"You okay? You need to be sick?" he asks quickly, his hands under my arms, ready to move me. I shake my head and point to the shirt.
"That's a lot of blood," I grunt out.
He refolds the shirt inside itself, masking the stain some, then sighs. "Yeah. You're gonna have a scar from this. That … what you did … " he says, his eyes flipping from my arm that he's now holding under the faucet of the tub to my eyes, "that was stupid, Joss. I'm sorry, but that was just … "
"I know," I say, looking down. The water stings, and I don't let myself look away from the blood washing down the drain. Wes has to brush my cuts with a wet towel a few times, cleaning out the dirt, tar, and rock from the road. Every time he pulls a pebble from me, more blood rushes into the water. I watch it all.
After a few minutes, he shuts the water off and moves to our cabinet, pulling out the alcohol and boxes of ankle tape and bandages. We're prepared for sprains, but not intoxicated leaps-of-faith it seems.
"I'm going to have to use this; it's all you've got," he says. I lift my shoulders and move my arm to the sink where he wraps it in ankle bandages and tape, loosely enough that it can breathe.
When he's done, he pushes the empty boxes to the trash and moves the alcohol back into the cabinet, closing the mirrored door, but stopping when something catches his eye. My heart stops, knowing what he sees, and when his giant hand wraps around the three nearly-empty bottles of pills, I decide it's better not to wait for his question.
"When I was little, my dad caught my mom having an affair. He went bat-shit crazy and tried to hit the guy with his car. This kid I knew … " I flit my eyes to his, which are focused on the small bottles of Oxy and painkillers in his hand. "Christopher," I pause again, studying him. His eyebrows lift with a twitch, and his eyes move to mine. "He pulled me out of the way. Kinda … just … in … time. I should have died. It sort of left me … I don't know … broken? Definitely fucked up. I'm definitely fucked up. And sometimes, it all just gets to be too much."
I tap my finger on my head a few times, then ball my hand into a fist, and move it to my chest, pounding there softly. All of my pain-locked away in my head and my heart.
"These aren't in your name," Wes says, turning one of the bottles to the side, rolling it in between two fingers.
I lean my head sideways and look at the tiny print, trying to remember how that particular pill made me feel. Funny, I can't even remember. But when I took them over the summer, I couldn't get enough.
"Nope," I answer, letting my gaze slide to his eyes. He pulls away from the bottles briefly, looking into me, and his hard swallow lets me know he understands.
"I haven't bought in months," I say, letting things fall out of focus, not wanting to look at my life so closely.
"Your dad doesn't see them in here? Right … like … in the open?" Wes asks.
"He would have to care," I say, reaching up and taking one of the bottles from his fingers. He grips for a second, but I shake my head, encouraging him to let go. I open the bottle and spill the four pills left into my palm, looking at them. So tiny. So potent. I tilt my hand and let them roll free into the toilet, and then I do the same with the other two bottles in his hand, flushing away my darkest days.
Those days weren't so long ago. They were before Wes. And these pills-they aren't the only ones hiding.
He leans back against the frame of the door, pushing his palm into his brow as if he has no idea what to do with me. I'll make this easy.
"I'm good. You can head home. I'm going to crash soon or get sick, and no offense, but I don't really want you here for either," I say through quiet, humble, nervous laughter. I sit back down on the edge of the tub and survey my wounds, then look up to give Wes a tight smile. His mouth hasn't ventured from the despondent line it came to rest in when he finally got me alone in the cab of his truck. "Really, I'm okay."
He doesn't look away. He stands there with his arms crossed as he inhales and exhales slowly through his nose. He doesn't want to leave me, and that thought feels so good. If only he wanted to stay because it's me. But that's not it. I could be anyone. He just feels … liable.
"You're not my parent, and … " I hold up my hand before he jumps to the wrong conclusion, "what I mean is, don't feel that you have to be responsible for me … for … any of this."
He looks down at his feet, which are crossed at the ankles, and slowly starts to nod in acceptance. I so very badly want him to stay, but just as much I want him to go. I want him to go because I feel foolish. Because I was stupid. And because he isn't hurt at all, and his face … god that face. It's familiar. But my head is spinning, and I'm not sure what's real and what isn't.
I know what happened tonight though-that tumble from the moving truck-Kyle wouldn't have come through unscathed. Nobody would have.
He did.
"Okay," he says, bringing me out of my thoughts. My eyes meet his quickly, and I feel our brief connection in my chest, the rush of it sweeter than the whiskey and the thrill of hanging from the car. The way his gaze feels scares me. It feels … addictive.
"I'll walk you out," I say, standing up and faltering on my unsteady legs. Wes steps forward to catch me by the arm, and I suck in a hard breath, shutting my eyes because his touch brings the same flood of emotions.
"I know my way," he says. My eyes are still closed but I can feel that his face is close to mine. I feel the slight breath from his words, his heat-the way the air changes just from him breathing it. I keep my eyes closed and suck in my lip, nodding slightly in concession.
"Come on. Where's your room?" he asks, picking me back up in his arms without even asking me. I've been here so much tonight I feel used to it. It doesn't make me feel weak at all, either. It makes me feel special. And that scares me too.
"Across the hall. It's … it's messy," I say, cracking open one eye and cringing.
Wes chuckles, and the vibration hits my jaw where it rests on his chest. "My brothers and I share a room. We are messy. I swear … I won't judge you," he says, the left side of his mouth raised. There's a short pause while he holds me here in my dim hallway, a stupid smirk on his face and our noses close enough to touch. The feeling, whatever it is, doesn't last long, but I know we both noticed it. I did not imagine that. That was real.
Wes reaches with one hand to open my door, and steps inside without turning on my light. I'm relieved because I wasn't kidding about the mess. I leave food in here because I don't like leaving my room. I'm embarrassed enough as it is that he has to kick clothes and equipment out of the way to make a path to my bed, and when he sets me down on it, I have to push the pile of dirty clothes to the floor just to find my blanket. I push my hand under my pillow the second I feel the coolness of the sheets on my skin, and my fingers search for the feel of his shirt, only it's not there … because I gave it back to him, and he gave it to McKenna. That thought kicks me in the gut.
"You're sure you'll be all right?"
"I'm sure," I say through a heavy sigh.
"Okay, I'll lock your door from the inside when I go," he says.
"'Kay," I breathe out, my body already succumbing to the pull of exhaustion. My world is spinning a little, so I let the sleep drag me in, not wanting to feel anything bad until the morning. I hear my door begin to close, though, and I manage to wake myself enough to see Wes before he leaves. "Hey, Wes?"
"Yeah?" He rests his head against the side of my door, and I'm grateful this is the last thing I'm going to see tonight. The look on his face right now is sweet, and it's only mine.
"Thank you," I say, my eyes as wide as I can hold them. It's too dark to see the blue in his, but I know it's there.
All he does is smile, but it's enough. He gently shuts my door, and seconds later I hear the sound of the front one close followed by the start of his engine. My phone buzzes in my pocket shortly after, and I fumble awkwardly, trying to make my hands work well enough to find it. My father's home, so I know it isn't him, but Taryn's probably worried.
I finally pull it from my pocket and bring it in front of my face just as I hear Wes pull away. The text is from him.
You really scared me tonight. And not because I was afraid someone was going to get hurt. I was afraid YOU were going to get hurt.
His words are powerful and sad, and I cry almost immediately. My heart also soars. Maybe it shouldn't, and it's probably selfish that it does, but it does. I clutch my phone in my hand and think of what to type back, but the pull of sleep is strong, so before I succumb, I simply write I'm sorry. I won't promise that I won't scare him again, but I do vow to myself that I will try. I will try because I don't care about much anymore, but I care about Wes. And I don't want him to be afraid.