“Yeah? What is it?”
“It’s some salve I whipped up. My grandmother used to make it and I figured…it helps. It really does.”
I nod. “Okay. Thanks.”
“Here, let me…” She takes the tin and unscrews it. Rubs her finger over the top of what looks like honey or a creamy, hard wax. “Oh.” She pauses, up on tiptoes, her finger right next to the cut on my face. “You mind?”
Out of words, I shake my head.
She pats the stuff on with a touch so delicate, I barely feel it.
“Smells good.”
“It’s lavender and calendula and aloe and a few other things.” She takes the bottle I’ve brought and sets it on a coffee table, then awkwardly looks at me. “Could I…your hands?”
I put them both out, an almost familiar tightness back in my chest again, and watch her face while she dabs it on my messed up knuckles, so fucking gentle, it hurts everywhere but where’s she’s touched.
“There.” She shuts it and holds it out, all business now. “Booboo balm’ll make you better in no time.”
“Booboo balm?” I laugh.
“Yes. What? That’s what Grandma Esteban called it. It’s great for skinned knees and…” She motions vaguely at my hands. “Other stuff.”
“Thank you.”
Clearly embarrassed, she turns and sees the champagne bottle, picks it up, reads it. “Wow. You got the real stuff.” She looks up from the label. “You didn’t have to.”
“You don’t think so?”
“You know what I mean.” Her smirk’s got that sharp edge I can’t get enough of. “Like you said before, I’m a foregone conclusion.”
“I’d never really assume that.”
“All right. Well, good, because, um…” She stands there, looking smaller than I’m used to, paler, too, with an awkward edge that makes me want to, hell, build her a nest or some weird shit, wrap my arms around her and hide her from all the crap the world can throw at her. “Actually, I, um…”
I go still, watching her.
“I think we should call today off.”
I can’t think of a polite response.
“You know, it’s just…my house isn’t the right place and, I don’t feel… I guess I mean…” The sentence fizzles off into a frustrated exhale.
I grab the champagne she’s currently waving around in agitation. “How about we crack this open?”
She pauses, blinks down at the bottle we’re now both holding, and nods, quick and tense. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.” She looks at my face, takes in my smirk and rolls her eyes. “Stop it, okay?”
“All right.”
“This is hard. I don’t know how to?—”
“Doesn’t have to be hard, Kit.”
“Sure. Whatever.”
“You nervous?”
“What do you think?”
