Chapter 37
Chapter thirty-seven
Mercer
Snow falls outside the kitchen window. There’s a heaviness to the way it’s coming down now, every flake urgent and weighted in its descent.
If it continues at this rate, there’s a real chance I’ll have to cancel class on Monday.
Snow closures are a rarity at Holt University.
Lore has it that someone tried to sue the institution in the nineties, citing they “didn’t get their money’s worth” after bad weather shut down campus for three days.
Now for the most part, it’s up to professors to cancel a class at their discretion.
After the number of classes I’ve canceled so far this semester, I can’t in good conscience do it again. So I’m secretly hoping for at least one university-sanctioned snow day, if only so I can hide away and properly reacquaint myself with the woman I’m hopelessly in love with.
The floorboards creak, and a heartbeat later, Tytus meanders into the kitchen and tips his chin in acknowledgment. Then, silently, he sidles up to the sink.
I watch him, considering how to handle this next part. After the events of last night, a headache throbs behind my temples and the whole world feels fuzzy, but the opportunity has risen, so I will take it.
With his back to me, he runs the water, then adds dish soap.
“Would you like some help?” I offer. I should have already started on the dishes, honestly, but I’ve been too lost in my head all morning to think straight. Too preoccupied by the story Sawyer and Tytus shared and concern over the extent of the damage I caused.
Tytus glances over, the sharp angle of his jaw making his scowl even more pronounced. Onyx eyes as dark as my own bore into me. “I’ve got it,” he says flatly.
Jaw clenched, I hover. It feels wrong to sit back down and watch him do the dishes. After an awkward beat where he is focused on the water filling the basin and I’m watching him, I snag the towel hanging from the handle of the stove so I can offer to dry.
When I turn, he’s lifting the cast iron skillet Noah used to cook (more like burn) the eggs in, a tense pull at the corners of his mouth.
I rush back to the sink, one arm outstretched. “Here, allow me.”
With a grunt, he angles his body away from me. “I said I’ve got it.”
As if to prove him wrong, the pan slips from his hand and lands in the soapy water, splashing all over the counter. And us.
Got it, he does not.
“Fuckin’ A,” he curses under his breath.
“Are you hurt?”
Surely he’s been given restrictions, and that skillet must weigh at least five pounds.
With a sharp breath in, he grips the sides of the sink, head hanging low.
“I’m fine,” he clips out through gritted teeth.
Considering the way his knuckles have turned white, he certainly is not.
“Fuck.” He straightens and tugs at the front of his shirt, which is now soaked.
He lifts the hem away from his body and tugs it up, inspecting the bandages scattered across his stomach.
At the sight of his wounds, my gut churns and shame swamps me.
A humorless laugh escapes him. “I’m not supposed to get the dressings wet.”
“Go take care of that,” I insist. “I’ll handle the dishes.”
He studies me, shirt still pulled away from his torso, a quiet apprehension behind his eyes. Like he wants to be obstinate. Or maybe he just wants to make sure I remember why he’s bandaged and hurting in the first place.
The reminder isn’t necessary. It’s all I think about these days.
His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows slowly. Then, eyes darting to one side, he whispers, “I can’t reach the bandage that wraps around my side. Sawyer helped me this morning. I…”
Understanding dawns.
“Come on.” I drop the towel and march out of the kitchen before I lose my nerve. “There’s a first aid kit in my room.”
He follows me, his feet scuffing along the floor, and stands in the doorway while I collect my kit.
“Take your shirt off,” I tell him clinically. “Go stand by the bed.”
That way if he gets lightheaded, at least he’ll have a soft surface to land on.
I dip into the bathroom to scrub my hands, then snag my kit off the counter and make my way over without meeting his gaze.
Three of his bandages are saturated, and one has a couple of questionable wet spots.
Head still down, I say, “I’ll change these four, if that’s all right with you?”
“Fine,” he says, emotionless.
“Stay standing.”
I lower to my knees, then put on a pair of gloves and get to work.
Taking off the bandages is easy enough—the medical tape is wet and lifts easily in most places, and Tytus’s chest is hairless, save for the dark happy trail peppering his lower abdomen.
When I’m peeling off the last bandage, he grunts, the sound low but full of pain.
“Sorry,” I murmur.
I don’t look up to gauge his reaction. I can’t.
Instead, I keep focused on the task at hand, never allowing myself to look at any one spot for too long.
That night, the paramedics performed some sort of emergency procedure before they whisked him off to the hospital.
From the research I’ve done when I can’t sleep, I’ve concluded it was some sort of needle aspiration.
That means the healing incisions I’m exposing now are from an additional surgery.
He’s recovering from internal bleeding and a surgery that was only necessary because of me.
“I know the dressings were just changed, but I should clean the incisions anyway.”
It’s an overbearing precaution. But I can’t stand the thought of inflicting any more damage.
“Do what you gotta do, prof.”
With individual alcohol wipes, I sanitize each wound, working carefully but quickly. He doesn’t even flinch.
When I’m certain I haven’t missed anything, I carefully re-cover each area with clean gauze and medical tape.
As I’m working on the last bandage, the one that wraps all the way around his midsection in order to cover a small circular wound above his hip, Ty speaks.
“You’re good at this.”
It’s not a compliment. Simply a remark.
Still, I refuse to let the opening, regardless of how small it is, pass by.
“I used to self-harm,” I confess, the words emotionless.
I remain focused on the task at hand as I explain. Anything else has the power to unravel me.
“Harm reduction practices include cleaning wounds and bandaging them properly to avoid infection. I learned to tend to my wounds at a young age. I have an EMS certification, and I train volunteer counselors on best practices so they can teach others. Noah’s good at it, too.
If you ever need help and I’m not around. ”
I work up the nerve to look up at him then, and the empathy radiating from him nearly knocks me over.
“That’s—fuck. That’s a lot.” He shakes his head, his lips pressed together. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
Scrutinizing him, looking for the underlying message, the cutting remark I must have missed, I rise to my feet.
“What?” he asks, his brow pinched.
Words escape me. I don’t know what I expected him to say or how I wanted him to react. But treating me with kindness after what I’ve done is beyond what I deserve.
I don’t know why I even shared that with him.
Defensiveness creeps in like a shield. Brows raised, I huff. “I just admitted to a personal weakness—you don’t feel compelled to weaponize it against me? You’re not going to throw out a sarcastic jab?”
Keeping his focus fixed on me, he reaches over the bed for his shirt.
“Wait.” I put a hand out. “Let me get you a dry one.”
I shuffle to the dresser, pluck a dry T-shirt out, and hand it to him.
He gingerly works it over his head and smooths the front in place. Then he turns his attention back to me. “I don’t think you and I are going to be best friends anytime soon.”
Understatement of the fucking century.
“But I promised Sawyer I’d make an effort.”
My gut bottoms out.
That’s it?
After what I’ve done? He can’t possibly be prepared to forgive and forget that easily.
Off-kilter and a bit emotional, I fall back on sarcasm. “You not taking an easy hit at me is the equivalent of making an effort?”
He smirks, shaking his head. “You’re really fucking sassy, you know that, prof?”
There it is.
But Tytus doesn’t give me a chance to volley a witty remark his way before he goes on.
“Look. I’m a hothead. Always have been. People love to talk about fight or flight.
But I grew up being locked in a cage on a regular basis, where flight wasn’t an option.
My instincts are to lash out. When I’m worked up or pushed too far, I slip into a dark, mental shutdown.
I can feel it coming on, like a headache.
The world gets fuzzy, and I go numb. It’s really fucking hard not to sink into the darkness sometimes. ”
He drops onto the bed, his shoulders slumped, his expression one of exhaustion.
My mind reels. Damn. Between what he and Sawyer shared this morning and the darkness he fights regularly… Jesus H. This kid’s so deeply damaged.
Yet he’s still putting in the effort. He’s still willing to try.
Glancing up, he presses his lips together and shrugs. “There. Now you have something to weaponize against me. We’re even.”
That sentiment nearly forces the air out of my lungs.
“I—I didn’t mean—”
Tytus shakes his head. “Imagine what it would be like if we both stopped rehashing the last couple of months. If we stopped trying to drag each other through the mud for how we acted before last night.”
I swallow down the shame that threatens to force out another apology. I’m prepared to spend a lifetime groveling for what I did. The idea of just letting it go is as disarming as it is enticing.
“So we have to be nice to each other from here on out?”
He scoffs. “I wouldn’t go that far, old man. Ragging on you and your middle-aged best friend is becoming a favorite pastime for me.”
I crack a smile.
God dammit.
“But if we agreed to a fresh start,” he says, “it would be a helluva lot easier to move forward.”
Tension crackles between us as I scrutinize him. Part of me still doesn’t trust him and is waiting for him to burst out laughing at my expense.
But when he holds out his hand, it sinks in. This is real.
In one jerky move, I step forward and grasp it.
“To fresh starts,” I offer.
He huffs. “It’s a handshake, prof. Not a toast at our wedding.”
Right. Fresh starts don’t change who we are at our cores. I’ll need to remember that.
“Thanks for this, by the way,” he adds, smoothing over the bandages now covered by his shirt.
I dip my chin. “Anytime. I mean that.”
He sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Honestly I’m hoping I won’t need to recover from another injury like this anytime soon.”
And here comes the shame again. Fuck.
“Fair enough.”
“Think I’ll lay down for a while. I can sleep on the couch if—”
“No.” I cut him off. “Please. Stay in here. The blackout blinds are great. Rest for as long as you like. I’ll let Sawyer know where you are when they get back.”
He nods and mumbles a thanks as I quietly leave the room, humbled but grateful.