I climb the stairs, telling myself I’m okay. While I’m climbing, I forget to inhale through my mouth. The smell of blood makes my gut clench. Pain moves through me in tight waves.
“Don’t…don’t dream about me. Okay?”
Fuck, I hate it when I hear things over and over.
I have to climb up the other flight of stairs to my room, where I’ve got my shit. A first aid kit. I take it to the bathroom and open the box. Maybe I lick my lip. I don’t know, but I get blood on my tongue and start t
o shake again.
I shut my right eye—my only working eye—so I can’t see, and bring my mostly numb left hand up to my face. I need to use the Dermabond I have to glue the wound shut.
“Let me look at it. I’ll drive you if you need to go somewhere.”
This shit with her is fucked up. So fucked up. I put my right hand on the partial wall that separates the toilet from the sinks and shut my eyes.
“My name is John, and I’m from Breckenridge. I heard you’re Bear from California. You like vodka? Cause I’ve got some good shit…”
I wrap my arm around the wall and feel the hard, cool plane of it pressed against my ribs and hip.
I grit my teeth. I’m tired of this shit. Fucking tired.
I take a few slow breaths and lean on the countertop. As I wash my hands, I start reciting the “Pledge of Allegiance.” Better than counting, and doesn’t make me think of Breck or the team the way “The Lord’s Prayer” does.
I find a few small mirrors in a drawer filled with women’s makeup and try to get a look at my head. I can’t see the wound. It’s probably been at least an hour since it happened, and I’m still on my feet, so I figure she didn’t give me another epidural hematoma.
I pull out a little stool that slides under the counter. The movement makes my head throb.
“Tell…my mom…”
I can hear Breck’s mother sobbing as I try once, twice, three times to get my unsteady fingers to rip open the wrapping on a hospital-grade saline syringe. I start to sweat. My throat feels tight and full.
I have the urge to go to the window and look down at Gwenna’s house.
Up close like that… Seeing her…
I rub my forehead.
I’m losing my shit. Going out there like that, near where she was. Then she saw me and I had to go to her. That or leave her thinking someone’s watching her.
Someone is watching.
I shoot some saline into the wound and try to keep my breathing steady while I look for a wash cloth to get the blood off my face and neck.
That’s when the doorbell rings. And rings. And rings and rings and rings.
I put my head in my hands.
“You can’t let her in,” I whisper.
Maybe I should stop this watching her. Just wait till the house closes. Then do what I have to do and go.
I can’t. Without it… I don’t know what.
The doorbell rings some more. My shaking hand manages to get more saline in the wound. I let it sit a second, focus all my senses on the deep, sharp sting.
SEVEN
Gwenna