“Oh, what else?”
“I’ll…wash your hair? Slowly?”
“And what else?” he growls, lowering his voice. I can tell he is putting on his best effort not to get down in the dumps. He has the darkest circles under his eyes and the light that usually radiates from him is gone.
I’m going to bring it back.
I’m going to ignite his one-of-a-kind soul back to life.
“I’m going to give you a nice massage and then I’m going to leave you alone so you have the sweetest dreams.” I tease him as we enter the door and the guys are there to great him, but they don’t say anything, just a quick pat on the back as I drag him to our room.
His room.
No, our room.
Because I’m not going anywhere.
“You’re really going to leave me alone?” he pouts as we enter the room and closes the door.
I shrug off my shirt, then my pants and walk backward to the bathroom. “No, silly, but I am going to take care of you. Come on.” I reach into the shower and turn it on, letting the spray get nice and hot.
I’m leaning against the wall when he enters the bathroom, naked, and the slight easy-going demeanor is gone. I can see the stress lines on his face, right around his eyes and his mouth. His hair is greasy, and I can tell he is about to fall flat on his face. Opening the shower stall, I make sure to stay silent because sometimes, that’s all a person needs.
They don’t need to talk.
They don’t need advice.
They just need someone in their corner, their space, offering comfort.
He groans when the water hits his back, and he doesn’t even stand. He sits down on the bench only after a few minutes, letting the water soak his head as he leans forward, placing his elbows on his knees.
Defeat.
I see a strong man churning with the sea of stronger emotion, which is one of the things I love most abo
ut him. I step inside the shower next and grab the shampoo, squeezing a good size amount in my palm before lathering and slipping my fingers around his head. I massage his scalp, then squeeze the strands as the shampoo foams. He moans, tilting his head back as he enjoys being taken care of.
I don’t know about anyone else, but I can always tell the difference between water droplets and tears.
And Asher is shedding a few.
“They are gone,” he says in a small voice, and his shoulders hitch as he tries to not mourn for his parents death. Owen was right, Asher isn’t like the others, but his empathy is what makes him such a damn good human being and why everyone here needs him to stay the way he is.
He makes everyone feel better after so many rounds of defeat, but who is there to make Asher feel better? What about his heart and mind? Who is there to soothe it after an impossible day?
There was no one before, but there is me now.
I don’t say anything because nothing I can say will make him magically heal.
“I know they were bad people. I hated them. I despised them. Prison was better than living with those heartless asshole,” he vents, his lashes sticking together from the water.
I continue to clean his hair, taking my time to relax him like he deserves.
“But they were still my parents. At the end of the day, it was the woman who used to make me hot chocolate when I was a kid after I had a bad dream. It was the man that taught me how to fish when turned eight. I don’t know what happened after I grew up. I will never understand what happened to them, but I’m still allowed to hurt, right?” he opens his eyes, seeking validation from me. “You don’t need to answer that. Of course I can’t hurt, look what he did to you?”
Pushing he head back, I run my fingers through his hair to get the shampoo out and the white soap slides off and falls to the shower floor, right into the drain. “Asher, you are allowed to feel whatever you want to feel.” I frame his jaws with my fingers and lean forward. My hair falls around us like a veil, giving us a secret space only he and I can share. “You aren’t a bad person. You have this…extraordinary heart.” I gently place my hand over his left pec, loving the strong beat against me. “You wouldn’t be who you are if you weren’t mourning them. You can be sad. You’re sad for who they used to compared to who they are because who they were, you didn’t recognize them. I don’t blame you for needing to be sad about losing your parents.”
“Do you think I’m weak for not getting there sooner and killing them myself?” he asks, staring numbly at the tile.