The Muse's Undoing

“It doesn’t bother me,” I assure him, grabbing his socks as he eases himself down to the mattress again, finally releasing my shoulder where the imprints of his fingertips feel like they’ll leave bruises.

My nerves are slowly dissipating. He’s not annoyed with me. It’s the situation he doesn’t like, and I can’t blame him. Few people are as fiercely independent as my brother, so I get that asking for help isn’t in his wheelhouse.

“You mind staying at the house a few days?” he asks.

“Uh…” I’m not expecting that. “Yeah, no, if it’ll help.”

“You don’t have to work?”

“I can take a few days off.” It’s not like I’m out saving the world. I work at a hotel as a bellhop, and my boss loves me, so I’m sure she’ll understand if I say I have a family emergency.

“Our parents are too old to have to deal with this,” he says.

“They don’t mind either, you know?”

“I do.”

Fair enough. Our parents are in their mid-sixties. Depending on what all Fischer needs help with—and I can only assume it’s going to involve bathroom activities—I can see why he wouldn’t want our mom, or my dad with his bad back to have to do whatever needs doing.

Once his socks and shoes are on, I stand, looking down at him as he looks up at me. I can’t get over the mess of his hair. “Want me to fix that?” I ask, pointing at it.

He attempts to run a hand through his matted curls and sighs in what sounds like defeat. “Sure. And if you have to shave it off, go ahead.”

I cringe at the thought. I like his hair. It stands out, and it’s hard to think of Fischer without thinking of his unruly waves.

It takes about twenty minutes with a shitty comb and my fingers, but I manage to unlock the mats. Then I get it wet and run my hands through it a few times.

“I can’t wait to take a shower,” he says, his eyes closed as he lets me lightly massage his scalp.

“Are you allowed to?”

“Not exactly. I can’t get the bandages wet.”

I take my hands off his head. “Maybe the nurse mom hires’ll be cute.”

“No,” he says firmly.

“No?”

“I don’t want a nurse. For two weeks I’ve had stranger’s hands all over me, and I can’t—look—I hate to ask you this, I know you’ve got a life and shit—it’s just until the bandages come off, but if you could help out—I’ll pay you.”

I point at my chest. “Me?”

“Please.”

“Please?”

My brain snags in a weird loop of sponge baths and scrotum stitches. The soundtrack is groans of pain when I inevitably hurt him because I don’t have a fucking clue how not to.

“Forget it?—”

“No,” I say suddenly, holding up my hand to stop him for pushing me away again. If this is the only way to have the big brother he systematically deprived me of for my entire life, I’ll take it. Sponge baths and all. “I’m happy to help.”

A flicker of vulnerability flashes across his face. It goes away fast, but still, he averts his gaze, his insecurity running so rampant, I feel it in my own chest. He waves a hand over his lower body. “This doesn’t gross you out?”

“What’s gross about it?” I ask. He got hit with a piece of concrete, among other things. Who’d expect that to look pretty?

His throat bobs, and I stop looking at his throat. I have kind of a thing for Adam’s apples, and it’s probably best not to notice Fischer has one. I get that he’s my brother, but he’s adopted, and he did everything he could to make sure I didn’t think of him as my actual brother growing up by making himself as scarce as possible since the moment my sister and I were born. I know the guy who runs the deli near the hotel where I work better than I know this guy, which is to say hardly at all.