Exposed

Chapter Twenty-Two

"Eager to change another diaper anytime soon?"

Matteo scowls at me, removing the towel from his waist, his chest still dripping water from the shower. "I don't think I'll ever recover from that."

"It's not every time. I think maybe he heard us talking about it," I say, trying to braid my hair.

"Yeah, yeah, you're just trying to see that again."

"Well, it was pretty funny."

He purses his lips, amused. "Has he done that to you?"

"Many times. I've gotten it on my face before, so don't feel too bad."

He grimaces, observing what I'm doing. He walks over to me after a moment and surprises me by taking my hair into his hands. I drop my arms, looking at him through the mirror as he begins to braid my hair.

"How do you know how to braid hair?" I ask in amazement. He smiles, glancing up at me through the mirror.

"I used to braid my mother's hair. It was down to her waist, a little longer than yours."

I smile. "What did she look like?"

He breathes in. "Everyone said I looked just like her, but I didn't see it. She had yellow hair. It looked gold in the light. Green eyes. Her skin was darker than mine too. She was beautiful. Everyone thought so. She sang too."

"Sang? Really?"

He nods. "Yes, she was rather religious, so she'd pretty much only do it around the house or at church."

"I've never heard you sing," I observe, frowning. I know he's heard me more than once. He's laughed enough at it.

"You don't want to. It's not pretty."

I hum, enjoying the feel of his hands. "I find that hard to believe. You're so musical."

He smiles and backs up, finished with the braid. I turn in place, glancing at it.

"Wow. You do know now that I'm going to ask you to do this all the time?"

He kisses my hair, turning. "I don't mind."

I take a deep breath, and twist in the chair towards him, a question plaguing my mind. "Have you ever gone back to your hometown? Do your parents have a place where they're rested?" A place where they're rested? Come on, Emma. You can do better than that.

Matteo looks up at me, his hand pausing in his drawer. "Why?"

"Have you ever been to see their graves?"

"No."

"Will you ever?"

He stares at the drawer. "Not if I can help it."

"Okay."

I don't want to poke the giant. I don't want to trigger him. I stand from the vanity, fixing the straps to my nightgown. He doesn't let it go.

"Why do you ask?"

"No reason. Just a question."

He looks disbelieving. "Just a question?"

"I wonder sometimes... if it would be healing for you."

"My therapist thought the same thing," he admits, breathing in. "I... don't think I could do it. I don't want to see headstones with their names that sit above dirt. Their bodies aren't there. They aren't there."

"I understand," I say, nodding. "I do."

It's rare to ever get him to speak about them. I don't want to push him further, especially in our fragile state. We had a good day, there's no doubting that. I want it to last. Once he's dressed, he comes to the upturned covers, sliding in next to me.