His lips trail down my neck, sending shivers all over.
"I love looking at you," he breathes, brushing the hair off my shoulders. "Will you let me look at you?"
My heart hammers, a wild thing seeking his. "Yes."
So he does. And I feel it. For a long...
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NOAH
"You gain strength, courage and confidence by every experience in which you stop to look fear in the face. You can say to yourself, I have lived through this horror, I can take the next thing that comes along. You must do the thing you think you cannot do."
Cam draws a line on the lip of the tub, her body swaying slightly in the sudsy water as I work my fingers through all the dense curls on her head. Then she raises five fingers on one hand and three on the other.
"Eight for Eleanor Roosevelt, huh?" I drag my fingers through her soapy hair and she hums in contentment like a cat. "That's the best so far."
Her fingers draw another line on the edge of the clawfoot tub, and I notice her hand is trembling slightly. The small tremor sends a pang of worry through me.
I wrack my head for another quote. She likes them. I love that she likes them.
I'm knelt on the cool tile floor beside the tub, fully clothed. The old bathroom smells faintly of mildew, but there's something comforting about it. It's dim, lit only by a few candles I scattered around with John's, their soft glow flickering against the faded wallpaper. Wallpaper in a bathroom? That was the first messed-up thing I noticed. But anyway.
I dip my fingers into the soapy water, letting the warmth seep into my skin, then draw my hands like little ghosts up her arms and shoulders, relishing in the shiver that wrecks her. Some things haven't changed.
Cam leans back against the edge of the tub, asking my hands to move back to her hair. I work slowly, carefully; I'm not like the monster. She deserves a gentle, slow kind of love.
"The brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear."
She raises one hand, and holds up four fingers.
"Four?" I ask, offended for Nelson Mandela. "That's it?"
He deserves at least a nine.
She shrugs, the motion causing a small ripple in the pink, rose petal-coloured water. I imagine she deems it too obvious. I find she appreciates the hidden meanings more than the literal.
"Tough crowd," I say, my fingers still working through her hair, finding another tangle and gently pulling it free. These tangles just keep seeming to pop up. Cam's hair is like Mabel's.
The scent of the shampoo—peppery and floral, something new on her—fills the air, mixing with the faint smell of candle wax and old wood. It's a subtle fragrance, delicate and earthy. I like it.
Charlie's on a little pillow in the corner, snoring. Cam says he's got a trachea problem. At least he's putting on half a pound of meat-weight a day.
"The only thing we have to fear is fear itself," I say next.
