Bad Behavior(50)

"I . . . I . . . my head here." I touched my forehead.

"You have a cut there. Anywhere else?"

I could barely hear him through the single note playing in my ears.

"Evan, stay with me here. What else?" He was so calm. The worry in his voice was thick and the fear in his eyes consuming, but he was still so calm. A thought flitted by, reminding he should be mad at me, that he hated me.

"Do you hate me?"

He shook his head. "Concentrate, Evan, please. Does anything else hurt?"

"Nothing, I don't think. Nothing. Just my ears, they hum."

"I think you have a concussion."

"Don't let her go to sleep," someone said. Must have been the cabbie.

"I know. Evan, I'm going to need you to stay awake and talk to me. Can you do that for me, angel?"

I didn't know if I could. I was tired, and I was having trouble remembering things. I had been in a car accident, I knew that. My clothes were damp in places, wet in others. Other things were fuzzy now.

I leaned into his chest and rested my head on his shoulder. He felt good. His clean scent enveloped me. It was the best thing I'd ever felt. I was light. I was safe. I closed my eyes. 

He pushed me away, jarring me back awake. "Can't do that, angel." He winced when he looked at me-was there something ugly on my face? Then he schooled his features, getting his poker face back in place. He even smiled a little, casually, as if he were just chatting me up over drinks. "Tell me more about you. Did you have a pet when you were little?"

Random. "A pet?"

I wanted to lean into him again, just lie on his chest and sleep. He wouldn't let me. He held me still and away from him, even as the cab jostled over the roads.

"Yeah, are you a dog person or a cat person?"

It was one of those questions that was meant to test who you were; at least that's what I used to think they were for. When I was a kid, your answer to a question like that could divine your whole future. Chocolate or vanilla? Left-handed or right-handed? NSYNC or Backstreet? The earth's axis seemed to spin on the answers to those questions.

"I had a cat."

"Good." He stroked my hair, pulling the strands out of my face. He was loving, intimate.

I wondered if the cabbie was watching us, but I didn't care enough to turn around and look. He'd seen much, much worse in the back of his cab, no doubt.

"What was its name?" Lincoln asked.

"Tybalt."

He smiled. I wanted to kiss him.

"How did you come up with that?" he asked.

"Shakespeare. Romeo and Juliet. Tybalt was Juliet's cousin. He was called the prince of cats in the play."

"That's an interesting name."

"My college professor said "prince of cats" meant Tybalt got a lot of pussy. He didn't say it quite like that, though. But when I was in junior high, I didn't realize the name was a pun. I thought it was cute, kitty cat royalty. So that's what I named my little furry prince."

He laughed, though the sound was strained. His eyebrow scar was scrunched, and his gaze kept roving over me, assessing. "Tell me more about Tybalt."

"He was gray and black and stripey. Like a tabby but bigger. And he had a ridiculous fluffy tail. I loved him. He would sleep on my bed at night. He was warm. I would get so cold at night. My room would be freezing."

"Why would you get cold?" His scarred eyebrow arched subtly.

I shrugged. "My parents didn't like Tybalt. So if he slept with me, they made me close my door and keep it shut all night. Our house was small, no insulation, I guess, and only had a heater in the living room. So with my door closed, my room would get almost as cold as it was outside."

He kept stroking my hair.

"They let you sleep in the cold?" His voice had grown a little less tender.

"Yep. I could see my breath." I closed my eyes and remembered how cold I would be. I crossed my arms over my chest, hugging myself the way I did in the foggy memory. Tybalt would snug up against me and the thin quilt I slept under, but even his fluffy warmth wasn't enough. I would wake up with my teeth chattering. I would open my door to let the warmth from the rest of the tiny house in. If I fell asleep again and my parents found my door open and Tybalt in my bed, they would make me skip breakfast and lunch the next day. "I would have to stand in a corner. If I sat down, then it'd be dinner, too."

"Eyes open, angel."

I did as he said.

"Any other pets?"

"Just Tybalt. But he left. One day, my parents found him in my room with the door open. They didn't punish me like usual. I thought maybe they'd come around. I was so happy. And then he was gone. I never saw him again. I thought he ran away."