He couldn't find the energy to argue. "Do I get bubbles?"
"All you want. Go ahead." She gestured toward the door. "Relax.
I'll get you some more tea."
He pulled off his shirt and let it fall with a wet splat to the floor.
"Make it straight Irish this time. Two fingers, no ice."
She hesitated while he unsnapped his pants. She had to stop looking
for ghosts in bottles, as well. Not everyone who wanted a drink wanted
to get drunk. "All right."
When she came back, the water had stopped running. She paused at the
door, then feeling foolish, set the glass on the table by the bed.
Though they were lovers, she couldn't see herself waltzing in while he
was bathing. Whether it was a matter of intimacy or privacy, she
couldn't cross the line. She sat on the window seat, watched the rain
and waited.
With a towel slung low on his hips, he stepped out. The light was
behind him and she could clearly see the tension and withdrawal in his
face.
"I started dinner."
He nodded, but only picked up the glass. He thought he could hold the
whiskey down. Food was another matter. "Why don't you go ahead?"
"I can wait." She wanted to go to him, take his hand, smooth the lines
away from his brow. But he was brooding into the glass as if she
weren't even there. Rising, she walked into the bath to tidy the wet
clothes and towels.
"You don't have to pick up after me." He was standing in the doorway
now. An anger, deep and raw, came through in both his voice and his
eyes. "I don't need a mother."
4(i just-"
"Latimer wanted to be waited on, Emma. It's not my style."
"Fine." Her own temper rose up to meet his. She let his shirt fall to
the floor again. "Pick it up yourself then, not everyone likes to live
in a sty."
He snatched up the shirt and hurled it into the tub. Emma retreated two
steps before she could stop herself. "Don't look at me like that."
He whirled on her, furious with her, himself, with everything. "Don't
ever look at me like that. I can get pissed off at you without throwing
a punch."
She started to check the venom that burned her tongue, but it poured
out. "I'm not afraid you'll hit me. No one will ever hit me again and
walk away. I'm through being victimized by anyone. That includes you.
If you want to sulk, then go ahead and sulk. If you want to fight,
fine. I'll fight, but I'm going to know what I'm fighting about. If
you're acting like this because I won't do what you want, be what you
want, and say what you want, then tough. Shouting isn't going to change
my mind."
He held up a hand before she could storm by. Not to block her, but
to ask her to wait. The subtle difference was enough to make her hold
back the next burst of temper.
"It has nothing to do with you," he said quietly. "Nothing at all. I'm
sorry. I shouldn't have come back here tonight." He looked down at his