Ugly Love(19)

“Nurse!” Corbin yells. He walks into the kitchen, and Miles is following behind him. Corbin steps aside and points toward Miles. His hand is covered in blood. It’s dripping. Miles is looking at me like I’m supposed to know what to do. This isn’t an ER. This is my mom’s kitchen.
“A little help here?” Miles says, gripping his wrist tightly. His blood is dripping all over the floor.
“Mom!” I yell. “Where’s your first-aid kit?” I’m opening cabinets, trying to find it.
“Downstairs bathroom! Under the sink!” she yells.
I point toward the bathroom, and Miles follows me. I open the cabinet and pull out the kit. Closing the lid on the toilet, I direct Miles to take a seat, then I sit on the edge of the tub and pull his hand to me. “What’d you do?” I begin to clean it and inspect the cut. It’s deep, right across the center of his palm.
“Grabbed the ladder. It was falling.”
I shake my head. “You should have just let it fall.”
“I couldn’t,” he says. “Corbin was on it.”
I look up at him, and he’s watching me with those contrastingly intense blue eyes of his. I look back down at his hand. “You need stitches.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I can drive you to the ER.”
“Can’t you just stitch it up here?”
I shake my head. “I don’t have the right supplies. I need sutures. It’s pretty deep.”
He uses his other hand to rifle through the first-aid kit. He pulls out a spool of thread and hands it to me. “Do your best.”
“It’s not like I’m sewing on a damn button, Miles.”
“I’m not spending the whole day in an emergency room for a cut. Just do what you can. I’ll be fine.”
I don’t want him to spend the day in an emergency room, either. That means he wouldn’t be here. “If your hand gets infected and you die, I’m denying any part in this.”
“If my hand gets infected and I die, I’d be too dead to blame you.”
“Good point,” I say. I clean his wound again, then take the supplies I’ll need and lay them out on the counter. I can’t get a good angle with how we’re positioned, so I stand up and prop my leg on the edge of the tub. I put his hand on my leg.
I put his hand on my leg.
Oh, hell.
This isn’t gonna work with his arm draped across my leg like this. If I want my hands to remain calm and not shake, I’m going to need to reposition us.
“This won’t work,” I say, turning to face him. I take his hand and rest it on the counter, then stand directly in front of him. The other way worked better, but I can’t have him touching my leg while I do this.
“It’s gonna hurt,” I warn.
He laughs as though he knows pain and to him, this isn’t pain.
I pierce his skin with the needle, and he doesn’t even flinch.
He doesn’t make a sound.
He watches me work quietly. Every now and then, he looks up from my hand and watches my face. We don’t speak, like always.
I try to ignore him. I try to focus on his hand and his wound and how it desperately needs to be closed, but our faces are so close, and I can feel his breath on my cheek every time he exhales. And he begins to exhale a lot.
“You’ll have a scar,” I say in a quiet whisper.
I wonder where the rest of my voice went.
I push the needle in for the fourth time. I know it hurts, but he doesn’t let it show. Every time it pierces his skin, I have to stop myself from wincing for him.
I should be focusing on his injury, but the only thing I can sense is the fact that our knees are touching. The hand of his that I’m not stitching is resting on top of his knee. One of the tips of his fingers is touching my knee.
I have no idea how so much can be going on right now, but all I can focus on is the tip of that finger. It feels as hot against my jeans as a branding iron. Here he is with a serious gash, blood soaking into the towel beneath his hand, my needle piercing his skin, and all I can focus on is that tiny little contact between my knee and his finger.
It makes me wonder what that touch would feel like if there wasn’t a layer of material between us.
Our eyes lock for two seconds, and then I quickly look back down at his hand. He’s not looking at his hand at all now. He stares at me, and I do my best to ignore the way he’s breathing. I can’t tell if his breathing has sped up because of how close I’m standing to him or because I’m hurting him.
Two of the tips of his fingers are touching my knee.
Three.
I inhale again and try to focus on finishing his stitches.
I can’t.
This is deliberate. This touch isn’t an accidental graze. He’s touching me because he wants to be touching me. His fingers trail around my knee, and his hand slips to the back of my leg. He lays his forehead against my shoulder with a sigh, and he squeezes my leg with his hand.
I have no idea how I’m still standing.
“Tate,” he whispers. He says my name painfully, so I pause what I’m doing and wait for him to tell me it hurts. I wait for him to ask me to give him a minute. That’s why he’s touching me, isn’t it? Because I’m hurting him?
He doesn’t speak again, so I finish the last stitch and knot the thread.
“It’s over,” I say, replacing the items on the counter. He doesn’t release me, so I don’t back away from him.
His hand slowly begins to slide up the back of my leg, all the way up my thigh, around to my hip and up to my waist.