34. Adrian
THIRTY-FOUR
ADRIAN
“I’m sorry,” I say for at least the tenth time while I inspect his foot. Somehow, with the dumb-ass dashing through the dark jungle, I got away with superficial scratches while Dylan looks like he’s been in a fight.
There’s a long, bloody gash on his right cheekbone, and the skin around it has turned a purplish color. His chest and back are covered with scratches. Same goes for his legs and arms. I covered all of them with antiseptic ointment.
He kept shaking his head whenever I asked if it hurts, but it must’ve because he was squirming and twitching every time my fingers came into contact with his skin.
“Sorry,” I say yet again when my thumb presses against the arch of his foot, and he jerks.
He sighs and sends me an exasperated look.
There are dark shadows under his eyes, and he looks exhausted. Neither of us has really slept because I’m an idiot who kept sitting on the beach waiting for a rescue ship that never came the whole night through.
By the time it got light outside, any sign of there ever being a ship anywhere near the horizon was long gone.
I’m getting increasingly more convinced I imagined the whole thing.
Dylan winces and lets out a hiss when I prod the nasty gash on the arch of his foot.
“Sorry.” I wince.
“Stop apologizing,” he grumbles.
“Sorry,” I say again.
He massages the bridge of his nose and sighs again.
“There’s a sliver of wood in your foot,” I say. “I have to dig it out or it might get infected.”
He scrunches his nose in disgust and every muscle in his body tightens as if he’s bracing himself before he nods.
“Do it.” There’s nothing but steely-eyed determination in his voice, even though I know how much he hates this. Under normal circumstances he’d be in the ER demanding anesthesia before he’d let anybody “dig” something out of his foot like I’m about to do.
I lift his foot up again. His whole leg is heavy with tension. Not only is the splinter huge, it’s also deep in there and the end has broken off. I have literally no experience or any discernible skills in this, and no tools either, other than the knife and the scissors.
I look up at him.
“I might need to… help it along with the tip of the knife a bit?” No doctor has ever sounded this uncertain. “Just to get a better hold of it,” I say with what I hope is at least some cool and calm.
Dylan makes a face. “Don’t give me a step by step of what you’re going to do. I don’t want to know.”
“Fine, fine. A surprise it is, then.” I go and get the knife and hold it in the fire for a bit before I coat it with the antiseptic ointment.
That’s about as much as I can do to sterilize it, and it fucking better be enough.
I wipe some over my hands, too, even though the bottle is half empty, and we need to conserve everything we have in the first aid kit.
Then I take a deep breath out of sight of Dylan, because if he’s brave enough to let me dig that splinter out of his foot then I can at least be brave enough to pretend I can do it.
I put his foot in my lap and inspect the wound for another second, plotting out the best course of action.
Dylan’s foot twitches.
I look up. He’s very pale.
I slide my thumb over the uninjured part of the arch of his foot. A tremble runs through him.
“You remember that time Jax broke his nose?” I ask. He doesn’t say anything, but when I look up, he nods. Haltingly, but he nods.
He takes a deep breath.
“He was trying to impress that girl, Leah Waterman.” I shake my head. The tip of the knife cuts into Dylan’s skin. He winces and clenches his hands into fists. “He was such an idiot.”
“It was cute.” Dylan’s voice is strained, his eyes squeezed shut.
“Oh come on. It was dumb as fuck. What kind of sixteen-year-old girl is going to be impressed by a twelve-year-old doing half a pull-up on the monkey bars?”
“It was at least one and a half pull-ups. Let’s not minimize the accomplishment.” Dylan sucks in a breath when the tip of the knife digs deeper into the fleshy part of his foot.
I use my thumbs to try and push the sliver of wood upward.
He’s fighting the urge to pull his foot away. I can feel it. But he keeps it in place and still.
“I bet she was really impressed with all the crying that came once he fell down.”
I could really use a pair of pliers.
“I hear women like men who aren’t afraid to show their emotions,” he grits out.
I push the blade against the splinter and start to maneuver it upward out of the wound.
He sucks a breath in through his teeth. “I wouldn’t know. But that’s what people say.”
There are droplets of sweat on his forehead.
“And then the dumbass goes back the moment he gets the okay from the doctor and falls on his face again and breaks it a second time,” I say.
The tip of the knife is firmly lodged in the splinter now. I push it upward until the tip is visible.
“Hey, Dylan?” I ask.
“Yeah?” he says through gritted teeth.
I maneuver the splinter upward slowly.
“Why did the strawberry cry?”
Some of the tension disappears from his leg as he stares at me. He swallows. “I don’t know, Adrian. Why did the strawberry cry?”
“He found himself in a jam.”
He snorts as if in disbelief. I almost have the splinter.
Dylan’s breathing becomes labored once again, but he keeps still.
“Hey, Dylan?”
“Yes, Adrian?”
“Why don’t astronomers like Orion’s Belt?”
“I don’t know, Adrian. Why don’t astronomers like Orion’s Belt?”
I drop the knife, pinch the tip of the splinter between my fingers, and pull as firmly as I can.
“It’s a big waist of space.”
The splinter comes out. The fucker is huge and bloody, and there’s blood running down Dylan’s foot too. Way too much for my liking.
“Is it out?” Dylan asks, eyes squeezed shut.
“Yeah, I got it. It’s out.”
He opens one eye and peers at me. I hold the splinter up.
He snaps his gaze away. “Nope,” he says with clear disgust.
Dylan starts to pull his foot back, but I grab his ankle and stop him. “Not so fast.”
He blanches. “Don’t tell me there are more splinters.”
I shake my head. “I need to patch you up.”
I grab the bandage I brought with me. He protests for a bit—something about wasting resources. I ignore him and wrap the bandage around his foot.
Once I’m done, I don’t lift his foot out of my lap. Instead, I keep it there.
I feel… weird. Just a bit dizzy. Like coming down from an adrenaline rush, but not quite.
Sort of like it’s too much; this closeness we’re sharing here. Which is ridiculous. There’s no such thing as too close when it comes to Dylan. Without really thinking about it, I slide my hand around the arch of his foot.
It takes me a moment to realize how still Dylan has gone. When I look at him, I find him staring at me with wide eyes.
His throat moves when he swallows.
He pulls his foot away from my lap with a sudden jerk.
“Thanks,” Dylan says. “I feel great now. Thanks for the help.” He gets up on his feet and starts to back away from me. He looks alarmed for some reason.
“What—” I start to ask.
“We’re super behind on chores,” he says loudly, speaking over me. “We should get cracking. I think you should deal with fishing. Probably shouldn’t put this in the water right away.” He points to his bandaged foot. “Yeah?”
“Umm…”
“Yeah. Let’s do that, then. I’ll take care of the—” He turns around as he says it and starts to walk while still looking over his shoulder at me. He walks right into a tree. “Shit!”
“Dyl.” I’m alarmed now too. I get up.
Dylan slaps his hand against his nose, waits for a bit, then pulls it away, inspecting the palm. “Fine,” he says, still with that frantic tone to his voice. “Totally fine. Let’s just…” He points somewhere random and starts to walk away from me.
I’m so confused.