The Sea of Tranquility(52)
Author: Katja Millay

“You’re kidding me, right?” She looks back to my face, and if I had any blood to spare, it would probably turn red. Fortunately, between my dick and my hand, all of my blood is spoken for right now. “Seriously? Right now? At this moment? Seriously?” She shakes her head and laughs and it’s almost worth all of the embarrassment. “It must so suck to be a guy.”

“Your fault. You’re the one who took off your shirt.”

“If you get your ass into the house, I can put on another one.” She’s gently pulling on my upper arm.

I push myself up as slowly as possible. Thankfully the shirt is knotted tight enough around my hand that the bleeding is under control and I’m able to make it inside without sacrificing what’s left of my Y chromosome.

A few minutes later, she comes out of my bedroom wearing one of my t-shirts, and it might almost be worse than seeing her in no shirt at all. She sets the first aid kit on the table in front of us.

“Is this the only thing you have? I think I’m going to need more.”

“Guest bathroom. Under the sink.”

Now we have a huge bottle of peroxide and extra gauze and she looks at me nervously before unwrapping the shirt.

“Don’t watch. Okay?”

“I thought it wasn’t that bad.”

“It’s not. But I think a paper cut might do you in, so just close your eyes or look over there or something.”

I pick or something. I reach out with my good hand and lift up the hem of the t-shirt she’s wearing and trace my thumb up one of the scars on her abdomen that I was too busy staring at her chest earlier to really study. Her breath hitches almost imperceptibly at the contact, before she swats my hand away and I drop the shirt.

“You haven’t lost so much blood that I’m above hitting you. And if I hit you, it will hurt.”

I don’t doubt that for a second. “What’s it from? The scar?”

“Surgery.”

“No shit, Sunshine. What about the one by your hair?” I’ve wanted to ask about this one for ages. The other one, I just discovered tonight, along with a pink lace bra and a set of abs that is just insane.

“Catfight.”

“That I can believe.”

“Good. Quit talking. I’m afraid you’re going to pass out as it is.”

“Then you talk to me.” I lean my head back and close my eyes while she starts on my hand.

“About what?”

“I don’t know. Anything other than blood. Tell me a story.”

“What kind of story would you like?” she cajoles me like a five-year old which is exactly what I’m acting like right now. I blame blood loss.

“The real one.”

“You said you didn’t want to hear about blood.”

I don’t know what that means, but I know it means something. It’s just another piece of the puzzle she is. But the more she gives me, the more abstract she gets. It’s like pieces to three different puzzles. You try to put them together but they never fit, and when you force them, the picture comes out all wrong.

She’s got my hand unwrapped at this point, and I watch her face while she’s cleaning it. She doesn’t look bothered at all. Once some of the blood is gone, I can’t help checking it out. The gash runs from the base of my thumb diagonally across my palm towards my wrist. It hurts like a bitch. She covers it with some antibiotic crap and wraps it with gauze because there aren’t any bandages big enough to cover it.

She disappears into the kitchen and I hear her open the fridge and dig through the cabinets. When she comes back, she hands me a can of soda and a chocolate bar. In addition to the ice cream, she has taken to stashing candy here, too. I wonder how long it’ll be before she has a shelf in the medicine cabinet and a drawer in my dresser. And once that happens, I wonder how long it’ll be before she’s gone.

“Am I dying?” I ask.

“I think you’ll live. Why?” She’s amused.

“Because giving up your sugar is like giving up your life’s blood. I figure I must be dying.”

“Consider it a transfusion. You’re as pale as me right now. It’s scary.”

“I didn’t think anything scared you.”

“Not the sight of blood. Unlike some people.” She smirks at me.

“I owe you a shirt. You didn’t have to do that.”

“You were bleeding like a son of a bitch. I didn’t have time to fight with yours. Besides, you know how many people have seen me without my clothes? Doesn’t bother me.”

I’m not touching that last part. I like thinking about her without her clothes, but I don’t like thinking about anybody else seeing it. “I thought you said it wasn’t that much blood.”

She tightens the gauze and puts my hand back on the table. “Relatively speaking, it wasn’t.”

“Relative to what? Being shanked?”

“You should probably still get stitches.” The look I give her tells her that is not happening. “It’ll heal faster. Plus, you need to get it looked at to see if you sliced a tendon or something.”

I wince at the sliced a tendon comment and I catch her smirk at me again. She’s getting to do a lot of smirking at my expense tonight.

“The longer it takes to heal, the longer you won’t be able to play with your tools,” she sing-songs. I’m not oblivious to the double entendre and I could probably make some lame comeback about still having my right hand, but she knows she’s hitting home right now and I’m listening. “Compromise,” she says, grabbing her phone and shooting off a text. “Margot’s off tonight. If she’s home, you let her look.” The phone beeps a few seconds later and she holds it up. Come on over.

***

An hour later, we’re back at my house. My hand is treated and wrapped and I’ve been sworn off tools for at least a week, depending on how it heals.

“Your left hand sucks now, too.” She picks up my bandaged hand and turns it over in hers. “You’re going to go crazy aren’t you?”

“High probability.” The thought of a week or more of not being able to work is more depressing than I want to admit.

“You won’t even be able to wash the dishes.” She’s loving this.

“We’ll use paper plates,” I respond dryly.

“I sit with you for your therapy,” she says, and it takes me a minute to realize what she’s talking about. The garage, the tools, the wood, the work. My therapy. The thing that keeps me sane. “Want to come along for mine?”