The island night had a chill. Cold ocean wind stung my wounds. I slumped under a streetlight, gasping for air. My suit was destroyed, shirtsleeve torn off. I touched my face. One eye swollen shut. I looked at my hands covered in blood and dirt and laughed bitterly at myself.
Chapter Eighteen
Casey
After the dinner party ended, Mark drove me home. Tommy was staying over at Lina's, so the house felt empty, quiet enough that I could hear the fridge humming. I took a shower, slipped into my pajamas, and sat on the edge of the bed, towel-drying my hair. When it was half-dry, I draped the towel over the chair back, switched off the light, and lay down.
I closed my eyes, my mind replaying everything I'd said to Paul on the terrace. I'd unloaded so much, cursed him out hard, and he just stood there, not fighting back. I should've felt satisfied, but I didn't. I just felt restless.
I rolled over, pulled the covers over my head. Outside, the waves crashed in steady rhythms, same as always.
I don't know how long it was, but I was drifting off when urgent knocking rattled the door. I opened my eyes, stared at the ceiling, and didn't move. Maybe it was a mistake; they'd stop soon. But the knocking persisted, erratic—hard thuds, then lighter ones, like someone unsteady, leaning against the door.
I sat up, threw on a robe, walked to the door, and peered through the peephole.
Paul slumped against the frame, all lopsided. His suit jacket was gone, shirt sleeve ripped open, face bruised—eye swollen shut, blood crusted at his mouth, dried to a dark brown. Streetlight hit his face; it was flushed unnaturally, eyes half-lidded, like he might slide down any second.
I hesitated, hand on the knob, frozen. I should ignore him, let him stew; he'd leave eventually. But he knocked again, softer, mumbling something like my name.
I opened the door anyway.
Booze and blood hit me like a wave. He leaned on the frame, saw me, eyes lighting up briefly, then he toppled toward me. I caught him instinctively; his weight slammed into my shoulder, heavy.
"Paul, you're drunk." I braced him, guided him inside. He stumbled, basically dragged.
"I'm not drunk." He buried his head in my shoulder, voice muffled. I ignored it and got him to the couch. He sat, grabbed my wrist, and wouldn't let go. I pried at it. "Let go. I'll get something to clean you up."
He blinked, slowly released, hand dropping to his knee.
I grabbed a towel and a first-aid kit from the bathroom and sat beside him. He leaned back, eyes closed, breathing heavy. I wet the towel with warm water, wrung it out, and dabbed at the blood on his mouth. The scab was dry; he hissed when I pressed, but didn't pull away. I worked it off bit by bit, revealing a long gash from lip to chin—not deep, but ugly.
"How'd you get this?" I asked.
"Fell."
"Fell?" I pulled his hand over; knuckles scraped raw, dirt and dried blood in the nails. He'd fought someone, but he wasn't saying.
I dipped a cotton swab in iodine and pressed it to the cut. He sucked in air, brows knitting. I switched swabs for his eye; itwas puffed high, purple-blue, and squeezing the eye to a slit. I touched it lightly; he tensed, bit down, silent.
"If it hurts, say so."
"Doesn't."
"Liar."
He opened his eyes and looked at me. The good one was bloodshot. "You used to do this. One year, I sprained my wrist playing tennis, and you insisted on rubbing it. I said no, you wouldn't listen, pinned me down for half an hour."
I didn't respond. That was junior year; he'd twisted it in a match, swollen for a week. I'd go to his dorm daily, massage it with liniment. He'd gripe about the pain, but afterward, he'd clutch my hand tight.
We'd been together less than a year then.
I flipped the towel and wiped sweat from his forehead. He stayed still, let me, compliant in a way that wasn't him.
"Casey." His voice was hoarse. I said nothing, stuck a Band-Aid on his hand.
"I heard everything you said." Muffled. "Not just tonight—been thinking about it for days. You said I never asked if you wanted it. You're right."
I packed the kit, set used swabs and towel aside.
