Page 60 of Forgiving Fate

My mind is reeling when Allie’s voice cuts through.

“Um…I’m fine Landon.”

My gaze darts to her. I know she is far from fine, but I’m not going to force her to tell me what happened. I will listen if she wants to tell me, but I won’t push her, so I just nod.

“Can I look at your hand?” I ask.

She holds it out to me and I see it’s deep and could use a look at by a doctor, but she knows better than I do.

“If you help me wrap it, I’ll drive myself to the hospital,” Allie says, her voice almost cold and void of emotion.

“I can–”

“Just follow behind in case I can’t drive home,” she says, cutting me off.

I nod. We stand there in silence, the only sound coming from the heater and the water dripping onto the floor from Allie’s clothes.

I make my way over to the cabinet and grab the first aid kit. Taking out gauze and a wrap, she holds out her arm, and I gently start wrapping her wrist. The bleeding has slowed, but she still needs stitches and probably a pain killer…or two.

When I’m done, I take a step back. Her eyes stay locked on her wrist. I don’t even think she notices how badly she is shaking and needs to get out of the wet clothes, so I say, “I’ll be downstairs. If you need help, just yell down to me.”

She nods and I head downstairs. As I reach the living room, I let out a breath and grip the back of the couch.

All the energy drains out of me and the gravity of the situation I just faced smacks me hard in the face. The fire immediately returns and I fight the urge to run to my truck. My hands start to shake and my arms feel like tiny fire ants are crawling over me.

I need a fucking drink.

No! I can’t.

My mind starts to spiral and the few words we exchanged replay in my head, and then it hits me.

Did Allie smell the whiskey on my breath? Is that why she won’t let me drive?

Of course it is. She will never trust you.

“Fuck off,” I whisper to my inner thoughts.

I shake my head and try to think of anything but the fire climbing inside me.

And my mind drifts to one thing. Why was she in the shower? Why was that the first place she went?

My eyes drift over the cabin as I try to come up with the slightest clue or answer as to why that was her first place to run to. Then my eyes lock on the sink.

I don’t look at the stairs in case she is walking in front of them. I don’t want her to feel exposed.

I run over to the kitchen, pick the knife off the ground, and clean it, as well as the sink.

Whatever her reasonings are, she doesn’t need to come home to be reminded of what happened.

As I finished up, I hear her coming down the stairs. I don’t hide what I’m doing.

I finish up, dry the knife, and place it back in the block. When I turn around, I see Allie watching me.

We stand there, silence once again filling the room. And the question is eating at me so strongly, I decide to just ask.

“You don’t have to answer.” I stop for a moment and watch her face. She changed into a pair of sweats and a sweater. Her wet hair is in a knot on top of her head and she stares at me, waiting for me to continue.

I try to see if I can detect any panic or fear, but I can’t. All I see is resignation. I recognize it because it’s the same mask I wear every day.

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