Tatiana’s hand stills for a fraction of a second on the cover she pulls up to his chin, but she doesn’t comment or look at me.
She leaves the lamp on and the door open a crack.
In the hallway, she takes off her shoes and carries them in her hand. “Which room is mine?”
I indicate the one next-door.
She walks inside, hobbling a little, and stops just over the threshold. “It smells like you.”
I chuckle. “That happens when you live somewhere.”
She drops the shoes on the floor and spins around. “This is your room.”
“Our room.”
Crossing her arms, she smiles that false smile again. “Don’t you know it’s bad luck to share a room before the wedding?”
“We’re already sharing a room. It would be hypocritical to pretend we’re not sleeping together.” I close the door and go over before going down on my haunches in front of her and carefully wrapping my fingers around her ankle. “Let me see that.”
She tries to pull away but can’t do so without losing her balance. “It’s nothing.”
Her little toe sports a huge blister. The skin on the sides of her bridge and the back of her heel is red and broken.
I turn her narrow foot this way and that as I inspect the damage. “Do you call this nothing? I’m surprised you could walk at all.”
“It’s the new shoes.” She makes an irritated sound. “They’ll do that until I’ve walked them in.”
I lower her foot gently and straighten. “You should’ve told me.”
Her laugh is wry. “What would you have done? Carry me?”
“Yes.”
She opens her mouth, but whatever objection she was going to utter turns into a squeal as I sweep her into my arms.
She pushes on my shoulders. “What are you doing?”
“Taking care of you,” I say, making my way to the bathroom.
“I can take care of myself.”
I deposit her carefully onto the bench next to the vanity. “I know, but it won’t hurt you to let someone else take care of you for once.”
Even though the taking care I’m referring to isn’t the aftercare she’s denying herself so hard, she still lifts her chin and fights back with defiance. “Careful, Dante. You don’t want to give me the impression that you care.”
“I do.” I open the faucet in the tub and let the water run warm. “You just don’t want to hear it.”
She scoffs. “If you cared, you wouldn’t have done what you did five years ago or today.”
I roll back my sleeves. “That’s precisely why I did what I did in both instances.”
After testing the temperature of the water, I plug the tub. Then I go through the cupboard until I find what I’m looking for.
She purses her lips, watching me fill the tub to a quarter before adding a mild disinfectant.
When I go back for her, she says, “You can forget it if you think I’ll take a bath with you in the room.”
“It’s for your feet.”