In my freshman year of high school, I dressed up as Freddy Kruger for Halloween. The costume was intense and extra gory, showing off my interest in the horror genre. Giving Dad the photo to proudly display was one of the major regrets of my adolescent life. That and using a foundation two shades too light for my skin all of freshman year. Talk about a need to burn photos.
“Follow me,” I instructed, ready to move on in hopes he’d forget the photo altogether. “I’ll show you where we keep the first aid supplies.”
“It’s fine. I don’t want to hold you up,” he insisted and reached for the band-aid.
I snorted at the idea of having something to be kept away from, “Come on. Let me help. I owe you.”
He looked like he was ready to protest again, so I stepped out of the car before he could. For the past year, he’d come up in my mind paired with feelings of guilt and wonder. I didn’t know his name or if I’d ever see him again. All I knew was he helped, and I never told him how much it meant. I didn’t think I’d have a chance to until now.
Chapter 3
Theguydidn’tmissa beat as I hurried up the driveway again with the now lopsided umbrella over my head. Once we were under the cover of the porch, I struggled to re-close the umbrella. He offered his hand. I stared in confusion at first. Was he asking for a handshake now?
When I didn’t move, he stepped closer and took the umbrella from me. His fingertips were wet but still warm when they brushed the edge of my hand. I’m embarrassed to say I wanted his hand to linger. It didn’t.
The sensation of his skin on mine felt nice. I was a touchy, feely person from a family of people who didn’t enjoy hugging unless it was Christmas or someone’s birthday. Touch felt like my second language. So, now that I wasn’t dating anyone, I felt starved. And that could be a problem, considering I planned on staying away from dating for at least another year.
“My bad,” he apologized when he saw me massage the place on my hand where he touched me.
I shook my head, “No worries.”
He closed the umbrella without a hitch. The guy made my huffing and tugging seem like a child’s attempt at shoving a chair to the grown folk’s table.
“Here you go.” He handed it back to me. I noticed he took care not to place his hand close to mine again, keeping his finger on one end of the umbrella.
My cheeks burned when I realized his eyes were taking me in now. All of me.
All six feet, wide hips, softcore, moderately damp dinosaur loungewear, and purple head wrap of me.
“I wasn’t planning on going to the dinner,” I blurted because I wanted him to understand this was my lazy weekend mode.
“Neither was I,” he said. His tone sounded gentle enough to make me wonder if he was trying to make me feel at ease.
He seemed like the kind of polite person who would nod, even if you were spouting nonsense.
“I thought the dinner was mandatory for players.”
I opened the front door and peeked in before stepping across the threshold. He looked at me funny but didn’t say anything about my hurried tiptoeing across the hardwood floor.
“It is,” he agreed as he followed me upstairs. “But I’m not a big fan of large dinner parties.”
He followed me at a calm pace. I wanted to rush him, in case someone came into the hallway and got the wrong idea. The optics of me leading a man into my room this early in the semester weren’t great.
The adjourned bathroom I shared with my brother was the only one in the house set up. So, I led him into my room first and shut the door behind us.
“I should have something to clean that out.” I led him to the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet to find a bottle of rubbing alcohol, gauze, and tape.
“May I?” He gestured to a set of towels taking up space on a small stool.
“Oh, of course.” I hurried over to toss the towels in the linen closet where they belonged.
When he sat down, I noticed — outside of the cut on his forehead — he looked pretty put together.
Like most of the company downstairs, he wore slacks and a button-down. Except, his black slacks looked worn around the ankles. I noticed a missing button on the top of his shirt.
He’d rolled up his sleeves, revealing his tattoos but probably also hiding the fact there was wear in the cotton threading. The ink on his forearm depicted a thick forest with stars in the sky.
“You don’t have to do it. I know it’s a pretty gruesome sight,” he said when he noticed me staring with the first aid supplies in hand. “I appreciate you letting me clean up here.”
