Watch Over You (9 page)

Tara jerked the door open and relief had Devan sinking to his knees once more. He wouldn’t mess up again. He’d do his job. She had to know. She deserved to know the truth about her husband.

Chapter Ten

Tara dried her hands on the tea towel. She wrung it so hard around her fingers that the fabric threatened to graze her skin. She looked around at the house she had just cleaned up. It was the only thing she could think to do, otherwise she would have crawled into bed and stayed there. She liked her house clean; it was the only thing that gave her any sense of peace inside. She could lose herself in her thoughts or other things and not what she was aching for.

Devan had been gone for an hour. She had run out after him, but he had already disappeared by the time she stepped out onto the porch. She had called out, her eyes searching desperately for a sign of him, but he hadn’t answered or come back. And she knew with heavy dread in her stomach that he wasn’t going to. She had blown it. She didn’t even know why. Replaying the kiss over in her mind, she could still feel his lips on hers, his body pressing heavily against her, the hunger that had consumed her. For just a second, she had thought she was kissing Eric. But that was a second long enough to screw it up - and screw it up she had.
What the hell?
She still couldn’t believe she had said it. The thought of not seeing him again twisted inside her. She had messed up so badly. She hadn’t even meant to kiss him; it had just felt right.

What had she done?

She fought back tears, taking deep breaths to calm herself and rid her mind of all thoughts. She closed her eyes for a minute to regain her composure. She was unsettled and even the cleaning this time hadn’t managed to shake it. Every time she tried to push her thoughts aside, Devan would sneak right back there with Eric. They haunted her mind - both of them - but Devan more on this day. No one had filled her thoughts this way in such a long time.

The tidied-up kitchen gave the illusion he had never been there – that no one had. She tried not to think about him standing there just hours before, so disconcertingly at home as he cooked for them. She tried not to think about him in Eric’s clothes. Perhaps that was it - the reason for her perfect screw up. She had cleared the food away from the small table, trying not to picture him serving it. They hadn’t even really eaten. The leftovers had become mouldy in places; she had even contemplated throwing away the plates. Only because they were something she and Eric had bought, did she not. She did need to soak them in scalding hot water and disinfectant before washing them, though. It still baffled her how the food could have become so hard and mouldy in the space of just a few hours. No doubt they would go to the bottom of the pile in the cupboard, never to be used. They would be a constant reminder now of not just Eric, but of Devan as well as the food. Perhaps he had had a lucky escape, and then he wouldn’t suffer any kind of fate like Eric had. She wouldn’t kill him or ruin his life. He was better off gone. It hadn’t mattered, though, how many times she had said that while scrubbing the pan - which was thrown away in the end. Her heart wouldn’t believe it. For whatever reason, her heart wanted Devan, and it had jumped into the driver’s seat and laid out its demands.

She flung the towel into the laundry basket and then turned off the kitchen. Someone rang the doorbell. Her heart jumped with shock, soared with hope and then settled back into her chest and held its breath, all in a split second.. She didn’t even think as she dashed out into the hallway and flung open the front door.

“Devan…” The name left Tara’s mouth as a shocked whisper. Fresh tears brimmed in her eyes as relief flooded her.“You came back.” Her heart ached as she took in the state of him. She quickly made way to let him into the house. He half walked, half crawled. “Let me help you?” She offered him her hand, but he brushed it away.  She was so sorry for saying Eric’s name. She wanted to throw her arms around his neck and tell him so.

A trail of mud and rain and grass followed him until the stairs, where he stopped to steady himself. She didn’t think about the messy footprints his shoes were making on her floor. In that moment, she didn’t care. He hadn’t left – that’s all that mattered. She wiped the tears from her face using the back of her hand. “I’m sorry,”
was all she could muster. “I’m so sorry.” She desperately wanted to be able to show him just how much.

He panted and swayed on his feet. He was soaked through, too; his shirt covered in mud and clinging to him like a second skin. His hair was plastered to his face and his jeans were no longer blue. But it was his hand that caught her full attention. As he leant against the post at the end of the banister, he cradled his arm to his chest as if it were a new born baby. Blood and mud stained the front of his shirt.

She reached out to him. “Your hand.  It’s bleeding.” Her voice was thick with guilt for the pain she had caused. She tried to touch his wrist, but Devan shook his head and backed away.

“It’ll stop in a moment now I am inside.” He sniffed, clearing his nose of the cold and the rain. With a sense of helplessness, Tara watched as he tried to wipe his face on his shoulder. He looked worse than he had when she had seen him out on the streets. This was her version of care - it did him more harm than good. He
looked older and tired, like he had been away for a long time.

“Can I clean it up? In the kitchen? I won’t touch it. Will you let me do that for you? Please?” She feared that he would say no; not because he didn’t want her to touch it, but because he wasn’t going to stay. She dared to hope that he wouldn’t leave, but part of her worried he had just forgotten his clothes and things.

Devan gave her a weak nod and relief swept through Tara. His eyes drifted shut. He breathed in deeply and Tara couldn’t help but notice how much he was shivering. She took his other hand and led him into the kitchen.

His steps were shaky and slow. She guided him to the table carefully and then wondered if she should try to support him as he sat down. She didn’t need to - he rested his palm on the table and slowly lowered himself onto a chair. 

“I shouldn’t have kissed you,” he murmured as she stood at the kitchen sink filling a small bowl with warm water. “It’s not you. I should have pulled away and stopped you. I know you aren’t ready.”

“I kissed you first.”

“Yes, but it was one of those moment things. I knew it didn’t mean anything. I’m sorry. I should have stopped it.” His eyes were on her as he spoke and she could see the sincerity in them. He really believed it, that he should have stopped it - but that’s not what she thought. It had been three years since Eric, and for the first time ever, the thought of being with someone else didn’t have her feeling as if she was betraying her husband.

She brought the bowl and a packet of cotton wool balls from the cabinet above the toaster to the table. She reached for his bleeding hand, but he yanked it back, almost knocking the bowl over.

“I won’t touch it, I promise.” His hand was hotter than before, making the water feel unusually cold as she placed it gently inside the bowl.

She brushed along his thumb and the back of his hand with her fingers, removing the dirt and mud. She ran her own thumb across his wrist, holding his hand in both of hers. If she could have stayed there just holding his hand like this, she would have. It didn’t take long for the water to grow murky.

“What is the tattoo?” she asked as she lifted his hand from the water and turned it over. She didn’t touch the swallow, just like she had promised, but she used the cotton wool, soaking it in water and then squeezing the excess over his hand until his palm was clean.

“It’s nothing,” he said after a moment.

“It has to be something.”

He shrugged.

“You don’t want to tell me? Is it something bad? Is it why hours passed before?” She searched his eyes for answers, but he wasn’t giving anything away. She didn’t know what else to ask him. All she remembered was the darkness, and that had been caused when she touched the swallow. She looked at it now, staring at the lines. She wasn’t going to touch it. “Please tell me.”

Instead, he pulled his hand free from hers and rested it on his knees. “I’ll tell you one day.”

One day? That wasn’t the answer she wanted but…
one day
. One day meant that he wasn’t leaving. That he planned to be around. She could live with one day, as long as one day wasn’t the last day.

Chapter Eleven

Devan wasn’t going to put his hand back down no matter what Tara tried. It had been cleaned and that was what mattered the most. At least now there was no risk of infection, or worse. She took the bowl of dirty water, dumped it into the sink and rinsed it out. After putting it on the drainer, she got a first aid box out of one of the cabinets. If he wouldn’t let her wrap it, she hoped he would at least do it himself. First aid boxes weren’t really her additions. They had been Eric’s. He had them in the bag he used to take out with him at night for the homeless people he helped. He used to take that bag everywhere. It was probably one of the hardest things to face after he had died. It took her the best part of two months before she dared to pull it out from the closet under the stairs Even then, it took a few hours to open it and look inside. When she had, she found nothing more than first aid supplies and leaflets for services for the homeless. She had thrown those away and put the rest in her medicine cabinet.

She grabbed one of the sealed bandages for Devan. She cut it open and found some medical tape. She filled the kettle too. Sweet tea and ginger was what her mother used to make for her when she wasn’t feeling so well or just needed a little boost. Her mother liked to add lemon too, but Tara didn’t have any of those. Just ginger would be fine, though. It was better than nothing at all.

“Will you at least let me wrap it?” she asked tentatively as she filled their cups. When there was no answer, she turned her head to look at him. Her heart went ice-cold and a chill shot up her spine. Red blotches covered his pale face and sweat ran down his forehead in rivulets. His eyes were glazed over and his lips had turned an alarming shade of purple. He sat huddled on the chair in a bid to control the violent shivers wracking his body. “Shit. Devan,” she cried, dropping everything and hurrying over to him. She touched his face. It was hotter than before; much hotter. “You’re burning up so bad. I think I might need to get you to a doctor.”

“No,” he whispered to her. “I’ll be okay. It will pass.”

“You look terrible.”

He hugged himself more, body shaking and teeth chattering. “I just need to get out of these wet clothes and warm up. I’ll be fine after.”

“A bath maybe?” She felt so helpless. He had a fever; she was sure that he needed something more than a bath.  This was why she didn’t have children. Not because they had run out of time, because Eric died before they got chance, but because she knew she would be bad at it. She wasn’t like normal people. She didn’t have that inbuilt maternal instinct that all women seem to get. Her friends all seemed to know what to do with children. When she faced one, she froze. It was different with adults, though. They were easier. They could say what they needed. Children, however? She would be solely responsible for their well-being. She couldn’t handle that kind of accountability. 

“Just a shower. That’s all. I just need to get warm. It’ll go away.” He could barely get his words out.

“You get like this often?” It tore at her heart to watch him. This was what he had to go through outside? Alone, where no one could help him? She couldn’t even imagine it. She got a cold and she would wallow in a lake of self-pity because there was no one around to help. She imagined Devan huddled somewhere in the cold and rain, getting sicker. It made her stomach churn to think about it. No wonder Eric spent so much time helping people like Devan. She knew right then that she didn’t want to ever let him go back out there.

Devan shook his head. “Not much.” He struggled to stand up. Placing his hand on the table, he helped lift himself. “Just a shower and I’ll be fine. I promise.”

“Do you need me to help you get upstairs?” she asked.

“No. I can do it.” She stood close by, though. Just in case. It would be terrible if he were to fall. There would be no way of picking him up by herself, but at least she could try to catch him before that happened. Luckily, he made it all the way up the stairs and to the bathroom.

Tara plucked a towel out from the cabinet under the sink. Then she turned on the shower and adjusted the temperature. Devan was leaning against the door, trying to catch his breath. She didn’t really know what to do with herself when the shower had heated. She couldn’t go downstairs and leave him to do everything himself. He didn’t even look like he could stand for very long. What if he fell? She couldn’t insist on staying in the bathroom either.  Indecision ate at her. What did Devan need her to do? Should she stay?

Devan didn’t seem that bothered about her presence. He fumbled with the buttons on the shirt he wore. He had chosen one of Eric’s chequered shirts. It had been loose on Devan before. Now it clung to his skin with mud and rain.

He huffed at the buttons as he struggled to get them open, then tipped his head back and let out an
exasperated sigh. “Do you want me to help you?” Tara asked.

“I can do it.” He attempted to unbutton his shirt again, but to no avail. His shaking hands and shivering frame were not making his task any easier. She watched as he flexed his bad hand as if it hurt. That was enough for her.