58. On perfect display

FIFTY-EIGHT

ON PERFECT DISPLAY

SHEP

I love Harlow.

I love her so much that in this very moment, I would give everything to take the pain she’s feeling. It’s not fair. It’s not fair that she has to continue waking up everyday haunted by the damage left in the wake of a dead man.

Which brings me to another swell of emotions I’m battling within myself.

Death was too kind of a punishment for someone like Beckett.

Harlow and I haven’t talked about it since she found out in the hospital, but I’ve seen the posts online, the vigil on the side of the road by the telephone pole he wrapped his car around.

It makes me sick.

The instance tragedy strikes, it’s like everyone forgets who that person really was. I’m not heartless and, yeah, I know there are people who will grieve the loss of Beckett, but for all the people on campus who know what he did to Harlow… I just don’t understand it.

I’m trying to be present for her at this moment but seeing her trembling before me, I can’t stop the burning in my chest.

“Shep?” Harlow’s voice pulls me out of the emotional vortex I was starting to lose myself to.

“Yes, baby?”

“I’m scared.” She draws her hands together, folding them under her chin.

“I know you are, but we can do this.”

Not wanting to keep her waiting in the suspension of what's to come, I shut the shower off with the stopper in the tub. Although I only let the water fill up just a few inches, I can still sense the dread starting to climb through her.

I turn back around and face Harlow. Once our eyes are locked, I pull my sweatshirt over my head, looking to her for permission to continue. She nods, so I slide down my sweatpants until I’m left in my boxers. I reach out for her wrist and slowly pull the sleeve of her sweatshirt forward. She takes her arm out and then we do the other. As I lift up the hoodie over her head leaving her in just a sports bra and pajama shorts, chills erupt on her skin.

“You okay?” I check in with her again. The urge to kiss her is overwhelming but I’m not naive to think that would be appropriate right now.

She hums in response and we stand there for a second, holding each other’s gaze. I guide her towards the edge of the tub and step in. Her grip tightens and she freezes, stuck on the other side. I sense that the position we’re in is an even bigger metaphor for our situation. I’ve always been both feet in, where she’s kept herself safe behind a boundary separating us.

“You can do it,” I coo. “Just one foot at a time.”

She looks at me and I can tell she’s paralyzed with fear. The panic spreading across her face causes my heart to twist up in pain, but I have to push all that aside. She’s my priority.

I kneel down in the tub and let go of her to reach for her foot. She grips my shoulders, tension radiating into me from her hold.

As I pick up her left foot, I press soft kisses on the side of her calf and ankle. I move slowly and when my breath fans on her skin, her hold on me loosens. I glance up to her and she’s closed her eyes. Watching her carefully, I move her foot over the edge of the tub and into the water. I hold my breath, waiting for her to react but she seems caught up with the continual kisses I’m giving to her.

When I settle her one foot, I move to the other to repeat the process until she’s successfully stepped into the water. My emotions are rising up in me as I observe the position we’re in. With her standing over me and me essentially bowing before her, my submission to her and her wellbeing is on perfect display.

“Harlow,” I say in between kisses, still trying to keep her focused on my touch but wanting to make her aware of every step. “You’re in the tub.”

Her hold on me tightens again and I peer up to see her eyes now open, glued to me. “You don’t have to move. Just stay here. Just stay with me.” She doesn’t speak or react. She just keeps her gaze on mine.

Cupping my hand, I take the water and start to slowly let it wash over the lower half of her legs. I use my other hand to stroke the side of her thigh. Once we’ve been like this for a few minutes, I reach up to her hands on my shoulders and lift them, guiding her down towards me until she’s sitting on the edge of the tub.

She looks at her hands, where the water droplets are, and then takes a sharp inhale.

“You’re okay. Baby, you’re okay.”

She opens her mouth then closes it and lets her head fall forward instead. I really don’t know exactly what I’m doing but I hope it’s clear that I’m just trying to meet her where she is.

“Do you want to try and sit with me?”

Tears spill out down her cheeks and my stomach drops. I pushed her too far.

But then, she shocks me by nodding her head. There’s a war waging inside her mind, I can see it. However, I can also see she’s trying to fight it.

Letting her take the lead, I sit down in the tub and move to where I can rest against the back slope. She never lets go of my hands as she lowers herself down between my legs. Once her body starts to immerse in the water, a whimper escapes her lips. Even though she’s facing away from me, I can tell she’s starting to cry.

“You’re okay,” I keep reminding her. Over and over. “You’re safe with me. I’m here.”

At some point, she leans back and lays herself against my chest. I move our hands to the sides of the tub and then lift mine up to start cupping the water again to pour it over various parts of her body. I look at her grip which has turned into a white knuckle hold.

“Tell me what to do. Tell me what you need. Do you want to stop?” I ask softly.

She shakes her head in protest, then lifts her hand pointing to a washcloth that’s hung over the side of the tub.

Moving forward to reach it, once I have it in my hands, I position Harlow to be upright. Her knees are drawn to her chest and she wraps her hands around her legs, as if hugging herself.

“Can you wash it for me, please?” Harlow asks in the smallest voice.

I look around and find her shampoo in the corner, then take the washcloth and squeeze it in the tub to soak up some of the water. Sitting behind her, I trail the wet fabric up her back trying to make her familiar with the sensation.

This is the moment that feels detrimental. Getting water on her head is the part Margot said that Harlow can’t handle. I freeze and try to think how I can do this best without getting more than just her hair wet.

“Harlow…” my confidence starts to falter. “I’m going to try and not let the water run down your face but if it does, I’m sorry.”

Her body tenses and I wish I could see her face at this moment. I can’t imagine the fear covering it, but I force myself to press on.

Guiding her head back to where she’s almost looking up at the ceiling, I bring the washcloth up to the crown of her head and squeeze it letting the water run out and down her hair. I don’t even notice I’m shaking until about the fourth time I do this and accidentally get some water on her forehead.

Harlow lets out a strangled scream and my stomach knots up. “I’m sorry,” I rush out. “I’m so sorry.”

She doesn’t tell me to stop so I just continue until her hair is wet, then take her shampoo and pour some in my hands. I work it through her hair as best as I can, all while trying to ignore that Harlow is full on sobbing now.

I use the washcloth to rinse it out, continuing my process of squeezing water into it then ringing it out over her hair.

Once the shampoo seems fully rinsed out, I lean forward and rest my chin on her shoulder. Her arms are still wrapped around her knees and so I wrap my arms around her, keeping her in my embrace. Never mind that the water has basically gone cold, we’re both clothed and covered in suds. I hold her tight. I tuck her into myself and hope that she feels safe.

“I won’t ever let you go.” I whisper. “I’m never leaving you. I don’t care if we sit in this tub all night and you just cry. I’m with you, Harlow. I’m yours, baby.”

She leans into me and softly whispers back, “I know.”