Marcos looks almost ill, with a pasty, white pallor to his face. His eyes are puffy and red, tight at the corners as though he’s in pain. No matter how badly I felt last night, nothing hurts quite like knowing I’m the reason he looks so sad.
“I went over to the loft and grabbed some fresh sweats for you,” he says, laying the bundle gently on the end of the bed. I look at the neatly folded pair of boxers sitting on top, and feel like I might cry again.
“I’ll leave you boys to it,” Uncle Jes cuts in gruffly, scrubbing his palms on his jeans. “Going to take Annabelle for a walk to stretch that leg.”
“I took care of Tuna while I was over there,” Marcos says, which earns him a proud look from my uncle. He loves it when people work hard, and don’t complain. Marcos is probably his idea of a dream son.
Alone again, I clench my fingers into the blanket to keep myself from reaching for Marcos. He’s changed into a long-sleeved shirt and sweatpants, which is probably a non-verbal signal that he’s done with skin-to-skin contact today.
“I’m really sorry,” I tell him again. “I would have justwalked back down the trail, but in the dark it’s easy to get turned around and?—”
“Nate, God, I don’t need you to be sorry. I’m just glad you’re okay. You could have…broken your neck, or shattered your leg or something. Jesus,” he mumbles, scrubbing a palm roughly over his face. “There are, like, a hundred fucking ways you could have died last night.”
And judging by the look on his face, and the despondent slump of his shoulders, he spent all night thinking up every single one of those scenarios. I want to apologize again. I want to tell him that things like this don’t happen all the time. I don’t want him to be scared of living here.
“Do you want to take a shower? Or a bath?” he asks, sitting on the edge of the bed and putting his hand on my leg.
“Yeah, actually, that sounds good. I’m cold again, which is stupid as hell. There are at least six blankets on top of me.” I gesture to the veritable mound of fabric thrown across the bed. Marcos smiles weakly.
“I brought more in while you were sleeping,” he admits. “Your uncle called some local doctor he’s friends with, and was told you aren’t allowed a hot bath right away with a hypothermia risk, but now that we’ve got you safely warmed up, you can.”
“Local doctor,” I repeat, chuckling as I slide my legs out of bed. “He called the pediatrician.”
Marcos gives me a look. “Two hours to the nearest hospital is insane, Nate.”
Standing, I lean down and kiss the top of his head. I’ll go ahead and keep to myself that two hours is a generous time frame, as that would mean there was nobody else on the road.
“I’ll shower,” I tell him, grabbing the clothes he broughtme. Yawning, I glance out the window at the evening sky. Has it really been a full day?
“Was your phone with you?” Marcos asks suddenly, and I glance over at him.
“Yeah, in the pocket of my jeans.” He grimaces, probably thinking of the way he’d chucked them into the bed of Jes’ truck as he’d stripped me in the driveway. “It’s broken, though. Completely shattered.”
My shoulders slump as I think about all the pictures I had on there that are probably gone now. Pictures of Marcos bowling and feeding Tuna and riding Friday. Pictures he’d sent me last summer when we’d been texting back and forth every day. Pictures of Marcos playing baseball, crouched down with legs spread and fingers splayed in a signal to his pitcher.
“I hope Max and Luke kept all those pictures I sent them of you,” I say sadly. “I need to replace all of mine now.”
Marcos gives me a strange look, and nudges me toward the bathroom. “You don’t need pictures, I’m right here.”
He follows me into the bathroom and I watch in amusement as he fiddles with the shower, trying to find a suitable temperature. He frowns as he does it, as though finding the perfect happy medium between scalding and warm is serious work.
“Okay,” he says finally. “I’ll be here if you need me.”
“Thank you.”
He nods, bending his neck and kissing my shoulder as he passes, closing the bathroom door gently behind him. I leave the water temperature the way he set it, and just stand under the stream with my eyes closed for a few minutes.
The cold had been so extreme that I hardly cared about the rest of me. Now, the pain in the rest of my body is slowlyflaring to life. Everything from my neck to my toes hurts, and I have a low, throbbing headache. It’s not a surprise—I wasn’t lying to Marcos when I told him this isn’t my first time being thrown. It doesn’t matter if bones are broken or not, falling always hurts.
Carefully, I clean yesterday’s and last night’s grime off as best I can. Dirty water swirls down the drain and I scrunch up my nose. God, poor Marcos. Not only was I sitting in bed this filthy, but I was pressed against him. I doubt he was comfortable.
“You really must love me,” I comment on my way back into the bedroom. Marcos looks up from his phone.
“What?”
Crawling into bed beside him, I sit close enough for my thigh to press against his. He reaches over to tuck the blankets around our legs.
“I didn’t realize I was so dirty,” I explain. “And you’ve been snuggling my nasty-ass for the last twelve hours.”
