Daryl's Angel: Saviour (Book Two)

Chapter 17: Remember

I slip the pregnancy test into my knife sheath and return to the houses. It looks like Daryl finished up with cleaning the possum. It's been reduced to a pile of guts and meat now, with the fur hanging on the porch railing. Somehow, seeing a tiny puddle of animal blood on the steps is more familiar than the house itself.

But in terms of the unfamiliar, Rick walks around with Judith, and he looks like a man reborn. He's shaved his beard, and I might be mistaken, but I think he got a haircut too. He looks years younger, like the man I met on the department store roof, and yet he looks so strange.

His lips purse in a slightly annoyed expression when he sees the look on my face. "I know," he says.

I start to smile. "I had forgotten you had a chin under all that hair."

He lets out a long breath through his nose and shakes his head. I laugh softly and start towards the front door, but he stops me with a light touch to my elbow. He leans closer, close enough that I can smell the shampoo and shaving cream still clinging to his skin, and it reminds me that I should shower, too.

"We're all gonna stay in the same house tonight," he murmurs. "Just in case."

I nod. "Sounds like a plan." Honestly, the idea of having everybody stay together is comforting. Very much needed. I look back at the possum skin, frowning. "Where's Daryl?"

Rick purses his lips as he looks around. "Might be inside. I'll let him know you're looking for him if I see him."

"Yeah, thanks."

I duck inside, intent on getting my turn in the shower. Thankfully, it looks like Abraham just finished up. He's dressed in clean clothes, towelling off extra moisture from his neck, skin flushed even redder than his usual from the heat.

I duck into the bathroom, still filled with humidity, and shut the door behind me. I crack a window, letting in the fresh air, and take a second to take it all in—the fresh towels folded on the tiny shelf tucked behind the door, the basket of new toothbrushes and toothpaste on the counter next to the sink, the fluffy white bathmat beneath my feet.

I know I've said it before, but oh my God, everything is so clean.

I undress, carefully folding my clothes and setting them aside. As I remove my belt, sheath included, my attention lingers on the pregnancy test. Should I take it now, then hop in the shower and try to scrub the stress off my skin before actually looking at it?

I look at the toilet, then the frosted glass shower with the dark navy tile and the condensation clinging to the mirror, and decide I can wait on the shower for another second.

I sit down on the toilet, ripping open the package and tucking the test between my legs, doing what needs to be done. When I'm finished, I put the cap back on and I set it down on the countertop face up.

Now, to shower.

I moan the second the hot water hits me, like I'm some water-starved whore. No, seriously, my knees go weak. It's almost better than sex, just for those first few seconds where I feel all the grime flood off of me.

I scrub every inch of my body down to the bottoms of my feet, lathering myself in body wash and shampoo and conditioner, watching the water turn brown around my feet before escaping down the drain. My hair feels fluffy again, the strands smooth between my fingers. It feels like I remove layers from my skin, peeling and peeling until I'm fresh and clean as a newborn baby and just about as light as one, too.

At the thought, the dread returns. I turn off the water, the pipes squeaking a little as the white noise shuts off. I listen to the tap drip for a few seconds, my skin cooling rapidly. Now or never. Carpe diem and all that.