11. Haley
11
HALEY
A unt Cindy picked me up as usual, but when we got home, it was clear I wouldn’t be staying there. Instead of her nagging spells, she was under a depressive one. The medications she took for her condition could wreak havoc on her in good ways and bad, and it all took a toll on her mentally.
After checking that she was set with all the creature comforts she usually liked—a cozy throw, her favorite TV series to binge, that “special” ice cream, and some other snacks within reach, I took the keys and left. She wasn’t overly gloomy when these depressive times hit, but she liked her solitude to get through them. I could’ve hung out in my room after dinner, but I wanted the peace and quiet at the library instead of the loud TV.
Yeah, I really should’ve gotten new earbuds over the Black Friday sales…
Going to the main library on campus was always a pleasure, though. I would miss this enormous building once I moved out of Marsten. Books had been my constant companions my whole life, and I doubted that would ever change. There was something magical and soothing about being surrounded by so many options and worlds to explore.
I stayed away from the fiction aisles. If I got started down those, I’d never resurface for any studying. And tonight, I wanted a head start on my next Brit Lit assignment. Going over Lord of the Rings was easy. I’d reread all of Tolkien’s books several times now, but finding the research material for comparisons to it? That was something easier done with tangible paper copies rather than what I could find online.
With a couple of short stacks of books on a table in the back near the restrooms, I was set to explore and take notes to my heart’s content. That serenity of quiet and the relaxing sensation of doing what I wanted to, on my own terms, lifted my spirits.
So it was only fitting that it wouldn’t last. Nothing did, good times or bad. They both fluctuated and never stayed constant.
Because the sight of Eli walking into the library definitely triggered my good mood to sour.
And fast.
I furrowed my brow, watching him enter the big, open space of the main floor. After his weird attempt of sitting by me at the food court earlier, I felt like it’d be wise to maintain more space from him. A bigger buffer to protect myself from any more of his dumb pranks or jokes or proclamations of caring about my being made fun of or bullied.
Watching from this corner, and glad that he likely wouldn’t see me right away because of a single potted tree next to my table that gave me slight shelter, I wondered what the hell he was doing here.
What, no party tonight?
No ladies to take to bed?
Done with the fun and games and bored?
Seeing him in the library didn’t add up. He didn’t belong here with the other nerds and introverts like me.
Yet, he was there, dressed in an unzipped coat, his thick brown hair mussed like he’d been walking all night without a hat.
Wait a second…
He didn’t approach my table, not seeing me, but he seemed too random and lost anyway. With his gaze lowered as he seemed to amble mindlessly through the open room of the library, I wondered if he was cold. The tips of his ears seemed red. His cheeks were pink, too, like he’d suffered from wind burn.
I squinted, leaning over to try to see him clearer across the big space.
Is that blood?
Curiosity tugged at me, and I hated how it turned so swiftly into downright intrigue, then something that seemed a lot like concern.
In the process of slanting over to peer at him, I brushed my shoulder against my water bottle and it tipped over. With the lid closed, water didn’t spill, but the narrow shape of the insulated metal bottle smacked down on the table with that loud clang. Teachers always complained that they sounded like a bomb when they fell to the floor, and despite this table being polished wood, the audio effects remained the same.
Loud. Disrupting. Annoying.
Many students and fellow visitors at the library turned to glower at me, damning me for making a ruckus in a building meant to be silent.
But worst of all, as I righted my bottle, Eli followed the source of the loud sound. He pivoted, almost in slow motion, and faced me directly.
It was blood.
On his brow, his lip. I bet there were several other places, too. That had to be why he was shuffling, not because he was cold from the outdoors but because he was hurt.
And before I could rationalize why I had to keep my guard up, I was impatient to help.
He walked toward me, his lean face not smirking or smiling for once. A dull, passive blankness showed in his tired gaze and frowning mouth.
Before he got to my table, I pushed my books aside and set my water bottle further over.
“What happened to you?” I asked, blunt and to the point.
I didn’t ever make a habit of initiating a conversation with him. I hadn’t since fourth grade, when he seemed to be too cool for me. But tonight was an exception. He looked like he’d gotten in a terrible fight.
He shrugged, idly looking down at my books and notepads.
“Are you… mad?”
He cleared his throat. “Are you asking that as in am I crazy?”
“Are you angry?” I asked. I couldn’t get a good read on him, not with that sullen face. He looked like he was one inch away from committing murder but also just as near the chance that he could slump down and be dejected about the sad state of the world, like Aunt Cindy was doing at home.
“Never mind.” I shook my head. “None of my business.” Besides, what difference would it make if he was mad or sad or anything else? It wasn’t as though I could help him with any of those.
“I was mad,” he admitted, sitting in the chair next to me.
Crap. This was like déjà vu, his just inviting himself to sit with me. Unlike that little stunt at the food court, though, I couldn’t guess why he was voluntarily being in my presence now. None of his friends were around. No one was around, really. The library was mostly vacant in this corner.
“Mad about that crappy grade we got?” I asked, pulling my bag over to see if I still had a pack of tissues in a pocket.
He huffed. “I wasn’t.”
But… you are now?
Talking about a bad grade seemed like a petty, moot point when he had clearly been in a fight.
Eli had always struggled with keeping his grades up. He had potential, but he needed to go at his own pace. Still, if he had an issue with caring to do a good job on his work in college or turning things in on time, that was his problem. Not mine.
As he zoned out, just sitting there and staring at nothing, I hated how he instantly became my problem. Against my better judgment, I twisted on my seat to face him.
“You’re bleeding,” I commented matter-of-factly. Red drops had fallen from the cuts on his face, but as he held out his hands that had been shoved in his pockets, the raw cuts on his knuckles showed that they were leaking more blood than his face.
“What the…?” I shook my head and opened my water bottle to wet a folded piece of tissue.
“It’s not that much blood,” he said without injecting much emotion in his argument.
“But it is blood.” I reached closer, dabbing at his knuckles to wipe the blood away. The first touch of his warm skin surprised me. Making physical contact with my bully seemed so wrong when I was doing all I could to convince myself that keeping my guard up was the smart thing to do.
This wasn’t the first time, though. As if the act of wiping his hands off could take me back to the past, visions of doing this very thing before flitted through my mind.
Back when he played football as a boy and came to the public library with cuts and bruises, I’d have a Band-Aid to offer him. I’d step up as his friend and clean his scrapes. And other times, when he’d be at the playground at school and show new injuries. I knew his love for football hurt him. It wasn’t a gentle sport, but with how intimidating Mr. Young was, I formed a hunch many years ago that Eli’s father might be abusive. He was so strict, so proper and rigid. I never dared to go near him, certain he was too religious and self-righteous to have a positive opinion of me or my family.
But now, I had to wonder.
Who did this to you, Eli?
I wouldn’t ask. I couldn’t. Inquiring about how he’d been hurt was not keeping my guard up. Earlier, his presence felt like a trick. These cuts and bruises were real.
“I’ll handle it,” he said, tugging his hand away.
I kept a grip on it, not stopping. “I can help.”
“I didn’t ask for your help.”
“Clearly.” Before he could speak up again or protest, I cleared my throat. “Maybe you shouldn’t get in so many fights,” I scolded.
“Like you give a shit,” he said, tossing my own words back at me.
I looked up at him, seeing the charming boy I used to know. For once, that Mr. Popular act wasn’t on. He looked at me with a little challenge, but not with the heat of a fight.
“I do care,” I said. Tipping my chin at the books on the table, I said, “I care about not getting blood on the books and my notes.”
He laughed once. “Oh. You’ll care about the books. Not me.”
I can’t. I used to, when we were younger and innocent like kids were prone to be.
But he’d bullied me for too damn long for me to admit I cared about him. I was showing him that I was concerned. I wouldn’t offer to help clean him up if I were that cold-hearted.
I couldn’t handle the deep stare he locked me in. It was too probing. Too honest.
Lowering my gaze, I wetted more tissues and moved on to the knuckles on his other hand.
I could be the bigger person. I could set my issues with him aside.
Nothing would ever convince me that the nice, sweet Eli I used to know so long ago would ever be back.
Only the bully.
Soon enough, he wouldn’t be in my life at all. And once again, I couldn’t understand the pang of pain that hit me in the chest at that idea.