Twenty-Three #2
Maybe it was when Kai spun me a little too vigorously on the makeshift living-room dancefloor and I collided with a poorly placed coffee table.
Or when Heath finally succeeded in hauling my wobbly ass outside and I got extremely familiar with the gravel cutting a pathway through the front lawn.
I do vaguely remember wincing when I tripped up the steps of my apartment complex, but I remember laughing too, so, really, my injury can’t be that bad.
Although, if Heath’s face is anything to go by, I might not survive the night.
Crouched in front of me, he surveys my broken skin with fierce concentration, one hand cupping the back of my knee while the other swipes away dried blood and bits of debris with an antiseptic wipe.
‘Is an amputation imminent?’ I drawl, or at least that’s what I try to drawl. I’m not sure it comes out all that coherent – I’m pretty sure it’s nothing more than a mess of syllables.
My yipped ow, on the other hand, is perfectly clear.
Heath mumbles an apology, a calloused thumb swiping along the outside of my knee as he smooths a Band-Aid into place. His mouth a gentle upward curve, he braces both hands on his thighs and sighs softly. ‘What am I gonna do with you, huh?’
Fingers curled around my bedsheets, I lick my lips. I have an idea. Many ideas. Terrible ideas. Not right ideas.
Internally, I slap myself across the face. Hard.
Externally, I snip, ‘Leave me alone, preferably.’
‘Can’t. Pinky-promised otherwise.’
‘Well, I free you from your promise.’
‘I think that requires an amputation.’
Snorting a laugh, I forget, for a split second, that I’m mad at him.
I lean forward on instinct, I go to kiss him on instinct, on silly, drunken instinct, and I am silly, drunken confusion when he pulls away.
Like away. Like stands up and backs up a step and holds his hands out like he’s anticipating needing to keep me at bay.
‘I’m not kissing you like this.’
Of course. Why the hell would he? No one’s around. My ex isn’t watching. It’s not right.
‘Yeah. Sorry.’ Forcing out another laugh that I pray could in any way, shape, or form be interpreted as nonchalant, I try to stand.
Naturally, since gravity and I haven’t been on speaking terms for quite a few hours now, I wobble something fierce, and those pesky fucking instincts kick in again.
Have me bracing myself against a hard chest, fingertips smoothing over soft cotton, forehead feeling that softness too as it falls against a hard sternum with a thump.
I rest there for a second. Just for a second. A silly, indulgent second. Suck in a silly indulgent lungful of sweat and beer and Heath.
I exhale, and I get the fuck ahold of myself.
Pushing off him harder than I need to, I shake my head, and mentally shake some sense into the rest of me. ‘Okay. You can go now.’
‘I think I should stay.’
‘I think I don’t want you to.’
‘Dani, I know you’re mad—’
‘I’m not mad.’ I’m upset.
‘You’re upset.’
Get out of my head. ‘Why would I be upset, Heath?’
His mouth opens.
An answer does not come out.
Has anyone ever laughed this much over something so painfully unfunny?
‘Right,’ I say again. ‘Exactly. Adiós.’
With a dismissive flick of both hands, I take one step toward the bathroom before quickly abandoning any aspirations of showering off this whole icky night because slipping and cracking my head would so be the best way to end it.
Instead, I drop to sit again. I flop backwards, having every intention of wriggling my way under the covers and passing out, but firm fingers wrap around my wrists and yank me upright again.
‘Change first.’
I grumble something that’s incomprehensible even to me.
I think the words aye aye, captain, yes sir and okay, daddy are somewhere in the mix; I think tomorrow, if I remember this – when I remember this, because the universe would never be so kind as to let me forget – I’ll add that to the list of reasons I should just go ahead and perish.
Another pull – and a wince, because, shit, what the hell did I do to my shoulder? – and I’m on my feet. I didn’t see him rummage through my drawers, but he must’ve because one of my t-shirts is thrown over his shoulder, my softest and most-oversized, and I pout as pesky gratitude warms me.
I’m like a doll as he undresses me, stiff and unhelpful. He’s the perfect fucking gentleman, eyes half-shut, and tastefully averted.
For fuck’s sake. He was tickling my fucking cervix a few hours ago, but God forbid he cop an eyeful of my boobs.
‘You’re drunk, Daniela.’
I blink. I said that out loud. Of course I did. Kill me. ‘You’re drunk.’
‘Then you’re whatever comes after drunk.’
‘It was on my list.’ I’d get drunk, I told him what feels like an age ago. Really, obnoxiously drunk.
‘I know, baby.’
With a gentle push, he sits me on the bed again, but, still, he doesn’t let me curl up, he won’t let oblivion take me yet.
Instead, he subjects me to more of the worst kind of torture – care.
Attention. He bolsters those ridiculous, drunken notions of mine.
He convinces me of things that can’t be true.
He really makes me think that whatever is between us isn’t fake, that it’s more than friendship, that it’s more than like – he makes me forget the evidence proving otherwise.
He gathers my toiletries, he does my night-time routine for me, and my heart hurts so bad, I half-expect it to stop.
He’s slowly, methodically lathering moisturizer down my neck and across my collarbones when my throat starts to ache too. When words start to claw their way up it, and refuse to be swallowed no matter how hard I try.
‘Did I do something wrong?’ I rasp, whispering and utterly pathetic, cowardly gaze fixed on the divot in his chin. ‘Earlier? Is that why you . . .’
‘Oh, honey.’ A pinky curls around mine. ‘I promise you didn’t.’
I stare at our entwined fingers, unblinking, until my vision blurs. ‘Then why didn’t you want me?’
‘Honey,’ is all he says.
He doesn’t explain. He finishes my skincare in silence, and then he pulls back my sheets and guides me beneath them.
He tucks me in, and he backs up. I close my eyes so I don’t have to watch him leave.
I keep them closed, a furrow forming between my brows, when instead of receding footsteps, I hear the creak of bedsprings, feel him settle near my hip.
‘You were upset. We were both drinking. I went too far.’
‘Right. Because you crawled onto my lap.’
‘It was the wrong timing, Dani. Wrong reasoning. Making Ben jealous . . .’
‘Right. That’s what it was,’ I mean to question, but somehow find myself stating instead.
‘That’s what it was,’ Heath parrots stiffly, and, God, it sounds like he’s questioning it.
Briefly, I contemplate opening my eyes to gauge his expression, to confirm whether or not it’s my own drunken, wishful thinking.
Instead, I shut them tighter; let myself pretend, for a little while, that this is all as confusing for him as it is for me.
‘I’m sorry, Daniela. I didn’t . . . I thought you would agree. I didn’t mean to upset you.’
My voice fails me, so I just nod.
A warm weight settles on the curve of my waist. Slowly, it travels upwards until it becomes the gentle brush of fingers over my cheekbone, the drag of a thumb following the curve of my ear.
He smooths my hair away from my face, he strokes it reverently, he mumbles words I can’t quite make out, but they’re soft and warm and, somehow, I know they’re sweet.
They’re like a lullaby, soothing me to sleep.
They get a little longer, become more intelligible, so that I can make out him whispering, ‘You never have to worry about me not wanting you.’
And, ‘If you knew how much . . .’
And a quiet, wobbly ‘Stay’, that doesn’t come from him at all.
I fall asleep before I can find out if he does.