Chapter Twenty-Eight
Twenty-eight
Scarlett
I spot Kian’s car in the driveway of the hockey house and breathe a sigh of relief.
I told him I’d be back, so I got here as fast as I could. I barely paid attention in class; no part of me wanted to leave him like that. It feels worse when everyone around you leaves and you’re left with your own terrifying thoughts.
I knock on the front door, and Cole opens it, his blond hair messily draped over his eyes. “What’s up, Red?”
I don’t acknowledge the nickname. “Is Kian here?”
He nods. “Yup, just got in after the gym. But great timing because we’re headed to practice in a bit.”
The gym? Have none of them noticed that he’s a wreck right now?
That’s when Dylan steps out of his room.
Looking exhausted. There are bags under his eyes, his hair is messy, and his usual clean-shaven face has grown a light beard.
When he notices me, his gaze flicks over my shoulder, as if he’ll find someone else with me, but then he focuses back on putting protein powder in a bottle.
“You here for Kian?” he asks.
I hesitate. “I can come back.”
He shakes his head. The once lively house feels like it has warped into another dimension where grays and gloom come to live. It feels wrong seeing it this way. “He’ll wanna see you.”
A tightness settles in my chest as I rush through the hall and up the steps.
I knock on his bedroom door, and it takes him a good three minutes to open it. I see it all over his face, but the instant his eyes are on me, he molds into something completely different. I can see through it though. For the first time in months, I can see him.
“I promised I’d be back,” I say, walking past him into his room.
“Thanks, but I’ve gotta get ready for practice. You don’t have to stay.”
I narrow my eyes. “You went to the gym? I didn’t think you would feel up for that.”
“I’m fine. Yesterday was just one of those days. I have it handled.”
“Kian, you don’t have to pretend in front of me. I get it.”
He chuckles, moving to his dresser to pull out clean clothes. “I really appreciate you checking on me, Scar. But I’m fine, and I know you have assignments to do. I don’t want to take away from your studying time.”
I blink.
“I just…” His breath comes out ragged, and he pauses, looking a little confused. “I don’t want to be late. I’ve got some assignments left, and that test you’ve been helping me study for.”
“I know, but that’s not important right now.”
“I’m fine. R-really…I…” His breaths become shallow, and he absentmindedly rubs a hand over his chest. “The tests aren’t just going to stop. I have to stay focused. It’s just two chapters, and then the quiz is online so—”
“Kian.” I take his hand in a firm grip, instantly recognizing his odd movements. “Forget that for one second.”
His eyes flicker, caught in a cycle of an endless to-do list. “But I have practice in an hour, and I’m running drills today. If I can start my assignment tonight, I’ll still—”
“Stop. Please. Just stop.” I press my hand to his cheek, steadying him. “Breathe.”
He freezes, his shoulders tight and his breath shallow, caught on that taut edge I know too well. I’ve seen it in Sierra before it tumbles into full panic, and I won’t let him go there.
Kian Ishida is an oak tree. Immovable. Permanent. Ready to weather any storm. Available to strip away until he’s used as firewood and turned to ash.
“Here,” I whisper, placing his hand high on my chest. “Feel it? Just follow the rise and fall. Can you focus on my voice?”
His chest rises hesitates, then dips.
I keep my voice soft, patient. “Again. In and out. Slowly. That’s good.”
He’s tethered to the rhythm of my breathing and the sound of my voice, and finally, finally, he exhales.
I find his water bottle and hand it to him. He takes slow sips, still dazed.
“That hasn’t happened in years,” he whispers more to himself. “How did you…?”
“Sierra,” I say simply. “She gets them when she’s stressed or repressing stuff.”
“But that doesn’t happen to me. Not anymore.” I can see him getting worked up again. “This is an important practice. We’re running a new strategy. I can’t be out of breath already.”
“Coach will understand,” I say. I know he will. “But playing right now isn’t a good idea. You can take off one practice. It won’t mess anything up.”
“We have our first game back soon. There’s so much to—”
I pull his phone from his pocket, scrolling through his messages. Dad’s name pops up near the top. My fingers hover a second too long before I hit send.
Kian reads it back slowly, his lips parting slightly as eyes flick over the screen. “Hey, Coach. Family emergency. My head’s not in the best place to practice today.”
The phone buzzes immediately. I peek over his shoulder.
Coach: Take it easy, Ishida. Call me for anything.
That’s the exact response I would expect from my dad, and a warmth spreads in my chest knowing he’s the kind of reliable person for everyone, especially Kian.
“See? You can relax. Nothing’s more important than making sure you’re okay.”
“You probably have things to do.”
“I only have to be here, with you.”
“I should shower,” he says, grabbing his clothes and a towel before heading to the bathroom. I stare at the door for several minutes. I hear the shower running but there’s no other movement. I hesitate briefly before twisting the doorknob. It’s unlocked.
I peek my head in. Kian’s sitting on the edge of the bathtub, his elbows resting on his knees, his head in his hands, shirtless in only his boxers.
Something cracks in my chest.
“Hey,” I call softly, crouching down in front of him. “You okay?”
He lifts his head, and I’m not sure how he’s keeping it up. It only takes one single shake of his head for me to reach my arms around him.
Kian’s done nothing but be there for every person in his life, but right now I want to be that person for him.
Slowly, I pull back. I take his face in my hands and run them through his hair. “Can I do it?”
His gaze flicks up, watching me as I move back, turning off the shower and filling the tub instead. It takes a few minutes, and I drop soap in it, letting the foam take over.
“You don’t need to do this, Scar. I promise, I’ll be okay.”
“I know. But I want to. Will you let me?”
“Yes.”
Kian’s hesitant as he climbs in the tub, so I make sure all of my movements are certain.
I strip down to my underwear, getting into the opposite side of the tub.
But I don’t let him see my surprise when he tugs me toward him all the way, until I’m in his lap.
The water ripples around us, and he leans back, exhausted.
I take the netted cloth from the edge of the tub and drag it over his shoulders, slow enough to watch the water bead and slide down the planes of his back.
The heat of his skin seeps into my palms as I move to his chest, his arms, the taut curve of his abdomen.
My fingers catch on the ridges of muscle, the soap slipping down his stomach in lazy trails.
He tenses beneath my touch but doesn’t move, watching me with a quiet focus, like he isn’t sure if any of this is real.
I drop the cloth and rinse him clean. I glance at the towel laid out on the vanity, then back at him, hoping he’ll tell me that he wants me to leave before I do something stupid like fuse myself to him.
But Kian shuts out all those thoughts. He pulls me in closer, disturbing the stillness of the water.
My throat tightens. Without thinking, I reach for his face, as if I could hold his sadness in my hands, just rinse it off with water.
I trace the droplets clinging to his lips before sliding my fingers up over his jaw and ears.
And I don’t know why I do it—maybe to fill the silence, or to fix the look on his face—but I start humming. Desperate to make him feel better.
Kian startles a little, but then his voice breaks the surface like a ripple. “How did you know?”
I blink up at him. “Know what?”
“The song.” He wipes the water droplets from my cheek. “ ‘Over the Rainbow.’ It’s—was my dad’s favorite. He used to sing it when I was sick, or angry, or—” He swallows hard. “When I couldn’t sleep.”
My heart nearly claws out of my rib cage to find his.
“Oh.” My voice feels unsteady now. “I didn’t.
I just saw your face when it played in my car that night.
Like even with everything going on, you found a single moment of peace and your whole body relaxed.
I want you to have that again. To know there’s still little pockets of good, even when you feel like this. ”
He stares at me, silent.
“I can stop.”
“No.” His answer is immediate, sharp. “Don’t. Please.”
So I keep humming. His following exhale is heavy, ragged, like it’s been sitting inside him for years. Then he starts to hum quietly, broken and rough, and my chest fractures even wider.
But we stay like that, water clinging to our skin, his voice tangling with mine. Nothing but “Over the Rainbow” and our heartbeats talking to each other.