I wrap my arms around myself and squeeze, to push back against the ache rising in my chest, and that’s when I notice that I can see the trees edged with reddish-gold light.
The sun is rising.
This early, traffic is practically nonexistent, so we’re the only car at the next gas station we pull into. I tie Malcolm’s hoodie around my waist to cover my hip, and request the bathroom key from the attendant inside. He gives me a concerned look, and I can feel his eyes on me as I go back out to where Malcolm is waiting. The two of us walk around the corner to the bathroom and squeeze inside.
As far as gas station bathrooms go…it’s not the worst one I’ve seen, but I still have to breathe through my mouth. There’s a toilet, a small sink, and one of those warped reflective metal domes that’s supposed to act as a mirror.
With our backs to each other, we start stripping off our dirty and bloody clothes. I hiss when I have to peel the denim down my injured thigh. It’s good that I saw Malcolm’s torso the night before; the perspective allows me to examine my own scrapes and bruises somewhat detachedly. The cut on my hip doesn’t look too hot. In a perfect world, I’d have gotten stitches; instead, I clean everything as best I can, then settle for a butterfly bandage and some gauze before carefully pulling on my new jeans.
I leave my old shirt on for the next part: dyeing my hair. Turning to grab the box, I notice that Malcolm is still trying to get out of his T-shirt, breathing slowly through his nose.
It’s not going to happen. The best bet is to cut it off. I grab the scissors and slice straight up the back before pushing the ruined shirt off his shoulders.
“It looks better,” I say. Better, in this case, means yellow and green streaks on his torso now, and the bluish and purple spots are smaller than before. And he’s standing straighter, not leaning slightly to his left anymore. I’ll make myself sick if I think about what he must have looked like on that first day.
“Yeah.” He reaches for a wet paper towel. “Not sleeping in a trunk, five out of five doctors recommend it.”
I pretend to search for something in his bag while he washes off the sweat, grime, and dried blood that clings to his skin. He’s visibly annoyed at needing my help when I face him again. I take the new T-shirt from his hand, bunch it up around the collar, and hold it up for his head to go through. I have to rise to my toes, because his injured ribs keep him from ducking. I think he tries to scowl at me, but it’s a weak attempt.
Before helping him with the sleeves, I make another inspection of his ribs. I have no idea what visually distinguishes cracked ribs from broken ones, other than the fact that there are no obvious protrusions. I gently pass my fingers over his blotchy and bruised side.
He pulls back. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to tell if anything is broken.”
“Since when are you a doctor?”
I drop my arms. “Since never, but if something is broken, then you’d probably need to go to a hospital.”
“And where was your concern when you made me drive over here?”
“Waiting for an opportunity. This is it. Now turn sideways.”
He stares me down for a good ten seconds before obeying. I try to be as gentle as possible, tracing each rib. His skin is hot under my fingers, and I’m not at all used to having my hands on a guy’s bare chest. Even Aiden and I kissed only a handful of times.
That realization has me snatching my hands back, heat creeping up my cheeks.
I finish checking him quickly after that. Everything feels fine, so far as I can discern. I think the most telling evidence is that Malcolm doesn’t flinch away, though he does twitch a few times.
“What? I’m ticklish. Now if you’re done groping me…” He tugs the T-shirt hanging from his neck.
When it’s on, I toss his jeans at him. “You are doing your own pants.”
That makes him smile.
Leaving him to that job, I pick up the scissors again and stare at the distorted reflection of myself in the metal above the sink.
Then I bend down to fish the photo of Mom and me from my backpack. In the picture, my auburn hair hangs long and loose, parted down the middle and rippling from the braids I’d slept in the night before. That’s what I need my hair to not look like.
Lifting the scissors, I grab a section from over my shoulder and pull it taut between two fingers. It’s the only way I’ve ever seen my hair: long, straight, and reddish brown.
I inhale and cut off a good eight inches.
Funny it doesn’t hurt. It seems like it should. I take courage from that realization and chop off a new section, and then another, working my way around my head as best I can. I try not to look at the growing pile of hair at my feet as chunk after chunk falls to the floor. I take my time, not wanting it to look like I hacked away at my hair in moment of self-induced panic, even if that is close to the truth. The last thing I do is comb the front of my hair forward, over my face, and cut straight across at eye level. I hear the metal-glancing-over-metal rasp of the scissors, and I feel it in my teeth. I have no choice but to watch these new strands float down.
Malcolm slips the scissors from my hands and steps up behind me to even out the back. Our eyes meet in the mirror, and I’m very aware of how close we are. Even if I shut my eyes, I’d be able to feel the heat from his body. I shiver and grab the box of dark-brown hair dye I bought.
Apart from those spray-in colors at Halloween, I’ve never dyed my hair before. I read the directions three times before I slip the plastic gloves on and mix the dye. Then I close my eyes, lift the bottle to my hair, and squeeze.
