[quieter]
Going to show my sorry excuse of a dad, too.
[several moments of silence, then, muttering]
… Fuck. I’m such an idiot. Why did Istall?Why didn’t I get up and run like Dean? Standing around like a moron while everyone passed me… you’re a goddamn idiot, Seyoon. Just like he said: You can’t do anything right. You always—AH!
The door to the shed opens. I scream before I can stop myself, belatedly slapping a hand over my mouth. The moon backlights the figure, concealing them in shadow.
“You know,” the person says. “You shouldn’t take the confession booth so literally.”
It’s Dean. His voice is groggy. Did I wake him up?
“Were you eavesdropping? This is a private conversation.”
“No, it isn’t. That’s what I mean. This isn’t a place to air out your frustrations. This is going to be edited straight into the episode. You should think about what you’re comfortable sharing with the cameras—with the world.”
I blink, glancing at the camera in the corner of the shed. “I was just trying to explain my side of things…” Although maybe I did overshare there at the end. Shit. I’ve never been good at holding back.
Dean steps away, and I exit the confession booth. No one else has stepped out of the cabin, so he’s the only one who caught that embarrassing slip. I give him a once-over, standing barefoot in just a hoodie and some pajama pants.
“How much did you hear?” I ask.
“Would it make you feel better if I lied?”
Huffing, I walk away toward the bonfire pit. Dean follows, taking a seat on the log next to me. “It might have,” I grumble.
He’s quiet. Then, “I never said you can’t do anything right.”
“What?”
“In the confession booth, I heard you say ‘Just like he said: You can’t do anything right.’”
“Oh.” The blood drains from my face. “No, I wasn’t talking about you. It was… someone else who told me that.”
Luckily, he doesn’t pry further. Not so luckily, it means quiet hangs over us instead, so smothering that it itches. God, I hate awkward silences. And silence in general. I usually try to fill it, but I’d rather make small talk with the crickets yammering around us than with Dean. I scratch at my palms, focusing on the sting as a distraction.
“Stop that, you’re making it worse,” he chastises.
I make eye contact with him and scratch harder. When I don’t quit it, he separates my wrists. His fingers are thin and elegant like an artist’s, and his skin is hot where it touches mine. I watch as he holds my wrists in one hand, his other reaching into the pocket of his hoodie and pulling out the roll of bandage from earlier.
“Oh,nowyou want to finish the job?” I say.
“Yeah, I do. That okay with you?”
There’s a sarcastic bite to his question, but he waits for permission. Slowly, I nod. Dean begins wrapping the bandage around my palms, clumsily weaving it between my fingers. Twice, he pauses before undoing his work and trying again.
“Are you nervous, or just bad at this?” I ask.
“Hey.”
Still. It’s an unexpected kindness. I look off into the forest, pursing my lips. He finishes up without a word, dropping my wrist once he’s done.
Umma didn’t raise an ungrateful daughter. “Thank you,” I say. “And thanks for interrupting me in the confession booth. I probably would’ve said something I regret.”
“Call us even. You did save me from falling off the zip line.”
“Are we really even if you’re the reason my hands are busted in the first place?”
