Scott insisted on wiping me down with a hot washcloth, pulling me back into semi-consciousness. Then he did himself. A shower might’ve been nice, but I was clinging to consciousness with a ferocity that drew every last ounce of strength I had. It’d been a brutal couple of weeks. My emotions had been all over the place. That Scott hadn’t returned my perhaps ill-conceived declaration of love wasn’t lost on me. Maybe he hadn’t heard. Or maybe it’d just been too damn soon. Maybe it was a good thing he hadn’t commented because if he had said anything less than a return declaration, my feelings might’ve been hurt.
I was overthinking this.
And then today…
Scott making love to me hadn’t changed the fact my father was dead—it hadn’t even blunted the news—but it’d given me perspective. I’d grieve
