Captured(27)

“Why?”

This has her at a loss. “He wants to be picked up. I don’t know. It makes him feel better, I guess.”

I lift Tommy up by the armpits, holding him at arm’s length. He somehow manages to crawl across the empty space and cling to my torso, hugging my waist with his legs. His head lies against my shoulder. This is the most bizarre sensation I’ve ever felt. He’s clinging to me like a monkey, his breathing going steady and deep. Some strange instinct has me tucking my arm under his butt to support him, and he goes limp within seconds. I just stand there, holding the kid, as he falls asleep. His arm flops loose, dangling at my chest.

I turn in place and look at Reagan. “Now what?”

She smiles, a strange, almost dreamy smile that I’m not sure how to interpret. “Just lay him on the couch.”

I hold the back of his head with one hand, my other arm beneath his knees. I lay him down on the couch on his back. He sprawls out, mouth open, snoring.

The old woman — Ida, I think her name is — stands in the kitchen, flour on her hands, watching. Her surprised expression probably matches my own.

Reagan heads up the stairs. “Come on — I’ll get you a towel.”

I follow her, staring at the stair treads rather than her ass, which is where my gaze wants to go. She leads me into the master bedroom. There’s an antique queen bed with a metal wrought-iron frame, a five-drawer bureau on one wall, and a three-drawer bureau with a mirror on the other. I steadfastly refuse to think about the fact that I’m in her bedroom.

Reagan darts ahead of me into the bathroom, yanking a white bra off the floor. “Shit. Sorry. No one’s ever in here but me.”

She opens the lid of a wicker hamper, tosses the undergarment in. I catch a glimpse of panties, jeans with one leg inside out, and another bra — the red one from last night — twisted and inside out, along with T-shirts and balled-up white ankle socks. It’s a strangely intimate thing, a woman’s laundry. I look away, at the sink. That’s not much better. Makeup, trays of powder and tubes of lipstick, a bunch of other stuff I can’t identify. None of it looks as if it’s been used in a long time. There’s a curling iron, a blue brush with black bristles. Several hair ties in a pile at the corner of the sink, strands of long blonde hair still attached. There’s a package of tampons on the floor by the toilet. Can’t look there. Two damp towels hang over the railing of the shower curtain.

This is, without a doubt, the most feminine space I’ve ever entered. I’m intensely uncomfortable, hyper-aware of Reagan beside me, smelling fresh and clean, and my thoughts jolt to the red sports bra, to the fact that she stripped it off and tossed it into the hamper. The bathroom still smells faintly of a recent shower, that vague damp smell that is equal parts steam and shampoo and something else indefinable, the smell of a bathroom after a shower.

After an awkward moment, Reagan bends over at the sink, opens the cabinet beneath. There’s that ass again, round and taut and facing me, a reminder that this is a beautiful woman and I’m in her bathroom, in her private space, and she’s off limits. She straightens, hands me a thick rust-colored towel.

“There’s shampoo and soap in there, obviously.” She points at the shower. “I’ll see if I can find you some of—some clean clothes.”

“Thanks. I can wear these. It’s fine.”

She pinches the denim over my thigh between her finger and thumb. “Don’t be ridiculous. Those pants are caked with dirt.” She visibly steels herself. “I’ve got a couple bins of Tom’s clothes in the attic. They should fit.”

“You don’t have to—”

She shakes her head, cutting me off. Her voice is hard, brusque. “They’re just clothes, Derek.”

She’s gone then, and I wait until she’s out of the master bedroom before nudging the bathroom door closed and stepping out of my jeans.

The shower is glorious. High enough that I don’t have to duck or do the limbo, a hard stream of hot water. The shampoo is a little girly-smelling, but whatever. I’m clean, and it’s an amazing sensation. Showers at the hospital were short, usually either tepid or scalding, and the showerhead was so low I had to basically sit down to fit under it.

I soak for a long time, until the water goes lukewarm.

When I get out, there’s a pile of jeans, T-shirts, socks, and boxer shorts on the bed. I put on the clothes, except the underwear. I’ll be damned if I’ll wear another man’s underwear, no matter whose they were, or how clean.

Just no. No way.

When I head downstairs, I see that Reagan is writing a list. She doesn’t look at me. “Ready? Let’s go. I need some groceries from town anyway, so we can go together.” She glances at Ida. “We need anything from town, Ida?”

Ida shrugs. “Not that I can think of.”

“We’ll be back as soon as possible.”

Ida ruffles Tommy’s hair. “We’ll be fine here, won’t we, bub?”

Tommy just smiles and goes back to his PB-and-J. Reagan kisses him on the top of the head, and then heads for the front door. She’s avoiding my gaze now, and suddenly seems more uncomfortable around me than before. Maybe it’s Tom’s clothes. Or it might be something else entirely, something I can’t begin to fathom.

All I know is, I get a whiff of citrus shampoo and something vanilla as she sweeps past me on the way to the truck. The smell of her makes me dizzy in ways I don’t dare examine.