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I tsk at him. “I’m capable of handling it.”
He tilts his head, giving me that curious look that I avoid at every chance. “Like what?”
“Anything.”
“Open wounds?”
“Yes.”
“Breaks?”
“Yes.”
“Concussions?”
I turn and look at Sasha, making it clear that my answer hasn’t changed.
He giggles, and I hate the way my body reacts to the sound. Like it’s exciting. “Okay, I get it. So if you know it all, why is he bothering with me?”
“Because he doesn’t know that I know.”
“He said that you’ve never been to see him?”
“Correct.”
“Why?”
There’s Sasha with the questions again. Does he know that he’s being the world’s most interfering, nosy little cretin, or is it a subconscious habit? “Why would I?”
“You can’t tell me you’ve never been hurt before.”
“Of course I have. But like I said, I can handle it. I’m not going to trust someone else with my well-being, especially when that someone enjoys playing games.”
“So you fix yourself up,” he says like that makes sense to him. “Where did you learn to do that?”
The question grinds my thoughts to a stop before setting them rapidly back in the past. My mom showing me which plants were medicinal and which ones to steer clear of. Her teaching me to knit—both wool and skin—and the patient way she braced my finger when I broke it.
The memories are hazy now, but I hate every one of them. I wish I could get to a place where I don’t remember at all.
I’m fully expecting to ignore Sasha, but my mouth has other plans. “My mom.”
Sasha actually jumps, he’s so surprised. “Huh. My mom didn’t teach me anything.”
“Nothing?” I ask the question before I remember that I don’t care.
“Nope. Cooking is apparently a woman’s job, which is why I don’t know how to feed myself. Cleaning, sewing—hell, probably first aid as well. I learned how to mow the lawn and change a tire, and Dad was always trying to get me to go to the gym or to reorganize the shed. All very fun activities.” He crosses his eyes as he says it.
“Organization is very fun.”
“It makes sense that you would think that when you live in the middle of nowhere with nothing to do.”
“I have plenty to do.”
“Nothing fun to do.”
How does he succeed in always being so annoying? “You can go away now.”
“But then you’d miss me.”
