well, thanks again. For everything,” I say impatiently. A film of dried sweat pulls on my skin when I move. I ache to scrub it away under a stream of scalding hot water.
He doesn’t budge. “You sure you don’t need anything else?”
“Nope. I’ve got it from here.” I can’t remember ever having such a difficult time getting someone to leave my place.
I step around him to the front door and open it. He turns around to face me and shuffles. I notice he does the same thing with his feet when he’s sitting.
“You’re absolutely sure? I can stay and help out. It’s no problem.”
“Do you honestly think I need you to help me take a shower?”
He shakes his head, flustered. “No, no, that’s not what I meant. I didn’t know you were going to take a shower.”
“What do you think ‘clean up’ means?” I rub my forehead, sounding more curt than I mean to.
He sticks a hand in his hair, pulls hard, then yanks it out. “Right, yeah, sorry.”
“It’s fine. I’m just crazy sore and tired. Thank you for your help these past few days, but I’ll be okay on my own. I just need to rest.” I cross my arms, then uncross them, then cross them again.
“I get it. I’ll take off.” He exhales and walks quickly out the door. I lock it before he even makes it off my porch.
A wave of exhaustion hits, as do the words printed on the info packet. No showering allowed for forty-eight hours. I stumble to the bathroom and give my body a half-hearted wipe down with a wet hand towel, then collapse on my couch.
I think about how Tate left, embarrassed and very clearly wanting to stay longer. I grimace at how short I was with him, how I practically pushed him out my front door. I should have been nicer. What would have happened if I had shoved aside my embarrassment and insecurity, and let him stay? It’s my last thought before I drift off.
Sleep is delirious and deep. A faint thud jerks me into a confused and groggy stupor, but I can’t be bothered to open my eyes. Probably the mailman dropping off a package. When I finally wake, it’s early evening, meaning I slept for a few hours.
Gripping the coffee table to pull myself up, I yelp in pain. Surgery has rendered my core ineffective. Evidently, my torso is made of Jell-O and Silly Putty. When I’m finally standing, I walk to the kitchen for a glass of water. I trot back into the living room, but then I remember the mail. I open the front door and see a small crate of mangoes sitting on the porch. Holy shit.
There’s a note card on top of the dozen or so greenish-orange fruits. There’s no name signed on it, but I know they’re from Tate. It’s his distinct all-caps handwriting. I crouch down slowly to pick it up:
These aren’t from the Big Island, but they’ll have to do.
I’m not risking destroying my abdomen muscles to pick up the crate, so I cradle a few in my arms and bring them to the kitchen. It takes three trips, but I manage. By the time I’m finished, mangoes litter the counter. I stare at them in disbelief, then arrange them into a “T” shape. It seems appropriate given who they’re from.
Pressing each with my fingertips, I find the ripest one. I peel and slice it, then devour the sweet, juicy chunks. I’m wide eyed, dumbfounded, and ravenous. I’m chomping on the final piece when I realize I’m smiling.
The next morning, I’m buzzing with a fructose high. The gift of mangoes was a shock. Maybe Tate’s kindness wasn’t short lived. Maybe this is a turning point. Maybe the care and attentiveness he showed me when I was sick is who he truly is. Or maybe the mangoes were a final thoughtful gesture before returning back to our status quo of arguments and loaded silence.
I spend the better part of the day wondering about it. Nothing I do eases my anxiety. I lie on the couch, YouTube my favorite Eat Bulaga! episodes, browse Etsy for antique jewelry I can’t afford, then take a slow walk around the neighborhood for a couple of blocks. Tate hovers at the back of my mind the entire time.
By the time evening rolls around, I’m lying on the couch again. The recovery packet says to rest and ease back into walking long distances. I’m a terrible patient. Luckily, today is Labor Day and our workplace is closed, but I need more time to recover. I call both Will’s and Lynn’s office extensions to leave messages about my unexpected surgery and how I’ll need the rest of the week off and part of next week to recover. And to think more about Tate.
I’m still at a loss as to what to do, torn between apologizing profusely and thanking him, or ignoring him and going back to normal. I’d also like to hug him. Maybe share a mango with him. I’m clearly on the brink of insanity.
I’m making my way through the mangoes like a starving monkey. Six are left, and the stem of the “T” is gone. They’re all I’ve been eating. Every time I eat one, I think of Tate. With each peel, slice, and bite, my brain floods with memories of his gentle, caring demeanor. How he cradled my body when we fell asleep together, the way he stayed by my side even when I told him to leave. The sense of comfort I felt around him that I’ve never felt with any guy before. All of it leaves me breathless and wanting. Every time I think of his lips against my skin, there’s a tremor inside me.
I’m washing my hands of mango juice when I realize I can no longer deny it: I have feelings for Tate.
The realization tumbles around my head, giving way to other blush-inducing thoughts. I’d trade all the mangoes in the world to crawl under bedsheets with him again, this time sans clothing. I think I’ve felt this way since the moment I left his car the night we first kissed. I was just too stubborn and flustered to admit it.
Once my hands are dry, I grab my phone to text him. I start, stop, erase, and edit a half dozen messages. They’re all wordy variations of “I’m sorry” and “thank you.” I suppose I could have just written that, but it sounds robotic. Even if this weekend was a one-off in his behavior, I want to be sincere in my gratitude. I finally settle on:
Hey. Sorry it took me so long to get in touch with you . . . it’s been a rough couple days . . . thank you for the mangoes. And thank you for taking care of me.
Not terrible, but not great. I’m brushing my teeth when
my phone buzzes with a response from him:
You’re welcome. I hope you feel better.
Relief hits me, followed by disappointment. It’s an appropriate reply. Something’s missing, though. I can’t tell if it’s because we’re communicating via text and the nuance of emotion is impossible to convey, or if it’s because he’s back to his rigid, stern self. It’s hard enough admitting this in the privacy of my mind, but I wanted a more personal response from him. I wanted him to say what a pleasure it was to hold my body, how honored he was to play nurse to me for the weekend, that he was sleepless until he heard from me.
I rinse and spit in the sink, annoyed with my irrational desire. I thanked him, and he acknowledged me. I lay in bed tossing and turning, confused as to why I expected anything more.
The glow of my phone screen cuts through the darkness of my bedroom, interrupting my thoughts. I turned it to silent but forgot to set it facedown on my nightstand like I normally do. When I check it, I have to bite my lip to keep from splitting my face in half with a grin. At 11:47 p.m., Tate’s text to me has sent all my doubts flying out the window.
Tate: No reply? Aww, Emmie. I was hoping I’d get a smiley face, or a “good night.” You’re killing me :P
God in heaven, that colon with a “P” is my new favorite emoji.
Me: Sorry. Recovery and all that has my brain in an odd mode.
Me: :D:D:D
Me: Is that any better?
Tate: It will suffice. I can rest easy knowing you have the energy to be a smart-ass to me via text ;)
Holy shit, a winking face. My heart thunders through my chest. Before I can reply with another silly emoji, he replies.
Tate: Is it okay if I check on you every day? I know you don’t want to be smothered, but I’d like to be there for you. If you want me. I’ve been thinking about you.
Tate: Maybe I can come over too?
My heart has ceased thundering. Currently, it’s at the base of my throat along with my stomach, my lungs, my liver, and probably both of my kidneys. My entire body is in a giant knot at his sweetness on full, unquestionable display. I worried for nothing. He cares. I’ve been on his mind, and he wants to be close to me, just like I want to be close to him.
Yes, please.
thirteen
You sure you’re okay?”
It’s the millionth time Kaitlin has asked me that in this ten-minute phone call. No matter how many times I say it, she doesn’t believe me.
“Because I can dart over there no problem. Ethan is home from work. I could stay with you tonight and fetch things for you, make sure you don’t fall.”
I lean on the kitchen counter, checking the clock on the wall. I need to get off the phone ASAP. “I’m fine. It’s been three days since the surgery, and I’ve somehow survived. You’ve done enough. I have a full refrigerator thanks to your grocery run this morning.”
“Do you need help in the bath?”
I swallow back a laugh. “I should be able to bathe myself at this point. Thank you, though. Why don’t you spend the rest of the night relaxing with Ethan and Libby? I’ll text you if I need anything else.”
I thank her once more, and we hang up. Three days postsurgery, I’m still sore, but improving. I can stand, sit, and lie down without groaning in pain. I can chuckle during Eat Bulaga! without my stomach hurting too much, and I can walk for a half hour around the neighborhood before getting tired. The only thing left on my list is to shower. Finally. And it’s for the best possible reason: Tate is coming over soon to check on me.
I’d like to be fresh and clean for his arrival. Our late-night text session led to an all-day exchange today while he was at work. And it wasn’t just checking-in texts asking how I felt, but full-on conversations complete with jokes, emojis, and one video of a bunny and kitten falling asleep together in an Easter basket. I squealed out loud when he sent me that one.
I make my way to the shower, letting the wonderful weirdness of the past few days wash over me. My once work enemy is the guy causing all these butterflies in my stomach. And I want these butterflies swarming through me every single day.
Steam from the hot water transforms my tiny bathroom into a sauna. As soothing as the wet, warm air feels, a flash of panic hits. The bottom of my white porcelain tub glistens like it’s iced over. Kaitlin was right. What if I slip and fall?
A knock at the front door saves me from finding out. Carefully, I pull my tank top and shorts back on before opening the door to greet Tate.
“Hey.” He shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans.
Butterflies and warmth hit me square in the gut at the sight of him. “Thanks for coming over.” I take a step back, hoping he can’t smell my stench.
“Is there water running?” His eyes dart over my shoulder.
“I was about to take a shower.”
He frowns. “You sure that’s a good idea?”
I cross my arms. “The pamphlet the nurse gave me advises to wait two days after surgery before bathing, so I’m in the clear. Hang on.”
I leave him standing in the doorway and go to turn off the tub faucet. The water level is halfway up the tub, perfect for a shallow bath. When I return to the living room, Tate hovers by the couch, frown still on full display.
“You could slip. And what about your stitches? Getting hot water all over them can’t be good.”
I yank up my tank top and point to my lower abdomen. “I had a laparoscopic procedure. There are three tiny incisions. One in my belly button, one near my right hip, and one . . .” I trail off before I can reveal the location of my third incision, which is right above my pubic bone.
Tate’s cheeks take on a crimson hue. By the way he clears his throat, I think he has a good idea where that third incision is.
I straighten my shirt to its rightful place. “Besides, Dr. Tran used tissue adhesive to seal me up. It’s like clear, super strong glue that protects my incisions. It’s perfectly safe to bathe at this point, as long as I don’t directly scrub at the incisions.”
Tate’s eyes fall to my midsection. “Oh.”
This is new. We’re bickering, but not because we’re mad or frustrated with each other. Because Tate cares about me. Emotion hits the center of my chest. He’s living out the text he sent last night, the one I read over and over until I fell asleep, phone in hand.
“Do you want to help me?” I ask, my voice soft.
He nods, then stops himself. “I won’t try anything, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
I don’t doubt his words or the tender expression on his face, the way his eyes plead when they look at me.
“You said that when we slept in the hospital bed too.” His gentle tone conveys the same care and sweetness from that day. It makes me wish I were one hundred percent recovered so I could jump him.
“Whatever you need to make this more comfortable, tell me. I just want you safe.”
Safe. Never before has that word make me tingle.
As much as I want him here with me, I don’t want him to see me in my birthday suit. “You can’t see me naked.”
“Of course not. That’s not why I— I wasn’t even thinking . . .” His red face pulls into a grimace, something in the realm of shocked and nervous.
I wink at him. “Here.” I hand him the hot-pink sleeping mask I’ve been wearing while napping on the couch. “Wear this. Sit on the toilet lid. I’m going to pull the shower curtain so it closes off the back half of the tub, so you can’t see anything. If you hear me scream, cry, or shout for help, take off the mask and help me. Otherwise, if all you hear are normal splashing noises, just sit there until I say I’m done. Sound good?”
His toned chest heaves with a single breath. And then there’s a small smile. “Got it.”
He waits in the living room while I undress in the bathroom, only a rickety wooden door separ
ating us. The hot water laps at my lower half when I settle in. I moan. It’s heaven on my roughed-up body. The water level barely hits my hips, which is perfect because according to the pamphlet I’m not supposed to let the incisions sit in stagnant water for long periods of time. After another few seconds, I pull the shower curtain forward until it covers half the tub and prop up on my knees. Using my hands as cups, I splash the water across my stomach.
“You can come in now.”
The bathroom door squeaks open. Tate’s soft footsteps make my heart pound. There’s a loud thud, then an “oof” sound from Tate.
I stick my head around the curtain. He stumbles backward from the sink, rendered blind by my hot-pink eye mask.
“What are you doing?”
He bumps ass-first into the towel rack and groans. “Crap.”
I swallow back a laugh. “I meant for you to put it on after you came in.”
He faces me. “Oh. I guess that makes more sense.”
“Here, just take the mask off and sit down. I’m already in the back of the tub behind the curtain. You can’t see me anyway.”
Through the white of the curtain, I observe his shadowy silhouette sit down.
“Mask is on,” he says.
We’re maybe four inches apart, sitting side by side, only an opaque sheet of plastic separating my naked body from Tate’s clothed one. A deep breath centers me, and I let out a soft moan. Tate clears his throat.
I splash some more until my entire body is soaked, then lather soap into my hands. Soon I’m covered in pineapple-scented body wash. I breathe in, eyes closed, and for a minute I’m back on the beach. My wet skin pebbles, and I open my eyes. No. This is even better. I’m bathing next to my coworker. My coworker who I used to loathe. My coworker who I most definitely don’t loathe anymore. Nerves are certainly present, but so is anticipation and joy. A strange, yet wonderful cocktail of emotions.
“Doing okay?” he says.
“Yep.” I slide back on my bottom and lie down in the tub so I can wet my hair. Slowly, I prop myself back up into a kneeling position and lather shampoo through it. “I feel so naughty.”