Bitter Sweet Heart (Lies, Hearts & Truths #2)(29)

“How many stitches?” She reaches out and smooths her finger across my eyebrow.

I clear my throat before I reply. “Seven or eight, I think.”

“I’ve never had stitches.” She drops her hand back to her lap. “Have you had many concussions?”

The concern in her tone is a little surprising.

I’m used to the lecture from my dad about the dangers of head injuries, so I know better than to get into it on the ice, for the most part. But sometimes it’s hard not to drop the gloves and throw down when I know I could beat the hell out of the guy.

“Nah. Just the one. My dad had a bad accident once, though—took him out of the game for the rest of the season, and he missed the playoffs that year. When he woke up in the hospital, my mom was there, and he couldn’t remember who she was. They were engaged at the time, and all he knew was that he loved her. He tells me that story every time I get into a fight on the ice about something stupid.” I take one of her hands in mine.

Her fingers are long and slender, delicate, like they’re made for playing the piano. I focus on the injuries, and not the fact that I know what they feel like on my body. The pad of her baby and ring finger are both missing skin. I give those my attention first, using the iodine to clean them of whatever dirt is left and then blowing on them, like my mom used to do with Lavender whenever she would fall and scrape her knees, which was often. Lavender isn’t known for her gracefulness. Neither is my mother.

“You’re going to need bandages on these two fingers for a day or two.” I pluck the clear ones from the kit, which will be a lot less obvious.

“That’s probably for the best,” she agrees. “You have younger siblings, right?”

I offered up a lot of personal information in that short story for her class. I know she didn’t grade it, but likely she read it . . . If she did any research at all, she knows it wasn’t embellished. “Yeah. My sister Lavender and my brother River are twins. They’re a couple years younger than me.”

“What about younger cousins?”

“My parents have a lot of close friends who are part of our hockey family, and some of them have younger kids. Why?”

“You’re exceedingly adept at first aid. And gentle.”

My gaze flicks up to hers and then back to her hand. “Lavender had pretty bad anxiety as a kid. Sometimes when she got really upset, her fingernails would dig so hard into her palms that she’d break the skin.”

“Oh no. That’s . . . not good,” she says softly.

“It wasn’t. And whenever it happened, my mom would get upset, and so would River, so Lav started coming to me. I would help her clean them up and use liquid bandage on them, which stings, but works well and was a lot more inconspicuous than wrapping her hands in gauze.”

“That must have been hard for you, having to keep that from your parents.”

I frown. Maybe she hasn’t read my story. “When Lavender was little, she was taken. Not for long, but it scared the shit out of us—my family, I mean. So Lavender had enough shit to deal with. She didn’t need my parents hovering more than they already did. And I got it. I mean, the shit that happened when we were kids was fucked up. But she’d get so upset with herself whenever she got anxious, and then things would sometimes spiral. I just . . . I owed her, so hiding it from our parents seemed like the only option. At the time, anyway.” I make sure Clover’s palm is free of dirt. They’ve stopped bleeding now, which is good.

“What do you mean things would spiral?”

“Nightmares, bed-wetting, that kind of thing. But I took care of those for her whenever I could too, so we could keep the peace.” I pull out the liquid bandage and unscrew the cap. “This part is gonna sting.”

I work from the outside to the middle, blowing on the liquid as I go, the smell making my nostrils sting. Clover remains still and stoic while I apply it, making sure the whole wound is covered. “This will last for a day or so, and then you don’t have to worry about it bleeding on your clothes.” I move on to the other hand.

She hums in acknowledgment. “You’re so different right now than you are when you’re in my class.”

I lift my gaze for another second, then refocus on her injuries. I want to address the elephant in the room, but I don’t want to invite more awkwardness. “I’ve probably been a dick in your class. It hasn’t been intentional. Mostly I didn’t know how to manage the dynamic, and sometimes I don’t think before I do and say things. It’s hereditary. I get it from my mom.”

Her expression is wry. “Which part is hereditary?”

“The verbal diarrhea. Digging myself into a hole and not being able to get out without making an ass of myself. Out of all my siblings, I think that’s what she passed on to me. My mom has it way worse, and she got it from my Gigi, who is the queen of inappropriate conversations. I love her, but her overshare filter is totally blown. And apparently so is mine tonight, since I’m telling you my entire life story.”

I swipe the liquid bandage along Clover’s other palm. This one isn’t nearly as bad. Just a few small scrapes.

“I appreciate the distraction,” she says, the tremor in her voice not quite so obvious anymore. “It makes it easier to focus on the present.”

“I get that—the trying to stay in the now. It’s how I try to live my life, because looking back can be a minefield.” I need to shut up, but I feel compelled to keep talking, to keep her from focusing on the fears that might be lingering in the periphery of her thoughts, the things that rule mine.