“Do you need a ride?”
“Huh?”
“To the hospital?”
“Oh, uh, no. No thanks.” I doubt it’s broken. He doubted it too. There’s a pregnant pause, and I glance back over the edge to see Warren rubbing his palm back and forth over his shaved head.
“Bryce is gone.” He sounds cautious, as if he intended to say something else.
“Okay.” I try to speak loud enough for him to hear from below while also juggling a tone of indifference.
“Sorry, uh, about him earlier.” So hedidsee.
I peek over, and he looks up as I look down. Our eyes meet for what I think may be the first time. I don’t immediately pull back. I might like viewing him from up here.Not so tall now, are you?
“Can I look at your nose?” he asks.
“What?”
“I want to make sure it isn’t broken.”
“I didn’t realise you had a medical degree.” I feign surprise.
“I fix cars, not people. But I’ve been in enough fights to know a broken nose when I see one.” How many fights would that take?I think back to the psych evaluation given by the CPS. How extensive had itreallybeen?
“Fine,” I squeak.
I make my way down the spiral staircase as he watches each placement of my feet. I stop in front of him as he leans on the dining table. Even with him in an almost sitting position, I still have to look up at his face. I salute as I stomp my feet to signal my position, as if I was lining up in front of an Army general. The side of his lip curls up slightly, but his eyes grow weary. I tire him, I think.
The all-too-familiar feeling of embarrassment over being “too much” flares. My adoptive mom did that too—made me feel like I was being too much at all times. She spent most of my adolescence trying to tone me down. It’s been a few weeks since they video called me from some random bar in Barcelona to tell me there was a drink called “The Chloe.” Damn, I should probably call them.
“It may not be broken, but it’s not looking good.” Warren’s thumb is placed down on the apple of my cheek, his words and touch bringing me back from my trailing thoughts. I resist the urge to close my eyes.
“Well, it’s probably for the best. Wouldn’t want Luke thinking I’m too hot right out of the gate. Better to pace myself.” I make the joke to set him at ease, but he doesn’t look any less concerned. “Seriously, it doesn’t hurt that bad. All good,” I say.
He studies me, and I swallow without meaning to.
“When did you start making your feelings smaller for other people’s benefit?” he asks, his narrowed eyes focused intently on me. My head involuntarily retracts, jarring my nose.Ow.
“I—I wasn’t.”Shit, I might have been… but how does he know that?
Warren pushes his lips into a frown as he nods. “Okay.” He rises from the table’s edge. “I’m gonna get my shit put away.” He walks directly to his room without looking back once.
I’m stuck in the spot he left me in, contemplating a question I had never once considered before.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I spent most of the day at the hospital with Willow. The hundreds of wires she started life with have now diminished to one tube split between her nostrils, forcing air into her little lungs to help them expand. Cautiously optimistic, her team and I have made a plan for her to come home next week. My notebook has begun filling with medications, doses, and specialist appointments that she will continue to need for the foreseeable future.
On my bus ride home, most of the women my age are with a gaggle of friends. A few of them towards the back pass around a flask when they giggle and check to see if the driver is looking. Another group is dressed to go dancing and scrolling on their phones. None of them are headed home at eleven on a Saturday night to sit by themselves.Just me.
When I finally arrive at my apartment’s front door a half hour later, there’s music playing from inside. Not loud enough to upset the neighbours but loud enough for me to recognise it from the hall. The unmistakable sounds of “I Think We’re Alone Now,” by Tiffany. I smile to myself, knowing I’m most likely about to catch Warren jamming out to an eighties classic.
As I slip off my shoes, I can’t help but speed-walk down the hall towards the sound coming from the TV. Warren is sprawled out on the sofa. The TV remote is resting on his chest, and his hands are raised out in front of him, playing an invisible drum set. A laugh escapes me, and he opens his eyes. He scans me briefly before giving me a polite upward nod and lying back down, his hands finding the rhythm again.
Warren isn’t even a little embarrassed, and I’m a teeny bit disappointed. Where does all his confidence come from?Can I get some of it?
I don’t move—I like this song, and his sporadic but intentional drumming motions are sort of mesmerising to watch. His eyes clench tighter as he commits to the drum solo, and I can’t help but smile. Maybe there’s a guy under the hardened exterior that likes to have fun. Someone who likes eighties music and couch-drumming.
