26. Kate
“Keep him awake for a little bit longer. I think he’s safe to shower, but don’t let him be alone too long.”
Steven’s instructions are loose marbles in my head, thrashing every which way. Watch for vomiting. Watch for seizures. Slurred speech, agitation, more vomiting. He communicates this to me like I’m not sitting here stunned and traumatized from what I just witnessed.
One second I’m giving Malcolm one last thumbs up, and the next I see him lifted into the air and taken to the ground with blunt force. The biggest senior from South blazed a path across the field and tackled Malcolm so hard I could hear the impact from the sidelines. I had to watch as the giant climbed off his limp body as he lay flattened out on the turf.
Steven and Daniels rushed the field in seconds, but I couldn’t move. My body was in shock. Seeing him lie unconscious did something to me that I’ve never experienced before. My fight-or-flight response was paralyzed at the sight of Malcolm’s unmoving body. Relief washed over me when I saw him move his legs.
“Call me if you need anything.” Steven gives Malcolm one final look over, shining his fancy pen light in each eye for good measure. “I think he’s going to be fine.”
“You bet I’m fine, buddy!” Malcolm sounds half-drunk, and the giddy laughter he lets out every few seconds really adds to the effect.
His obscure behavior eases some of the pent-up anxiety squeezing my chest. I sniffle and wipe the wetness from my cheeks. I haven’t stopped crying since they helped him off the field an hour ago. Steven presses a hand on my shoulder, giving a reassuring squeeze as he leaves our room. Malcolm waves at him manically with both hands high in the air. His shoulders dip as he lets out a happy hum, his blue eyes glazed over with innocence. Another tear escapes the corner of my eye. They are acting of their own volition. I have no control.
“Knock, knock.” Malcolm presses his hands against his cheeks as he giggles. With his concussed glee, he keeps whispering jokes to try and cheer me up. I look at him expectantly, forcing a smile. “Orange…” His smile stretches so far it might jump off his face. “Orange you glad I didn’t say yellow?” Hysterics take over, leaving him breathless and cackling at himself as he continues to squish his cheeks.
Another dang tear slithers its way down my face. Malcolm stops laughing and watches it drip off my jaw and onto my leg. His eyes are solemn as he wipes up the wet trail with his thumb. “Why are you sad?” This is the tenth time he’s asked me, his memory still wonky from the hit.
“I’m not sad.” I force another smile, wiping my cheeks and sitting up straighter.
“But you’re leaking.” He points at my cheek.
There’s a childlike curiosity in his voice, and it only adds more to my confusing emotions. I was terrified for him, and something nearly broke inside me at the image of him lying there helpless. It feels pathetic to think a big guy like Malcolm getting tackled was enough to undo me. He played football for years. He’s been trampled over in practice so many times I’ve lost count. This shouldn’t be any different. But it is, and I have no idea how to process it right now.
“I’m just emotional. I was so worried about you.” My words come out shaky, and I have to shove my palms into my eyes to block the tears from flowing. Again. It’s embarrassing how much I’ve cried over a concussion.
“You were worried about me?”
The more the event replays in my head and the turning of my insides that follows, it’s becoming clear to me that worried is an understatement.
He bats his eyes at me playfully. The guy is out of his wits. This is the most lax I’ve ever seen him, even after the accidental drink mix-up at the New Year’s party two years ago. He sang “Piano Man” on top of a toy piano he found in Emma’s coat closet, a cappella and off-key. It was a miracle he didn’t snap the thing in two. Even then, he wasn’t nearly as befuddled as he is right now—giggling, blushing, and stumbling on every second word. It’s adorable, yes. But it’s not Malcolm. And I keep getting choked up watching him wander aimlessly around our room, gazing into the abyss like he’s pondering life from a different point of view.
Malcolm stumbles toward the bathroom, gripping his lower back with both hands. “My back,” he mutters.
“You were hit pretty hard.” I reach for his anti-inflammatories on the bedside table. “Maybe you should take a hot bath.”
“Oh yeah?” He stands up a little straighter. “A bath, you say?” He wiggles his eyebrows as a sly smirk pulls at his lips. “Care to join?”
“Malcolm. Geer.” I toss the medicine bottle at him, which he catches with ease. Glad to see his motor skills are still intact.
“I’m just kiiidding.” He stretches the word out as he draws his head back and stumbles back a step into me.
“Careful now.”
“What if I fall?” he pouts, whispering over his shoulder to me.
“You’ll be fine.”
“Alriiight…” Stretching his words again, he lets his shoulders fall then whispers, “I’ll take one…all alone.” The swell of his bottom lip juts out with force as he stares at me. I instinctively push it back in with my finger, which I realize is a mistake when he nips at it.
I yank my hand away, guarding the bitten appendage. “You are a crazy man!”
“Crazy about you. Boop.”
He actually boops my nose before scurrying away and shutting the bathroom door. This six-foot-two, surly man, who thinks any physical touch outside of a handshake is asinine, just booped me on the nose.
Crazy about you.
His words cling to my brain like syrup, thick and sticky. A sweet satisfaction trickles through my senses and leaves a freaking mess of everything. We were supposed to talk tonight. I was supposed to set boundaries and tell him all this flirting—or whatever the Florida heat has done to our brain cells—needs to simmer down so we can go back to normal before we go home. I had it all worked out in my head. An easy, simple conversation about the importance of our friendship, and my goal to find someone, and how it’s become clear that the two very separate aspects of my life are now bubbling over into each other. I have always considered myself a flexible person, going with the flow of things like it’s my job. And being a high school teacher, sometimes that’s all I can do. But something about this situation with Malcolm has me all over the place emotionally, and going with the flow is just not going to cut it. I can’t let myself get worked up over his face or his lips anymore. I can’t be having emotional breakdowns when he gets plowed over by a group of teenagers. Putting myself back out there requires a level head and a well-oiled wheel of emotions.
But my cogs are all out of sorts because of this man, and I clearly can’t have a conversation with him when he’s booping me on the nose.
I hear a small thud followed by a slew of curse words, and I jump to the bathroom. Swinging the door open, I find Malcolm wrapped in a towel on the floor, his long legs stretched out in front of him as he holds the tub stopper over his head like a trophy.
“Are you alright?” I ask behind a stifling laugh.
“I need help.” His pout seems to be permanent at this point.
I let out a sigh and reach around him to turn on the water. Filling the tub is a test of self-discipline as I try to focus on the temperature of the water and not the bare chest and arms sitting at my feet. I sidle past him once it’s ready. “All set. Be careful, please.” He salutes me then giggles again as he pulls himself up.
Time passes in slow motion as I listen to the splashing of water, hums, and snickers that happen on the other side of the bathroom door. The last few days’ events replay in my head, adding to the pressure forming behind my eyes. I press my palms into my forehead, resisting the urge to ask myself, What are you doing? The entire Eric situation, the Malcolm situation, not to mention the dating app notifications that have been silenced since we landed in Florida. My brain hurts from all of this confusion, and I’ve done it to myself. The chaos is my own doing.
A loud slosh of water happens, and I can hear Malcolm getting out of the tub. Clearly, tonight won’t be productive in solving one of my issues. But I can rest confidently knowing that one of them is put to bed—Eric. It doesn’t always take the universe to tell me when a door is meant to close, and that one closed a long time ago. Sitting up against the headboard and letting the tension in my limbs release, I feel something in my chest release as well. A tight knot unravels—one that’s needed to for years, but I was pulling in the wrong direction, tightening it. The weight of holding a grudge against my ex, and refusing to date because of him, starts to dissipate.
The bathroom door creaks open, and Malcolm emerges, fully clothed, with a towel draped around his neck. Steam rolls off him in waves.
“How was your bath?” I ask.
“Good.” He nods, and I half-expect him to be back to his normal self until he says, “But very lonely.” He gives me a pitiful pout and a wink, solidifying that Malcolm is still completely out of it.
“Well, you’re going to have to deal with it.” My tone is an eye roll enough, which causes him to pout even harder. “You are Mr. Lone Wolf tonight, sir.”
“Aww,” he whimpers, “Kitty Kat…”
“Ew, absolutely not.” I rejected that horrendous nickname long ago, banning it from every name scenario that I might ever find myself in.
“What? You don’t like it?” He puts his hands on his hips, one eyebrow raised. I should blame his injured brain cells for his lack of common sense right now, but the way he stands there, confident that he is the one who should be offended when he was the first person to boycott the nickname, just about pushes me past the edge of sanity.
“We should get some sleep.” I fear we are both headed for hysterics if this continues.
His eyes widen and eyebrows twitch, itching to wiggle suggestively. “Together?”
“Yes, Geer. We’ve shared this bed already. Slow your roll.”
“Oooh, goodie.” Clasping his hands together, he bounces once on the balls of his feet, delight swimming in his eyes. He dives onto the bed, Superman style, with a wide grin plastered on his face, landing so hard he has to reach out to grab my arm so I don’t fly off the bed. He winces in pain and rubs his forehead, settling on top of the comforter.
Brushing a strand of gold hair away from his face, I ask, “How bad does it hurt?”
“Meh.” He presses deeper in the center of his forehead with his thumb. “I’m fine.”
We sit there for a moment, silence passing between us slowly as he releases his finger from his head. A small red blotch marks the pressure point he was holding, directly in the middle of his eyebrows. He lets out a breath, blinking his eyes open and squinting at the ceiling. The lights around the bed are dimmed, a thin ray of moonlight coming through the crack in the curtains, the rest of the hotel room hidden by shadows. If I weren’t next to him in this bed, I wouldn’t be able to make out his face. His blue eyes are almost icy when he turns to face me, the moonlight flickering across his face as the curtains sway next to us.
“Am I acting different?” he asks, his voice still light like before, but there”s a twinge of speculation underneath, as if he’s starting to feel more like himself and can tell that he is acting cuckoo.
“A little.” I smirk. “But it’s kind of adorable.”
“You’re kind of adorable.”
“You keep saying things like that.”
“I mean them.”
“You’re concussed.”
“Am I?” he asks contemplatively.
I bark out a laugh. “Yes. You are the epitome of concussed. I hardly recognize you.”
“Weird. I feel like myself.” He shrugs, turning to face the ceiling again.
“You are definitely not yourself. You’re saying the most off-the-wall things, probably thinking them too.” I laugh again, watching him watch the ceiling. He stays upright against the headboard, his usual metal rod posture on display against the wood of the bed. Not everything about him is different, that’s for sure.
“I’m not thinking anything out of the ordinary.”
“You sure about that?” I pose the question, twisting to face him better. “Earlier you called Steven Stevie Poo.”
“What?” He looks mortified, wide blue eyes crystalizing with terror. “You’re lying.”
“Scout’s honor. You said, and I quote, ‘I think you’re the best, Dr. Stevie Poo.’”
Malcolm throws his hands up to his face, pressing his palms into his eyes, and lets out a humiliated groan. I can’t help the laughter that bubbles out of me. It flows out faster than the waves at high tide on the beach, one on top of the other. I laugh for who knows how long before I collect myself and take a deep breath. When I look back at Malcolm, he’s watching me. A smile pulls at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes are serious—and fixed on me.
“What?” I ask around a gaspy breath.
“You’re beautiful, Kate.”
“You’re delirious.” I try to shove his arm, but he catches my wrist, pulling a swift maneuver that drapes my arms around his shoulders and my torso across his chest. The movement makes me dizzy. That and the smell of his soap. A splendid kind of dizziness that makes me breathless, clinging to him like my life depends on it.
“I mean it.” He strokes a piece of hair away from my face, grazing his thumb down the side of my cheek. Wild tremors move all over me at the motion. His eyes are heated as they scan me, feeling like a warm caress on my face. “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on.” He rests his hand on my collarbone, and my chest heaves under his fingers as they trickle back and forth. His touch is tender and slow, but the intensity in his eyes is blazing.
“I think…” my voice trembles and eyes flutter, fighting to stay open and focused. “I think you need sleep.”
“I need you.” He continues stroking, moving up my neck and down my shoulders with both hands.
My voice is a weak whisper in response, “Malcolm…”
I don’t know what to say. I can’t get my brain to focus on anything but his hands and the slight parting of his lips. For a moment, I feel lost in the sensations, the burning in my chest, the tingling in my arms and legs, the tremble in my lips, my body reacting to him in a way it never has. My mind and body feel fragile, vulnerable, like they’re far from one another, in places they’ve never been, being held together by Malcolm’s touch.
I reach for any sense I have left floating around me, but before I can pull away, his hands are gripping my face and pulling me flush against him. His lips crash into mine with a soft hunger, slow at first, then growing in intensity. Before I know it, I’m kissing him back, surrendering to the decadence of his mouth on mine. The taste of sweet mint tingles my lips, and the scruff on his face nips me in all the right places. The fragility of myself tethers to him like a lifeline, my emotions swirling around in a chaotic whirl around us.
I feel greedy, gripping at his face, his shirt, his arms. Anything I can touch, I reach for. I rake my hands through his damp hair, and his lips tremble in response. Need rushes through me, like a jolt of lightning from my head to my toes, reaching every end of me. His heart hammers in his chest against mine, his breathing rapid and uneven. His hands move from my face, down my spine, and around my waist. I can feel the resistance in his squeeze, the urge he’s fighting to pull me closer. I want him to.
Then he stops.
Pressing his forehead against mine, lips swollen and breath heaving, his eyebrows are furrowed with pain etched on his face. “I’m sorry,” he breathes.
“Your head?”
He nods slowly, the motion worsening his pain. I slide over next to him and pull him to me, letting him rest his head on my chest. He lets out a sigh of relief and relaxes under my arms. I squeeze him tight against me, and he follows suit, wrapping his arm around my waist as he settles into the mattress. The pounding in my chest starts to slow.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers again.
“Don’t be.” I run my fingers along his hairline and down his neck, and he smiles under my touch. “That was poor timing, kissing with a head injury.” I laugh softly, and his smile widens.
Head injury. The stupidity of my decision to kiss him back plows its way into my brain, destroying any post-kiss elation I was feeling. He’s concussed. Did I just take advantage of him? Does he realize what just happened? Will he even remember this tomorrow?
As my mind begins to spiral, Malcolm reaches up to stroke my cheek. His eyes are heavy-lidded and ready for sleep. One stroke, then he pulls back his finger, pointing at me. Boop.
He lets out a half-giggle with a snore following quickly after.
Yep, this was a mistake.