7
Laine
Girls Night In
Angelo steps closer to my side of the bed and waits until I meet his eyes. I don’t want to look up. I don’t want to look at him, but when he taps the white sheets ever so gently, I’m forced to look up or be rude.
He’s been family since before I can remember; I’m not allowed to be rude.
His long hair is tied into a bun today, and long wispy bits escape to frame his rugged face. He’s not like Graham. He’s not like anyone else I know. His jaw is stubbled, where Graham’s was always smooth. His chest is broad, where Graham’s was just sort of… there. His hands are dark from working with engine’s all day, and his forearms are thick, because of the heavy tools he uses day in, day out.
I used to work on his cars sometimes, too. A lifetime ago.
He encouraged my love of cars, and taught me how to change the oil so I wouldn’t be a cliché. He taught me how to change the spark plugs, how to re-time the belts, even how to break an engine down to nothing, then build it back up again.
I spent an entire summer rebuilding the engine in his Charger. There’s no way I could do it on my own, I don’t remember even half the things he taught me, but an entire summer spent in his garage and six billion nights of takeout, we got that engine roaring.
It’s possibly the coolest thing I’ve ever achieved in my life.
Not so long after that summer, Britt keyed a Mustang and met her now husband, then soon after that, I met Graham in a dark corner of the club my brother plays in with his band.
Not the same club that Graham took me to.
Different club.
Different worlds.
But that was the start of the spiral that led me here, and now I lie in a hospital bed with poisonous gunk running in my veins, a hatred for the ugly slash on my forearm, a wish that it wasn’t another failure in a long line of failures, and such a compulsion to wash my hands right now, I can barely hide the way they shake.
He stands over me, close, but not so close I could ask him to back up and not sound like a fool. We grew up together. We became close friends a long, long time ago over silly games and weekend parties. Asking him to step back would be stupid.
And rude.
“We’re just going out for a bit, okay?”
I probably should care, or at the very least, I should be curious why the guys who haven’t left us for a single minute all day are now choosing to step out at nearly ten at night.
But I don’t.
Maybe the hospital added drugs to my IV. Different drugs. Like numbing drugs, or a triple shot of anti-depressant or something, because I don’t care about anything except my dirty hands and the fact I want him to back the fuck up.
His whispered words mean nothing more than relief that he saidwe, which means I might be left alone for once. Alone to wash. To cry. To beg the nurses to let me go home.
But his words mean something to Jess. She cares enough for both of us. “Where are you going?” She turns on the bed and stops Kane with a glare. “Where are you going?”
“Out.”
Her eyes narrow. “Where?”
“Smoke?”
She swings her spare arm out and smacks his thigh. “You don’t smoke, dumbass. Now try again; where are you going?”
“KFC? I’m high as fuck and got the munchies.”
Her face reddens. “I’m gonna beat you with a Wiffle ball bat, Bishop. Answer me now.”
“Just out.” Leaning forward, he drops a dry kiss on her lips and jumps back when she attempts to hit him again. “Call me if you need anything, but I won’t be gone long. I promise.”