Page 35 of In His Veins

“Alexander.” He gives me a barely-there smile. “Any other questions?” I perk up at the invitation.

“Several, actually.” Cal nods, as if he expected this, and nods toward his

bedroom.

“You can ask me while I dress these wounds.” I start toward the bed when I remember I’m still on my period.

“Shit. I don’t have any pads with me.” Cal’s opening the box on the bedside table and glances at me over his shoulder.

“I can go get you some. The closest store is about 15 minutes away.” I shake my head, scared to be alone in his house for that long.

“I might have something in the glovebox of my car. I’ll be right back.” I step toward the bedroom door, but Cal blocks my exit.

“It’s late. I’ll look. You stay here.” I’m secretly relieved and start snooping

around his room while he’s gone. He’s freakishly tidy and even has an organizational method for his socks. I’m flipping through his t-shirts when he comes in, pad in hand.

I snatch it from his hand and run back to the bathroom. His toilet is in its own separate closet within the room, and I feel a brief sense of relief to have a moment of privacy. I’ve already bled on my thighs in the time since I stepped out of the shower and have to use an obscene amount of toilet paper to clean myself up. I’m about to open the pad when I realize I don’t have any underwear to stick it on.

“Cal?” I call out from the bathroom. I hear his footsteps a moment later.

“Need some clothes?” He asks, his voice outside of the door.

“How’d you guess?” He doesn’t respond, but I hear the sound of clothes

hitting the floor. I crack open the door and, sure enough, he brought me a pair of his boxers and some pajama pants. I pull them on and try to cover my chest with the towel without upsetting my wounds as I join him in the bedroom.

Clean sheets cover the mattress and a fresh scent of pine fills the air. He’s set a few towels in the center of the bed, and I assume that spot is meant for me. His back is to me as he sorts through the contents of the box. The lamp on the bedside table is lit now, it illuminates some of the tattoos on his back. The word ‘unfold’ is in bold letters at the top of his spine and I can’t look away from it.

“What does unfold mean?” I ask. My voice is soft but his spine straightens abruptly. He turns toward me and brings his supplies with him. He dabs disinfectant on the cuts, the sting making me hiss. He watches the wounds as he replies.

“Believe it or not, it’s a reference to one of Rilke’s poems.” My eyebrows

nearly go into my hairline.

“Please tell me you’re about to recite German poetry while you tend to my

wounds.” He gives me a withering look but doesn’t reply.

“I really do want to know,” I explain, striving for a more genuine tone. He sighs and sets down the disinfectant before grabbing gauze.

“He has a poem about being entirely alone in the world and the desperate

desire to be completely known by somebody. He says that to be known by someone means you have to take an active role in letting yourself be known. You have to unfold and allow yourself to be seen in order to really be known. That’s what I got out of it anyways.” I stare at him, mouth agape.

“So, you want to be known?” I ask. He shrugs, the movement noncommittal.

“Does anyone know you, Cal?” He smiles sadly, and my heart aches.

“There was one person, but she’s been dead for a long time.” In that moment, I see the boy he was, helpless to save his mother, the one person who had ever truly known him.

“Will you let me know you?”

Cal turns to me, his voice cautious, and I think a little hopeful. “Do you want to?” I study him where he’s perched on the bed, first aid kit in hand.

“Yeah,” I whisper. “I do.” He presses a soft kiss against my lips then places the final bandages on my stomach. Cal lays on his side and looks at me.

“Ready for bed?” He asks. I nod and he slides the extra towels from

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