I stare at him.
“What?”
His eyes squeeze shut like he’s bracing for impact. “Atremendous amountof whiskey was involved.”
I let out a slow breath.
Oh.
So he’s not dying.
He’s just an idiot.
“Oh my God,” I whisper. “Is it huge? Is it crooked? Embarrassing? Where is it?”
“All of those are excellent questions,” he mutters.
Images flash through my brain—dragons, daggers, something misspelled in cursive across his ribs?—
“Does it hurt?” I ask. “What did you get?”
He scrubs a hand over his face again. “It’s fine. I just… forgot about it.”
I stare at him.
“And that’s why you screamed?”
“Ididn’tscream.”
I just raise my brows at that.
His jaw flexes.
“Well? Are you going to show it to me?” I ask.
“... Maybe later.”
And there it is. A clean line drawn between what we were and what we are.
Not my business.
He may have given me my reasons, but ultimately, I’m the one who ended this. I’m the one who asked him to leave.
So why does my stomach pull tight? Why does it feel… wrong… that he’s done something to the body I know better than my own—held, memorized, claimed—and now I don’t have the right to see it?
“What did you do?” I whisper, more to myself than to him.
I reach for the door, but he just narrows the gap even further. “Tell the boys I’ll be there right after my shower.”
“Wait,” I say. “Should you be getting it wet? Do you need bandages? Ointment? I brought a first-aid kit.”
He just… stares at me. Or maybe through me.
“What?” I demand.
“Nothing, it’s just—the waterslide,” he says. “I can’t take Blakey down it like I said I would.” He tightens his jaw, and I know that look. He’s mad at himself. “No pools. No slides. No…”
I fill in the rest. “No snorkeling. Beckett.” I close my eyes, taking a deep breath in through my nostrils. “We’re on a cruise. What were you thinking? Do you even have the aftercare instructions?”
