“Fuck off!”
But he’s hobbling toward his chair, a sea of glass glittering around his bare feet.
Fucking hell.
The glass crushes loud beneath my sandals as I make my way swiftly over to him.
“I told you to fuck off,” he snarls.
“And I told you the same thing.” But I grab the back of the chair anyway, twist it around behind him and shove him down into it.
“Thanks. You can go now.”
“You can shut up now.” I brush the floor in front of him clear of glass, then kneel down. Me, back on my knees again, for Robin.
What am I doing with my life? Because even as he’s swearing at me, acting like a tipsy asshole, I’m pulling Evander’s bag down off the table, grabbing a candle from the nearby dresser. “Sit still.”
“I don’t need you to—“
“I fucking know that, birdie. Just sit there and shut your mouth for one minute.”
The glass is easy to find. I don’t even need the tweezers to fix it. But I use them anyway, pull the shard out clean and in one piece.
He’s annoyingly handsome when he bites down on his lip, too spiteful to show his pain in any other way.
“You’re being such a dick about this,” I explain patiently.
He coughs down his next sound when I spill some disinfectant on the cut, then informs me, “You’re a dick about everything.”
“So you said.” Wrapping a bandage about his foot, I ask, “Where are your shoes?”
“I don’t need you to—”
“Where the fuck are they?”
“Over there!”
“Great.”
I crunch my way across the room. It’s remarkable how he managed to spread the glass this far. I guess he’s got a good arm for throwing things.
In a second I’ve snatched his sandals up, fallen back at his feet, and yanked his leg up, since he won’t do me the great honor of lifting a toe.
He lets me fit the sandals on regardless, without kicking me in the face. Lets me strap him in, wind the leather around and around his beautiful calves, still streaked with the remnants of blue and green paint. Then I release him, let him settle his feet flat on the floor.
But I can’t stop myself now. I soak a cloth with disinfectant, take his hand in mine and press the pad to his cut palm.
His head dips back as he tries to hide the pain from me, and I do it fast to the other hand as well, to get it over with. Then I pick up the bandages and begin to wrap them around and around.
Maybe it’s just to break this ridiculous silence, but I start, “Listen, I’m sorry. I’m sorry if you thought this was going to be more than—“
“Don’t bullshit me, Marco. Just for one fucking day, for one fucking minute, could you please stop? I’m so fucked right now. I just killed a friend. I’m going to watch every friend I have die, all of them, one by one. And then I’m going to kill you. So could you please, just this one time, fucking stop your bullshit.”
‘I’m going to kill you.’
Something clicks inside me when he says that. Like some two pieces fitting together. And I don’t even know why. Maybe because I’m every bit as fucked in the head as he’s just told me I am. But it solidifies something.
I wrap the bandage slowly, trying to figure out what to say to him. It’s all wrong, anything I come up with. So I work the bandage, one hand, then the other, soft and slow. I cut the fabric, seal it gently.
