I nod again. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”
His eyes roam over my face again, jaw clenching as he lingers on my chin. He squeezes my hand one more time between his before releasing me and backing out of the parking spot in one swift move. As we drive in the direction of his house, I stare straight ahead, thawing out in the hot air, defrosting my fingers by holding them up to the vents.
“You didn’t punch her back?” he asks after a while.
I glance at him in surprise. “How do you know?”
“Your knuckles look fine. Your hand’s not swelling.”
I flex my fingers. “No, I didn’t hit her back. But…”
“But what?”
“But I wasn’t nice.”
Shame courses through me as I recall the horrible words I threw at Alexis. No, I didn’t punch her back, but I egged her on. I let my anger get the best of me. I let alcohol cloud my judgment. I said awful, nasty things. I tried to fight back, but at what price? I allowed my mind to be invaded by memories ofhimand his words and that night?—
Don’t.
Wes shoots me a look like he doesn’t believe me, but he doesn’t ask any more questions for the rest of the drive. Despite his silence, I can tell by his body language that he’s upset. His shoulders are stiff, his jaw clenched, and the sparkling light he normally exudes is all doom and gloom at the moment.
I hate myself for veiling him in shadows.
When we pull into his driveway, he shuts off the car and comes around the front again, helping me out, though I can manage on my own. I shiver as we make our way up the steps, and only once I’m inside the house do my teeth stop chattering.
I vaguely register that the interior is back to its normal state, no more birthday decorations or trash bags cluttering the entryway. In the living room, I spot Kaden and Ben seated on the couch, watching a show on the TV.
“Where did you go in such a hurry?” Ben asks, before looking up. His mouth gapes when he notices me, and he fumbles for the remote, pausing whatever’s on screen. “What the fuck? What happened?”
Kaden looks over as well, and his shocked expression mirrors Ben’s. “Okay, who do we need to kill?”
I don’t answer. Neither does Wes. “Where’s the first aid kit?” is all he says, his deep voice carrying the same restrained emotion from the car.
“In the downstairs bathroom, I think,” says Ben, getting to his feet. “Let me get a bag of ice.”
“I think we have frozen peas,” says Kaden. “I’ll get you some water.”
“Thanks,” Wes says, before guiding me again, down the hall to the door at the end. I step back while he rummages through the cabinet, pulling out band-aids and disinfectant.
When he closes the bathroom door, I finally look at my face in the mirror.
FOURTEEN
Wes was right.It’s not good.
My eye is red and swollen and splotchy, and I can tell it’s only going to get worse. My chin is angry and bleeding in some spots, and it almost looks like I was scratched by a big cat.
“What am I going to do?” I whisper, my stomach sinking. “The speech.”
How am I going to give my speech on Tuesday with ablack eye?As if my confidence wasn’t shaken enough already…
I feel Wes’s heat at my back. His hands settle gently on my shoulders, before easing down over the tops of my arms. It’s a surprisingly calming gesture, and I meet his eyes in the mirror, relieved to see that some of the darkness has lifted. “It’s going to be okay. You’re still going to kill the speech.”
Incapable of forming more words without crying, I press my lips together and nod. Wes’s frown deepens, like he can tell I’m on the brink of tears, and he squeezes my arms. His voice is a soothing timbre when he says, “Shh, don’t cry, Ives. It’s not as bad as you think. Everything will be okay. I promise.” Swallowing, I nod again, and he manages an encouraging smile. I latch on to it. “Now, I think you should wash those cuts onyour chin before they get infected. Then we’ll bandage them up, okay?”
I nodagain, a full-blown bobblehead incapable of speech, and do as he says, clenching my teeth against the sting of soap in the open wounds. He passes me a towel to pat my face dry, and then I turn to face him, my back to the edge of the bathroom counter. Without warning, his hands close around my waist and he hoists me onto the granite in one effortless motion, bringing my face closer to his eye level.
I remain still as Wes applies the antibiotic cream to my skin, a look of absolute concentration on his own. His hands are gentle, his fingers almost graceful in the way they tend to my wounds, and I would feel at ease if my heart wasn’t racing at his proximity.
