Better With You (Better Love 2)

23

It’s pitch black in the bedroom when I’m jostled awake. The clock on the bedside table says it’s just after four, just two short hours since we went to bed, and the pillow beside me is cold. I know I fell asleep with his arms around me, but judging from the temperature of the sheets, he’s been gone for a while.

I crawl out from beneath the covers, but instead of trying to find my clothes, I move to the dresser and dig through the drawers until I find some sweats and a t-shirt to pull on. It’s quiet in the condo when I step foot in the hall. I check the home gym and the theatre room, but both are empty.

Unease unfurls in my belly as I make my way down the cold, marble staircase. The other bedrooms are quiet, Odette and Antony’s door is closed, and aside from the small glow of lights from the wall outlets, the kitchen and living room are dark and empty as well.

I stand in the middle of the large lower level, holding my breath, but hear nothing.

Slowly, I make my way back up the staircase to get my phone, but when I reach the landing, something out on the terrace catches my eye.

Snow.

It’s snowing again.

And despite everything that’s happened over the last week, I have to admit that it’s beautiful. I walk toward the floor-to-ceiling windows to marvel a moment, to soak up as much of it as I can, and then I see him.

Riggs, in shorts and a t-shirt, his head in his hands and a bottle of whiskey at his feet. He’s sitting hunched over on the lounger, and I rush to him.

“Riggs,” I call when I step outside, hissing a bit as my feet hit the freezing stone floor. He doesn’t even have the heat lights on. “Riggs, you’re going to freeze.”

I put my hands on his shoulders and crouch to eye level.

“Riggs, please come inside.”

“No,” he grumbles into his hands. “No.”

“Please. Let’s go inside. Please.” He’s silent, unmoving, so I plead again. “Riggs.”

“No,” he says louder, shoving my hands off his shoulders. When he looks at me, his face is haunted. Broken. Nothing but sorrow and sadness and loss. “No,” he says again, and starts to cry. “You don’t call me Riggs. You call me Alex. She called me Alex,” he sobs. “I don’t want to be Riggs anymore.”

My heart breaks.

“Oh, baby,” I whisper. My cheeks sting from the tears meeting the frigid air. “C’mon, Alex. Come inside with me. Come lie down with me. Please.”

He moves then, but sways on his feet when he stands, and I have to wrap both my arms around his torso and inch our way into the condo. He’s shivering, teeth chattering and lips blue, when I set him on the bed.

“I’m going to get us in the shower to warm up, okay?”

He nods but stays silent. Tears are still falling down his face, a steady stream wetting his cheeks and lips. Staining his t-shirt.

I hurry into his en-suite bathroom and start the shower, making sure to keep it on the cool side of warm at first. I’ll turn it hotter once his cold body adjusts. When the temperature is how I want it, I pull some fluffy towels and a washcloth out of the linen closet, then head back into the bedroom.

“Okay, I need you to stand up with me,” I say as I take his hand. “Help me out.”

He grumbles and then stands, swaying a bit, but steadier than before. With my arm wrapped around his middle, I walk him into the bathroom, then sit him on the edge of the separate, jetted tub.

“I’m going to take your clothes off, okay?” I say to him, and he nods, putting his arms up like a small child. Gently, I grab the hem of his shirt and tug it over his head, then I go for his shorts. “Can you stand?”

He does, and carefully, I slide them over his backside and down his thighs. When he’s naked, I strip my clothes off quickly, then guide him into the large shower. As soon as the water hits his skin, he hisses.

“Is it too warm?” I ask, reaching for the knob.

“No,” he rasps, and takes my hand and brings it to his chest, holding it close and tight, like a lifeline. “It’s good.”

His eyes stay closed, his tears mixing in with the stream of the shower, and I press a soft kiss just above his heart. “Can I wash you?” I ask softly, and he nods.

I put bodywash on a washcloth, then gently soap him up. His torso, his arms, his powerful thighs. I hope that my touch is washing away the hurt, just a little, and reminding him that he is loved. I am here, and he’s not alone.

You’re not sinking, I tell him with my touch. You’re still afloat. And that’s something. That’s everything.

When I’m finished, I grab the shampoo.

“Want to sit?” I ask, and he slowly maneuvers himself to the floor just out of the stream of the shower head.

He starts shivering again, so I turn up the heat of the water before kneeling in front of him, straddling one of his thighs. With his eyes on me, I put some shampoo in my palm, then work it into his hair. I lather the long strands, taking care to massage his scalp with my fingertips. He groans and his eyes flutter shut as he drops his head back.

I study his face as I wash his hair. His full, downturned lips, cracked from the cold and dehydration. The thick, dark scruff, unkempt and messy, covering his strong jaw. His smooth skin and sharp cheekbones, usually sun-kissed, but now eerily pallid. His eyelashes, thick and long, shadowing the circles under his eyes from a week of restless sleep.

Even in pain, in the darkest, most difficult moment in his life, he’s still a beautiful sight to see. I take my thumbs and brush them over his cheekbones, then run them over the edges of his jaw. His eyes squeeze tighter, and he releases a quiet, almost imperceptible whimper. Barely discernable over the sound of the running water.

“I don’t know how to handle this,” he whispers. “Everything is so dark. I’ll never find my way out.”

I blink away my own tears and place a soft kiss to his lips.