I push the thought away, knowing that if I was given the chance for a do-over, I’d repeat the entire night just as it was. Some kind of resolve swirls in my stomach and I feel it creep through my body. I won’t live my life halfway. That’s why I’d do it all over again. That’s why I’m a moron. I’d tell Sean that I loved him, that he scares me to death, and then I’d stand there and wait for him to reject me. Maybe I’ve got a martyr complex. I rub my fingers against my temples, trying to fight off the headache that’s closing around my brain like a vice.
Marty mixes something together. I write down the quantities on my sheet. After a moment, he says, “Ah. Do you know what you’re doing, yet?” Marty doesn’t look at me. His hands have a slight tremor, or maybe I just imagine it.
I jot down the next answer and say, “No. I’ve been demoted. So it shouldn’t be anything major. Probably a date or something.” I tick off a few more things on the sheet. I’m not sure how much Marty knows. Mel filled him in at least a little bit, but he hasn’t spoken to me about it.
Marty doesn’t look up at me. Maybe it’s me, but he seems really tense. His fingers wrap around a beaker and he holds it too tight. The glass shatters in his hand. I jump from my seat at the same time everyone in the class looks up. Marty’s fingers uncurl one by one. Streams of blood drip from his palm. Without thinking, I grab my sweater and pull it over my head so that I’m only wearing my tank top and jeans. I take the sweater and brush away the glass that’s sticking to the blood on his hand. I grip his wrist tightly and pull his hand up over his heart. Marty watches me, his dark eyes don’t leave my face. I don’t think. I just react. There’s no TA, no prof. I look around the room, but no one offers to help.
I tug Marty away from the lab table, and say, “I’m taking him to the health office. I’ll be back to clean that up.” No one answers. They watch me lead Marty out of the room.
Marty’s eyes are on my hand, watching my hold on his wrist. He swallows hard, like he might faint. I grin at him, suddenly worried about what to do if he does pass out. Marty is way too big for me to carry to the nurse. A hysterical image of me dragging the giant guy by his ankles, through the grass, all the way across campus, pops up in my mind.
I smile and glance at him. “You’re not going to pass out, are you? Because I don’t think I can carry you. I’ll have to drag you to the nurse’s office, and I’ll probably ruin that shirt you love so much…maybe even nag your head around.” I grin at him, but Marty still looks at me with a super weird expression.
We walk down the hallway and I’m trying to hold his wrist up by his shoulder. My sweater is turning red. It’s wrapped around his hand. Damn, that’s a lot of blood. He must have continued to squeeze the glass after it shattered.
Marty blinks a few times and gets the wry smile on his face that he’s usually wearing. He pulls his wrist free from my grip. “I can do that. I’m not going to pass out, either, so stop thinking about rolling me down that hill by the cafeteria.”
I laugh nervously. There’s something about the look in Marty’s eye, the way he won’t meet my gaze for more than a second. Marty stops at the exterior door at the end of the hall. I push it open and we walk outside. Glancing in the direction of the hill, I say, “We should do that anyway. I mean, when’s the last time you rolled down a hill just for the fun of it?”
“When I was five.” He smirks. “Yeah, you’re right. It’s been too long. If I wasn’t hemorrhaging, I’d make you do it now, but alas, I’ll have to take a rain check.”
“Alas?” I tease. “Really?”
Marty shrugs. “Sure, why not? I think I may speak in medieval talk all day tomorrow. I’ll make sure to raise my hand in each class so I get called on. The professors love it when I do that. A few weeks ago I talked like an 80’s dude all day. They loved that.” Marty blinks hard and grits his teeth. “I think there’s glass in my hand.”
“Yeah, there is. Don’t squeeze it!” I snap at him and make him hold his hand up by his shoulder. His shirt is getting a red blot. The cut must be deeper than it looked. I want to scold him. This seems so stupid, so unusual for him. It almost seems like he did it on purpose. “What made you do that, anyway? This isn’t like you.” It’s not like Marty at all. He’s normally meticulous to the extreme. Breaking a glass in his hand was the strangest thing he could do, shy of eating it.
Marty doesn’t look over at me, works his jaw and stares straight ahead. “I don’t know. It just broke.”