Page 45 of Summer After Summer

“But you have to go to the hospital.”

“Olivia, I’m not leaving you like this.” He pulls his T-shirt over his head and wraps my leg in it, tucking in the edge to tighten it. Then he puts my arm around his neck and guides me into the house. He leads me to the back of the ground floor, where there’s a bedroom with a bathroom attached. His room, by the smell of it—fresh soap and the beach.

“Sit here.” He leads me to the edge of the bathtub, and I sit down. He leaves me for a minute and returns with a first aid kit. Blood is seeping through his T-shirt, and my leg stings. Matt is going to be furious.

“Are you afraid of blood? Because you look like you’re going to pass out.”

“No, I … I haven’t eaten anything today.”

“You’ll be okay.” His voice is gentle. “I’m going to take the T-shirt off now.”

“All right.”

He does it swiftly, getting a pad of gauze and some Bactine ready to clean it up. “This is going to sting.”

I look away as he uses the Bactine to clean the wound. I wince but don’t say anything as he works quickly and gently. When he’s done, I check it. There’s only one cut, not deep, but long and a series of abrasions where the skin is puckered.

“No stiches, I don’t think,” Fred says.

“That’s good. You don’t need more people in the hospital.”

He frowns.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be making jokes.”

“It’s the shock.”

“Sure.”

He puts a clean pad of gauze on the cut, then starts taping it to me. In a minute he’s finished and cleaning up. “See if you can put weight on that.”

I stand slowly and my leg starts to buckle, but I catch myself before my knee hits the tile.

“You all right?”

“I’ll survive.” I look up at him. “Thank you. And I’m sorry—I know you need to go.”

“You didn’t do it on purpose.”

“I know, but …”

“It’s fine. Accidents happen.”

I limp into his bedroom. His bed is made with a simple blue coverlet. There are books on the nightstand, including his copy of The Amber Spyglass, and a guitar in the corner. Everything is neat, clean, organized.

“I didn’t know you played the guitar,” I say.

“Yeah.”

“Are you good?”

He shrugs.

“I guess we don’t know each other that well.” I don’t make eye contact when I say this, because if I do, I’m going to cry. I thought we did know each other—I was sure we did—but now I feel like I’m with a stranger.

“Olivia. Look at me.” He’s got that frown on his face again, that stressed-out, unhappy look that shouldn’t ever be on any seventeen-year-old’s face.

“What is it?”

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