Page 45 of Praying for Rain

We have to find it today.

All we have left is today.

When I turn to go check on Wes, a scream bursts out of me. Pill bottles tumble into the bathtub, rattling like handfuls of gravel against the porcelain.

“Fuck,” I gasp, clutching the folded bundle to my chest. “You scared the shit outta me!”

The tall, muscular, tattooed man blocking my exit leans his uninjured shoulder against the doorframe. “You scared me first.”

He’s completely unashamed of his nudity, but I’m too concerned about his pale, clammy face and bluish, heavy eyelids to appreciate the view.

“One of the horsemen took you from me. Pulled you right out of my arms, and …” His voice trails off and he shakes his head, ridding himself of whatever torturous fate I just suffered in his mind. “When I woke up, you were gone.”

“I’m sorry.” I frown, setting the pile of clothes on the edge of the tub.

I walk over and wrap my arms around the sweet, sleepy, naked man. Wes pulls me in and kisses the top of my head, and I’m reminded how warm he is. Too warm.

“I went to find you some antibiotics,” I mutter into his bare chest.

His skin is damp and smells like sweat.

“I let your bullet wound get infected.” I feel the weight of guilt settle over me, pressing me into the floor as I say the words out loud. “I’m so sorry, Wes. I’ll take better care of it, I promise. Look”—I let go of him and head toward the bathtub, eager to get away from the disappointed look that I’m sure he’s giving me right now—“I found you some medicine.”

“Is that why I feel like shit? I thought it was just the vodka.” Wes’s joke lands on me like a slap of shame.

“Yeah, that’s why you feel like shit.”

My guts twist as I gather the bottles in my hands and scan their labels. There are two prescriptions of Keflex that, together, might make close to a whole round. I walk over to the counter and busy myself with combining the pills into one container, reading the dosing instructions—anything to keep from looking at Wes.

Instead, I find myself looking into the open, lifeless eyes of the two guys who shot at him. An image of them lying on the ground flashes before me, as clear and gruesome as a crime scene photo. Their slack facial muscles, the red mess, the glass everywhere. I killed them. I killed two people less than forty-eight hours ago, and I haven’t even thought about them since. I wince and squeeze my eyes shut, gripping the edge of the counter until the vault finally does its job and swallows the memory back down.

I should be relieved, but I’m not. My heart begins to sputter, and my palms begin to sweat. That was two memories in less than ten minutes.

What if more come? What if—

I need to take another pill. I need to take two. I can’t do this …

I vaguely register the sight of Wes’s naked form coming to stand next to me as I stare through the mirror over the sink.

“You okay?”

Righting myself, I pull on a fake grin and glance up at the reflection of his pale face. “Yeah.” I shake a white tablet into my hand and offer it to him. “Just take one of these every six hours until they’re”—Wes pops the medicine into his mouth and swallows before I’ve even finished my sentence—“gone. I, uh, have some antibiotic ointment, too, and bandages, but we need to clean your wound first.”

I feel Wes staring at me as my eyes dart around the bathroom, looking for a diversion. I feel the heat radiating off his body, trying to fight the infection I caused. And I feel the question on his lips before he speaks it.

My armpits start to sweat.

Great. Now, we’re both sweating.

A shower. We need to shower.

I run over to the shower and turn on the faucet.

“I’ll just clean your wound in here,” I call over my shoulder. “It’ll be easier this way and we might as well take advantage of the hot water before the gas gets cut off and the bomb shelter probably doesn’t have running water at all …” I’m rambling. I can hear myself talking a mile a minute, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I can’t even look at him.

He’ll know. He’ll see all my secrets, and he’ll just know. I can’t let that happen. He said it himself; people leave when they figure out how fucked up you are, and I need him to stay. I need him to distract me. I need him to get better …

I undo the top two buttons on my flannel before my hands start to shake, and I just yank the whole thing off over my head. My bra puts up even more of a fight. I can feel Wes watching me as I struggle with the clasp.

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