A Boy Like You (Like Us Book 1)(23)

"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.