Page 213 of Tell Me Something True

Thanks to the skills she’d learned waiting tables at Binge the past few years, she was able to stack and carry it all without much hassle.

She crept back down the hall, and it was so quiet, the events of the night so surreal, when she slipped back into her room, she half expected it to be empty. For Reed to be nowhere in sight, as if she’d dreamt up this whole interaction and his presence in her yard.

God knew she dreamt about the boy more often than she should.

But he was here. He was real.

Real and big and taking up way more than his fair share of space.

Having him in her bedroom, all six feet of battered, tatted up man/child, made it feel too small. Cramped and chaotic.

Childish.

And she had a very adult dilemma on her hands.

Because he was hurt worse than she’d thought.

His hair was down, a tangled mass surrounding a face mottled with bruises, the skin around his left eye a deep purple, his eyelid swollen almost shut. A deep cut slashed through his right eyebrow and his lower lip was split. He had blood on his shirt, splattered, like someone had dipped a paint brush in it and flicked it there, trying to cover as much of the fabric as possible. A few larger dark spots were on his shoulder and sleeve, as if he’d used it to wipe the blood from his face.

His hands were puffy. His knuckles cracked.

And covered in dried blood.

She turned her back to him, not just so she could set the items on her nightstand, but because seeing him this way, his uninjured eye filled with wariness, about killed her, and she needed a minute. Time to gather her thoughts. Her wits.

And get her emotions under control before she burst into tears.

Unfortunately, time—as she’d only recently discovered—went by way too quickly, and what she got was the approximately fifteen seconds it took for her to set everything down, open the first aid kit, and take out a packet of ibuprofen.

She picked up the water, the dogs watching from where they were curled up on her bed—just two BFFs for life, snuggling at a sleepover—then crossed to Reed. She handed him the pills and glass.

After he washed the medicine down, he lowered his arm, swaying on his feet as if it took everything he had to remain upright, his breathing shallow. His hands shook, one still pressed against his left side, the other holding the glass, the liquid threatening to spill over.

She took the glass from him, then wrapped her free hand around his wrist and guided him to her bed. Turned to set the glass on the nightstand, then straightened.

Only to realize how close they were.

As close as they’d been that night at the lake when she’d touched his chest. When she’d told him he could kiss her.

Too close for her comfort.

Reaching up, she took her hairband out, then slowly lifted her hands to his hair, giving him plenty of time to stop her should that be his preference.

But in keeping with the surreal theme they had going on he didn’t jerk away or jump to the side—things he’d previously done when she got too close.

He leaned his head down, his knees bent slightly so she could reach him.

And if she just so happened to notice how soft his hair was as she scooped her hands through it, or how scratchy his stubble as her right inner forearm brushed against his cheek as she gathered the strands on top of his head into a messy bun, it wasn’t on purpose.

Or something she’d allow herself to dwell on.

Swallowing, she took a small step back, pulled a pair of gloves out of the first aid kit, and tugged them on. Then she girded her loins for what she was about to do.

Breath held, she took a hold of the bottom of his T-shirt and sent him a questioning look.

Is this okay?

His hesitation was palpable. Reasonable.

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