The water scalds my skin unforgivingly, but it can't wash the embarrassing evening from the reality of time. Instead, I let it turn my skin an angry red, so hot I can't even feel it anymore. I can only see the streaks it leaves down my skin like tiger stripes.
I run a sudsy loofa over my body once, twice, three times before I resort to just standing still in the stream. The steam clouds the bathroom like an oppressive rain cloud, and the thicker it gets, the lighter my head feels.
Eventually - reluctantly - I shut the water off. If I stand there too long I'll pass out. And right now I can't afford any more humiliation.
My brain stutters as I think back to Brett meeting Sean, how he looked between us dumbly, grasping for any sense of the conversation. It short circuits as I think about the breakdown, how Brett held me all that time and said nothing until I was ready.
And I'd told him about my dad.
It's a sore subject, the relationship between my father and I. Or perhaps, it's more accurate to say lack thereof.
I yank the yellow towel from the rod beside me and wrap myself in it lazily, relishing slightly in the way the air freezes my skin as it evaporates each drop. I shiver, tucking myself into a ball on the ground.
I can do my skincare from the ground. And it doesn't make me any less of a functional adult.
In the kitchen, Brett clangs a pot around like he's fighting off a particularly clever cartoon mouse. I can faintly hear a colorful string of words fall from his mouth. Something salty and rich permeates the air, even in the humid bathroom sauna I've create.
My serums kiss my skin gently, which is swollen and raw from how hard I'd sobbed earlier. I blindly swipe my hand around the counter top above me until my fingers wrap around the gua sha tool. I massage some lotion on my face, then vainly drag the jade stone over my cheeks and down my neck.
It does occur to me several times that I have big emotions brewing somewhere in the pits of my organs, real as malignant tumors, but I continue to choose not to deal with it. I convince myself that the crying was cathartic, not indicative of more to come. After all, I feel much better than I did this morning.
So I stay on the ground, hugging my knees so tightly to my chest that I lose feeling in my toes from the lack of circulation. I brush my hair with my fingers. I put oil on my split ends. I tell myself in the mirror - my frail, fragmented reflection - that everything is fine. That I love my job, that I'm excited for my future, that things will work out.
That's what Elizabeth would tell me. She's the kind of person who falls upward - not to discount any of the blood, sweat, and tears she pours into her career. But she'll find herself in the right place at the right time more often than not. She's the person who wins those sketchy online giveaways and always shows up at restaurants when there's no wait.
With the confidence Elizabeth would be forcing me to have about the state of affairs, I peel my limbs from the hollow of my abdomen, fold my body into some pajamas, and open the bathroom door.
The apartment smells magical and lemony. I hear sizzling and humming and, strangely, my TV. When I round the corner, Brett shouts, "Break a leg!" but he's facing away from me, and Vanna White is delicately touching the Wheel of Fortune puzzle board to reveal letters.
Brett doesn't notice me as I pad into the living room; he's busy rejoicing to himself when the answer to the puzzle is revealed and - lo and behold - he was right.
I clear my throat.
Brett whips around, his hair in its signature mussy disaster, a wooden spoon in his right hand. He smiles softly at me, like a cloud I could fall into, and I feel my spirits lift.
"How was your shower, President Mia?"
I round the island to join him in the kitchen just as he turns around to stir something on the stove. I peek around his shoulders to see a shrimp pasta bubbling in pale sauce. He snaps his fingers as if remembering something suddenly, then pulls a bowl of frozen peas from the microwave.
"I'm not accepting any criticism on dinner," he tells me without looking back at me. "I'm actually considering this meal a miracle given the grim reality of your pantry."
I snort. "You made pasta. Do you want a gold star?"
At this, he does turn around, eyes wide and gleaming. "If it's a sticker, yes."
When I say nothing, he dips the spoon into the pan and gives another firm stir. Then he beckons me over, a few strands of angel hair and peas and a single shrimp balanced precariously in the shallow divot of the spoon.
"Tell me what it's missing."
He feeds me the bite, his hand under my chin to catch anything that might fall off the spoon, and I ache for it to grab my jaw and pull me in for a kiss.
Woah, I think. Reel it in, sis.
It's delicious. Buttery, lemony, light but rich, with the slightest kick from red pepper flakes. I widen my eyes at him in utter shock.
"You pulled that together from my freezer?"
He shrugs nonchalantly, but I catch a glimpse of the grin he's trying to suppress. "Not just the freezer. There was an old lemon in your fruit bowl. That really saved the day."
"It's amazing, Brett," I tell him, sincerity coating my words, fuzzy and thick.
"You like it?"
"I love it."
He shoos me off with a dismissive wave of a hand. "I'll make us plates, you grab us some water or something."
I set the table while he scoops out our servings into wide pasta bowls, painted blue and red.
"These are really cool," he says as he places the dishes down at the table.
"From Sicily," I answer. "A graduation gift from my father."
He nods, picking up his fork in one hand, then waiting for me to match him.
We eat in almost silence - he's too busy yelling out the answers to Wheel of Fortune to stay completely silent. Then, much to my dismay, Jeopardy comes on, and he's good at that too.
I've never played either.
"This is so nostalgic," Brett says quietly once we've finished our meals. "I used to do this with my mom and aunt and sister. Every night, a warm meal and one hour of gameshows before homework and showers."
"I didn't really have this," I confess. When he looks up at me, my heart skips at how intently he's listening. I notice the creases in the corners of his eyes, the way his lips tilt upwards even when he's not smiling. I commit these things to memory.
"No?"
"No," I say. "It was just me, my mom and dad growing up. And my dad was kind of awful."
Brett tucks his mouth into a flat line. "Sure sounds like it." He's quiet for a moment, contemplative, then asks, "And he's the CEO of your publicity firm?"
I cringe, not just because I hate people knowing this part of my life, but because it's a sharp reminder of the emotional breakdown I'd had earlier. "Can we talk about anything else?"
He offers me a lazy smile. "As you wish, madam."
We pick up the table and fight over who gets to wash the dishes. It ends with him reluctantly allowing me to wash while he dries, but he takes the extra time between pans to sanitize the table and wipe down the stovetop. I roll my eyes, but something in me is swelling larger than life.
It's nice to be cared for, I realized. Especially when I allow myself to enjoy it, which I never did when it was Sean.
But something about Brett makes it easy; knowing that he's seen the ruthless side of me and likes it anyway, likes me anyway. Because of it rather than in spite of it.
"Thank you for dinner," I say as I hand him the last bowl.
"You're so welcome," he replies, wiping a towel through the bowl before setting it down in the cabinet it belongs in.
When he turns back around, I step into his open body and wrap my arms around his torso, tight like he might float off if I don't. He laughs gently, returning the gesture with a delicate kiss to the top of my head.
I lean up to kiss him but he stops me short, our lips centimeters from each other.
"Hold on," he whispers, touching our foreheads together. "You've had an emotional rollercoaster of a day. Are you sure this is what you want?"
"I'm sure," I tell him.
"It's not just because I made you dinner?"
"No, Brett."
"It's not just because I'm staggeringly handsome when I dry dishes?"
I laugh and he breathes the joy right in, then leans down to kiss me.
When we kiss this time around, there are no fireworks. I can hear the traffic outside below my window. My hands are still dry from the scalding water I used to wash the dishes. He smells like butter and garlic and - very intensely - lemon. He holds me carefully, lovingly, and I let him. Just two people in their pajamas, who spent the weekend travelling together, who cleaned up after dinner together, who both lost Final Jeopardy.
And the moment is so normal, so natural, it nearly makes me dizzy. This is not lust.
I don't want to think about what it is.
We pull away after a few brief seconds. I open my eyes to see his locked on mine, but they don't possess the hunger or intensity I expected. I'm met instead with an endearing, closed-lip smile, followed by him swaying us side to side in our embrace. There's a tenderness to his expression that I can't place, something I haven't seen before.
Happiness, perhaps. True happiness, just from being in this moment.
With me.
"I tried so hard to dodge this," I joke, a jovial lilt to my voice. "And all it took was one pasta dinner.
He puffs out one tiny laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear before saying, "You want to be loved by people. Let them love you. Let me love you."
And then his mouth dips down to meet mine again, this time with the fervor I'd been anticipating. The moment swells, turns a deep scarlet, is drowned out by the blood thrumming in my ears.
Brett walks me backwards slowly, out of the kitchen until my back touches the wall of the hallway.
It's clear he's following my lead, the way he always does, kissing me tentatively to avoid overstepping boundaries or making me uncomfortable. Being considerate of the emotional state I might be in following the day we've had.
But then I wrap my arms around his neck and tug lightly on the hair at his nape, and he lets out a deep, quiet growl. His hands slip beneath my shirt, cold on the skin of my waist, and when I gasp, he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss.
I hum - or maybe it's a moan - but the sound is so needy it nearly catches me off guard. Brett just grins.
"I like when you make sounds like that," he says, his voice sultry and thick like syrup.
"Then do something worth sounds like that," I quip back.
This makes him laugh, one eyebrow cocked. "Do you want that?"
His fingers find the waistband of my sweats and grip it tight, and my brain lingers on his thumbs tucked against the crest of my hips.
"Do you?"
He shakes his head like I've asked the dumbest question in the world. "I've always wanted that."
I lean forward to close that gap again, pulling our bodies flush. We stay like this, moving in synchrony with a passionate desperation, like star-crossed lovers reunited. I spin us ninety degrees to keep us moving in the direction of my bedroom. Eventually, wordlessly, we both come to the conclusion that walking mid-make out is rather clunky, so we resort to hand-in-hand instead.
With the back of my legs against the mattress, Brett's wide frame planted in front of me, he cups one hand under my jaw, thumb caressing my cheekbone.
"I want to make sure you're in a good headspace," he tells me.
"I'm never in a good headspace," I say, punctuating it with a minor eye roll.
"I'm serious."
"I'm serious, too."
"This isn't fueled by anger? Jealousy?" he asks. "You're at peace with the events of the day?"
"Entirely."
He sighs, and immediately I can feel him slipping from me. He's floating from the room with every slow, sticky second that passes. I take his hands in mine and tuck them back into my waistband, leaning my hips forward into his.
"I want this," I say, mustering my most confident, reassuring voice.
It strikes me for a moment that this is not unlike begging, which I've never been known to do. The realization makes me feel vulnerable, already naked.
He takes a deep inhale, his lips gracing mine once more with a citrusy peck, and I can tell from that interaction that he's gone.
"Don't do this," I whisper, and it sounds painfully like whining.
Brett runs a hand through his hair, then envelopes me into a tight hug. "Mia," he breathes. "I can't."
My limbs loosen in his grip, my body starting to turn liquid. "Brett."
"I know, Mi."
He holds me for a moment longer, and when he pulls away, his face is solemn and severe. "I hope you don't interpret this as a rejection."
I snort, a bit derisively. "Hard not to take it as anything else."
"Please," he says. "I will be here for you every day. I will choose you every day. But today isn't the day we should do this. You're not in a place to receive love, and that's all I can give you."
I swallow something thick in my throat and realize, with slight horror, that it's more tears. I compose myself quickly and nod once. "Okay," I say, my voice shaky.
"Can I stay with you?"
I blink stupidly. "Overnight?"
He flashes me a shy grin. "If you'll let me."
"Yes."
We fall into a mostly silent routine of brushing our teeth and flossing and grabbing cubs of water for our respective nightstands. It's not even late by the time we crawl into bed, but we're both exhausted from the flight and the events since.
He drags my body into his as soon as the lights are off into a warm spooning position. I can feel his breath in my hair like a gentle breeze, his arm securely holding me into him.
"Remember on the plane, just a few days ago, you were telling me we couldn't keep doing this?" he asks.
"We shouldn't."
"I don't think we could stop if we tried."
I sigh. "I hate when you're right, Brett."