Page 19

Willow

I’d been in the hospital for four days.

Four days and five nights longer than I wanted to be. Each day passed in a fog.

Doctors were keen to check on my mental state. I spiralled into a panic at the prospect of anyone touching my finger. The throbbing pain was too much to bear, I’d become overprotective of it. I was so sick of everything hurting that I couldn’t cope with more.

I’d be in a constant state of waiting for the ball to drop, for Cain to jump out of the dark shadows and whisper ‘surprise’ before he took my throat in both hands.

I was battered and bruised and absolutely fucking exhausted but unable to sleep.

Police officers came and went to discuss the crimes.

Crimes.

It was bizarre to hear his behaviour referred to as a crime, when it had been my daily life.

He’d been arrested and released on bail shortly after.

Based on the injuries he’d inflicted, and defence marks I’d carved into his skin, a Domestic Violence Protection Order was in place.

He couldn’t contact or see me for the next twenty-eight days, until he’d attended court and a formal decision had been made.

I should have felt relief at that, but it didn’t feel like long or safe enough for me to heal and start my life again. He’d been released, and that was enough to keep me in limbo.

I knew if I didn’t press charges, he’d come for me, worse this time, and I knew I wouldn’t make it out alive this time.

Jack stayed with me, taking brief breaks for some fresh air or to grab some food. He slept on a chair in the corner of the room, his tall body crumpled, but he never moaned or complained. He just turned up every single day.

I wasn’t used to him outside of work attire. Usually wearing tailored suits, he now wore hoodies and shorts instead. It was the most casual version of Jack I’d seen, and whenever he’d enter the room, I’d do a double take to check if it was actually him .

He stood by me as the medical staff detailed my pain medication routine, and later the process for cleaning and bandaging my finger. He asked questions I couldn’t, like whether I could get the wound wet – I couldn’t – and if I’d be able to do it myself – I could, but it wouldn’t be easy.

Finally, I was discharged, and Jack drove us home. My limited belongings were sent to his house with Mike.

I’d never visited Jack’s home. He drove onto the street lined with Victorian terraced town houses, small immaculate walled front gardens and iron front gates, each one nearly identical with different coloured doors, all beautifully arched.

It was the kind of street I’d attend a property viewing for, not live in, but for a moment I dreamt this could be my future.

Jack parallel parked and, before I could argue, was out and opening my door. I didn’t have the energy to insist I was capable, the sharp pain in my ribs acted as a reminder that I wasn’t.

He stepped ahead of me through the black iron gate to the front garden and unlocked the pillar box red front door.

The long hallway entrance had black and white tiles, which proved to be refreshingly cool once I toed off my boots. The walls, door frames, radiators, stair bannisters and skirting were drenched in a deep burgundy red, the room lit by warm lamps.

Jack provided a quick tour into the living room – a dark green room with brown chesterfield sofas and a large black and cream faux sheepskin rug. His office was a cosy dark wood room with vinyl records framed on the wall.

He showed me through to the kitchen, located at the back of the house.

At the entrance to the room was a cosy snug area with a blue velvet corner sofa and fuzzy rug facing a fireplace, and a small basket full of blankets.

But the kitchen, the kitchen , it was the most beautiful kitchen I’d ever seen.

Navy shaker cabinets with gold handles, a matching island with a white and grey marble countertop with, an American-style fridge at the back of the kitchen and an Aga oven taking centre stage. Pushed neatly under the island were beige cushioned bar stools.

I hadn’t realised I was staring quite so much at the kitchen, until Jack cleared his throat. I spun around, searing pain slicing through my ribs and I hissed. As the pain subsided, I opened my eyes to find a concerned Jack, holding a glass of water and medication.

“Drink up. Pain has a habit of making us feel nauseous.” I did as I was told. “Come on, I’ll show you to your room,” he said as he walked towards the stairs.

He took me up to the first floor, where there were three bedrooms – one being his – a general bathroom, and his en-suite. We took the next flight of stairs to the second floor, where there were two more bedrooms. One was his daughter’s and a spare.

Entering the larger of the two rooms at the front of the house, he held the door open and ushered me in.

It was by far the largest room I’d ever stayed in.

It was spacious with an enormous bed in the centre of the room, blush pink fitted wardrobes by the door, and a tall free-standing mirror in the corner.

The walls had blush pink half-wall panelling along the bottom and light green delicate floral wallpaper on the upper half.

I touched the wallpaper in awe, while Jack chuckled behind me.

“Can you tell Frannie decorated the house? It’s like she threw up in here.

” I smiled. “You’ve got a bathroom through here.

” He proceeded to push the door open and waited for me to look.

“Frannie loves her bath salts and hair care, so she buys it by the bucket-load, feel free to use as much as you want, since you have similar hair.”

I glanced at him and found him avoiding eye contact.

“I, uh, I’ll leave you to it.” He pointed over his shoulder awkwardly. “If you need anything, just shout. Your bags are by the bed, Angus is there too.” He offered a soft smile, then left.

Feeling gross and grubby after nearly a week in hospital, and unable to shower after the gala, I decided to run myself a bath. The roll top bath screamed my name.

I looked through the vast array of bath salts and bubbles that Fran had. Jack wasn’t wrong, she was a big fan of self-care.

I poured some lavender salts and bubble bath for my sore muscles, and before long the bubbles were ready to overflow.

I undressed – much harder to achieve without the use of my left hand – and eased myself into the bath, hissing at the heat.

I lay there for a while, finally able to relax and allowed the heat to comfort me.

Before long, I was ready to wash my hair but looked at the bottle with confusion.

I considered squeezing it with my right hand but couldn’t onto my left since I couldn’t get it wet and couldn’t squeeze with my left hand due to the hefty bandages and pain.

I tried to squeeze it directly onto my head until the shampoo landed everywhere before slipping out of my hand, clattering to the floor. I groaned in frustration.

Fuck Cain for hurting me but fuck him harder for stripping my independence.

With no other option, I decided that it was best to embarrass myself sooner rather than later and called out for Jack. As if he was waiting nearby just in-case, he opened the bedroom door from the hallway.

“I’m in the bathroom,” I said with shame and frustration. With my good hand, I manoeuvred the bubbles around me, so I was appropriately covered. A moment later, there was a knock on the bathroom door. “I’m decent. Kind of. I promise you won’t see anything you shouldn’t.”

Jack pushed the door open, his eyes on the floor. Good to know this was awkward for both of us.

“I can’t get my bandage wet. I tried to shampoo my hair, but the tiles got it instead,” I mumbled, feeling very sorry for myself.

“I didn’t consider that.” He moved further into the bathroom and pulled up a stool from the vanity mirror.

Silently, he turned on the handheld shower, waiting for the water to warm before dampening my hair and gently parting my thick hair to ensure it was all covered. He collected the shampoo bottle from the floor, rubbing it between his hands before massaging it into my scalp.

I swear, I tried. I tried so hard not to let a groan of appreciation slip out, but this was the best feeling. Before I could stop myself, I let out a contented moan, then remembered I was being shampooed by my boss and clamped my mouth shut.

Thankfully, Jack found the humour in the moment. “It feels that good, huh?”

I nodded, closing my eyes and allowing myself to relax into the pressure of his fingers in my scalp.

“Where did you learn to wash hair this well?”

“I have a daughter, remember? While I certainly don’t need to wash her hair now, I’d wash it when she was younger, especially when she was tiny and again after her mum died and she was overwhelmed.” He rinsed away the suds. “She has hair like yours – thick and dark.”

“Well, thank you. I appreciate your help,” I muttered as I recalled that Jack was a widow and Fran was down a parent. So much grief under one roof.

“Don’t worry about it.”

We fell into a comfortable silence as he shampooed and rinsed again, until he applied conditioner to the ends.

“I’m sorry he hurt you, Willow,” he whispered. “These bruises look so painful.”

Not knowing how to respond, I shrugged.

“It’s nothing.”

Jack sighed behind me. I knew it was something, it was everything actually. But I didn’t have it in me to talk anymore. I just wanted to forget.