“You make it look so easy,” I said when Gerard put the final touches on an exquisite-looking chocolate éclair before handing it to me. It was late Saturday evening, he had closed the bakery over two hours ago, but we were still messing around in the empty kitchen, while Gerard trialed new recipes, and I trial tasted every single one of them. “Oh my God!” I could have wept with joy when I took a bite, and the delicious combination of fresh cream and melted chocolate attacked my senses. “So … good!”
He grinned at me. “It’s good, huh?”
“Better than good,” I agreed between bites. “Gerard, you are seriously talented.”
Chuckling softly to himself, he walked over to where I was sitting on the counter and picked me up in one effortless move before setting me back down on my feet. “No asses on the counter, babe.”
“Oops,” I replied, leaning against the counter instead. “Sorry, chef.” I wasn’t. I didn’t care, but he was so abnormally responsible when he was at the bakery, that I humored him. I knew it had a lot to do with the fact that Gibson’s Bakery was one of the few things Gerard had left of his father. It made me happy that Sadhbh had stepped in and kept the bakery running after Joe died. It was one of the few places Gerard still had that hadn’t been infected with the Allen stamp. Because this was Gerard’s legacy, and it was beautiful to know that he was finally showing an interest in claiming it.
With his blue hair net on, and an apron that said never trust a skinny chef, he looked ridiculously cute, as he washed up at the sink.
“You look adorable.”
“You know I love it when you stroke my ego, Claire-Bear, but somehow I don’t think calling a seventeen-year-old lad adorable is a compliment.”
“It is in my world.” Pushing off the counter I was leaning against, I grabbed my coat and bag. “So, listen, I have a bit of a crazy idea to run by you.” Shrugging on my coat, I removed the hairnet Gerard had placed on my head the moment I entered the kitchen earlier and smiled up at him. “And it might sound like it’s totally out of left field, but I’ve been thinking about it a lot.”
“Sounds like trouble,” he mused, rinsing his hands with a towel. “I’m in.”
“You don’t even know what it is yet,” I laughed, hanging my bag off my shoulder. “What if you hate the idea?”
“If it’s your idea, then I won’t hate it.” Removing his apron, he hung it on the hook with the others, and snatched his hairnet off. “Besides, you’ve just given me your entire Saturday by hanging out here and keeping me company at work.” He pocketed his wallet and car keys, before moving for the light switch. “I can give you my Saturday night.”
“Oh yeah?” I replied, tone flirting. “You want to give me your weekend, Gerard Gibson?” Moments later, we were bathed in complete darkness. “Gerard!” I yelped, startled by the sudden blindness even though I knew it was coming.
“I’ll give you all my weekends, Claire Biggs.” His hand reached for mine, fingers entwining in that familiar way I treasured. “I’ll give you my weekdays, too.”
“You were right,” Gerard declared later that night, as we stood side by side, with him in his boxers and me in a t-shirt and knickers. “I hate this idea.”
I slipped my hand in his. “You can do this.”
“No.” He shook his head. “I can’t.”
“You can do anything, Gerard Gibson.”
“Most things,” he agreed, and it broke my heart when I felt the tremor running up his arm. “But not this.”
“Trusting you isn’t the problem here, Claire-Bear.” He continued to stare at the giant, oval bathtub in my parents’ downstairs bathroom like it was the enemy. “It’s the sheer, unadulterated terror that’s clawing its way out of my throat that’s making it cause me a problem.”
“I know you’re scared,” I urged, turning to look at him. “And it’s okay to be scared, but you need to be able to sit in water before I can teach you how to swim. So, I was thinking the bathtub would be the best place to start. It’s private and no one will see you, so you don’t have to feel awkward or embarrassed.”
“I don’t need to learn how to swim,” he strangled out, eyes wild and fearful. “Because I have no intention of putting myself in a position where I need to enforce that skill ever again.”
“I have so much faith in you, Gerard Gibson.” Reaching on my tiptoes, I cupped his face in my hands and stroked his nose with mine. “You can do this.”
His hands moved to my waist, fingers kneading the fleshy part of my hips, as he breathed deep and slow, clearly trying to self-regulate. “It’s just a bath.”
“Yes,” I agreed, voice barely more than a whisper, as I continued to stroke his cheeks with more affection than was healthy.
His breath fanned my face when he whispered, “And you’ll be with me.”
“Always,” I vowed.
A pained groan escaped him, and he dropped his brow to rest against mine. “I’ve got this.”
“You have,” I breathed, shivering from the feel of his hands on my bare skin.
His entire frame was rigid for the longest time, and when he didn’t say a word for a solid three minutes, I honestly thought this was as far as he was prepared to go, but then he surprised us both by saying, “Fine. Let’s just get this over with.”
“You’re sure?” I asked warily.
“No, but you are and that’s good enough for me,” he replied, sounding just as uncertain. The way he was eyeing the water broke my heart, but I didn’t let him see. Instead, I plastered on the brightest smile I could muster and stepped into the tub.
“You’ve got this,” I said, holding a hand out to him. “And you’ve got me.” Always.
His gaze flicked from my outstretched hand to the water lapping at my shins. A long beat of tense silence settled between us before he finally made a move. Gingerly, he stepped into the tub, one foot at a time.
The minute both of his feet were submerged, he exhaled a ragged breath and looked at me in surprise. “I did it.”
“You did it.” Bursting with pride at his huge, monumental breakthrough, I beamed up at him. “Now, I need you to turn around.”
“Turn around?” he repeated uncertainly.
I nodded brightly. “Trust me.”
Blowing out a shaky breath, he turned around achingly slowly until his back was facing me. “Good job,” I praised, resting my hands on his waist. “This is excellent, Gerard.”
Asking Gerard to do this had been an extremely risky move on my behalf, because there was a very big chance that it could have gone the other way. While I couldn’t relate to what he had been through, I could relate to the panic. Because I had felt that panic when I was five years old and he disappeared beneath the waves. I’d endured that helpless panic while he was in the water, and for many minutes afterwards when they were trying to revive his lifeless body.
The image of seven-year-old Gerard blue and limp lived rent-free in my mind. I rarely suffered from bad dreams or nightmares, but when they came, it was always the fear of losing him twice.
“What now?” he asked.
“Now we sit.”
“Nah, I’m good standing, thanks.”
Fully expecting my request to be met with refusal, I lowered myself into the tub until I was in a sitting position. “You’ve got this,” I repeated, holding my hands out for him to join me. “I’m right behind you, I promise.”
“Why don’t we have a shower?” he asked, twisting around to look at me. “I’m good with showers.” Sounding panicked, he pointed to the chrome shower fitting on the wall. “I have no fucking problem with showers.”
“Because you need to be immersed in the water,” I explained patiently, watching as he bounced from foot to foot. The nervous energy emanating from him was stifling, but he had made it further than he ever had in the last ten years, and I was tenacious. “You’ve got this, Gerard.”
“I’ve got this,” he repeated, more to himself than me, as he reached down to grip the sides of the tub, only to freeze in a hunching pose with his back to me. “I can’t.”
“I’m right here,” I whispered, reaching up to touch his back with my wet hand. “See? It’s okay.”
The muscles in his back twitched and he jerked violently. “Fuck.” The sensation of water on his skin was clearly causing him emotional pain. “Fuck, okay, I … fuck.”
“I’ll count you down, okay?”
“Okay.”
“You’ve got this,” I encouraged, reaching up to hold his hips. “Three, two, one … and sit.”
Nope.
Nothing.
Gerard didn’t move an inch.
“Three, two, one,” I repeated calmly. “And sit.”
Again, nothing.
Not even a twitching toe.
Dammit.
“Okay, stay right there.” Shifting onto my knees behind him, I reached over the side of the tub to grab a scrunchie. “I have a plan.”
“Don’t fucking leave me, Claire!” Gerard choked out, hand shooting out to grip me.
“I’m not going anywhere, I promise,” I coaxed, retrieving the scrunchie and dunking it into the tub to soap it up. “I’m just going to wet you.”
“Wet me?”
“Uh-huh.” When the bath scrunchie was wet and soapy, I gently dabbed his back without squeezing it out, letting the water trickle down his skin instead. “How’s that?”
“Okay,” Gerard replied, still positioned like he was about to bolt over the rim of the tub at any given moment. Seriously, he reminded me a whole lot of Brian in this moment – fearful and mistrusting.
“Your back is so long,” I mused, paying careful attention to every freckle and scar on his body, as I slowly washed him. “You’re so tanned, Gerard. Your skin is beautiful.”
“So is yours,” he answered, but his tone didn’t hold its usual hint of flirty banter. It had been replaced with terror.
Desperate to soothe the anxiety in him, I leaned in close and pressed a kiss to his back.
“Claire,” he bit out, shivering. “Don’t tease me when I’m in dire straits here, babe.”
“Hey, Gerard?” Feeling devilish, I dropped the scrunchie and reached for the hem of my drenched t-shirt instead. “Want to see my boobs?”
“Do I fuck,” he choked out, craning his head back to look at me. “The answer to that question is always, Claire-Bear. Always.”
Laughing, I whipped the fabric over my head and tossed it over the side of the tub.
“Damn the inventor of bras,” he complained, trying and failing to get an eyeful of my body. “Jesus, that was cruel.”
Cackling with mischief, I reached for his hips. “Sit in the water and I’ll show you more.”
“Liar,” he huffed, but I felt his body slowly relax. “No, you won’t.”
“You’ll never know if you don’t try,” I laughed.
“Hm.” He lowered an inch, and then another one, until he was kneeling in the water, hands still gripping the sides like his life depended on it.
“Look at you,” I praised, reaching up to rub his big shoulders, as I shifted my legs so that I had one on either side of him. “The things you do for boobs, Gerard Gibson.”
“The things I do for you, more like,” he corrected.
“Okay, so, I’m going to put my hands here,” I explained, wrapping my arms around his waist to rest on his hard stomach. “And when you’re ready, I want you to rest your back against my chest, okay?”
“You won’t put water on my face?”
“I won’t put water on your face,” I vowed, feeling him slowly lower himself into a sitting position in the bath.
“I can keep holding on to the sides?”
“For as long as you need to,” I agreed, thrilled when I watched him slowly lower himself until his back was touching my chest. “I’m right here.”
“Believe me, I know,” he bit out, full body shuddering. “It’s the only reason I’m doing this.”
Keeping my arms wrapped around his waist, I shifted slightly so that my back was resting against the tub, and his big body was nestled between my thighs.
“It’s on me,” he breathed, looking panicked as the bubbly water lapped against our bodies. “I don’t want it on my face.”
“I’ve got your face right here,” I assured him, using my cheek to nuzzle his. “I won’t let you go under.”
“I’m going to hold you to that, Claire-Bear,” Gerard groaned, still gripping the tub.
“Can you do something for me?” I asked a little while later, still keeping a firm hold of Gerard’s waist, knowing that he needed to feel my touch to keep him relaxed in this moment. He needed to feel like he was being held up, even though he couldn’t sink deeper. It was a psychological reaction to the trauma he’d endured as a child.
“Hm?”
“Relax your arms.”
“Think of the boobs, Gerard.”
“Jesus Christ, what am I doing?” he muttered as he reluctantly relinquished his hold on the cast-iron bathtub and placed his hands on his stomach.
“I’m so proud of you,” I whispered in his ear, using one of my hands to cover his. “You’re amazing, do you know that?”
The feel of his hand in mine felt so epically right that I had to remind myself that this wasn’t a romantic thing. I was trying to help my friend. That was it. We were friends. Right this moment, we were in our friendship era and nothing more. Stem the raging hormones, Claire.
“Why do you do it?”
“Hm?” I mused, still nuzzling his cheek with mine. “Do what?”
Gerard turned his hand over, palm up, and entwined his fingers with mine. “Waste your time on me?”
“For two reasons,” I explained, feeling my heart beat harder. “First, because I happen to believe that no time is ever wasted when I’m with you.” My cheek grazed his temple as I spoke. “And second, you’re my favorite person in the whole world. There’s no one I would rather spend my time with.”
“Really?”
“Really, but don’t tell the girls.”
“Never.”
“Now, close your eyes, Gerard. Take in the feel of the water on your body, and how safe you feel right now.” Resisting the urge to press a kiss to his temple, I stroked his cheek with my nose and clamped my thighs around him instead. “I want you to replace the memory of that day with this one.”
