Page 32 of Cruel Devotion

“Mad about that crappy grade we got?” I asked, pulling my bag over to see if I still had a pack of tissues in a pocket.

He huffed. “I wasn’t.”

But… you are now?

Talking about a bad grade seemed like a petty, moot point when he had clearly been in a fight.

Eli had always struggled with keeping his grades up. He had potential, but he needed to go at his own pace. Still, if he had an issue with caring to do a good job on his work in college or turning things in on time, that was his problem. Not mine.

As he zoned out, just sitting there and staring at nothing, I hated how he instantly became my problem. Against my better judgment, I twisted on my seat to face him.

“You’re bleeding,” I commented matter-of-factly. Red drops had fallen from the cuts on his face, but as he held out his hands that had been shoved in his pockets, the raw cuts on his knuckles showed that they were leaking more blood than his face.

“What the…?” I shook my head and opened my water bottle to wet a folded piece of tissue.

“It’s not that much blood,” he said without injecting much emotion in his argument.

“But itisblood.” I reached closer, dabbing at his knuckles to wipe the blood away. The first touch of his warm skin surprised me. Making physical contact with my bully seemed so wrong when I was doing all I could to convince myself that keeping my guard up was the smart thing to do.

This wasn’t the first time, though. As if the act of wiping his hands off could take me back to the past, visions of doing this very thing before flitted through my mind.

Back when he played football as a boy and came to the public library with cuts and bruises, I’d have a Band-Aid to offer him. I’d step up as his friend and clean his scrapes. And other times, when he’d be at the playground at school and show new injuries. I knew his love for football hurt him. It wasn’t a gentle sport, but with how intimidating Mr. Young was, I formed a hunch many years ago that Eli’s father might be abusive. He was so strict, so proper and rigid. I never dared to go near him, certain he was too religious and self-righteous to have a positive opinion of me or my family.

But now, I had to wonder.

Who did this to you, Eli?

I wouldn’t ask. I couldn’t. Inquiring about how he’d been hurt wasnotkeeping my guard up. Earlier, his presence felt like a trick. These cuts and bruises were real.

“I’ll handle it,” he said, tugging his hand away.

I kept a grip on it, not stopping. “I can help.”

“I didn’t ask for your help.”

“Clearly.” Before he could speak up again or protest, I cleared my throat. “Maybe you shouldn’t get in so many fights,” I scolded.

“Like you give a shit,” he said, tossing my own words back at me.

I looked up at him, seeing the charming boy I used to know. For once, that Mr. Popular act wasn’t on. He looked at me with a little challenge, but not with the heat of a fight.

“I do care,” I said. Tipping my chin at the books on the table, I said, “I care about not getting blood on the books and my notes.”

He laughed once. “Oh. You’ll care about the books. Not me.”

I can’t.I used to, when we were younger and innocent like kids were prone to be.

But he’d bullied me for too damn long for me to admit I cared about him. I was showing him that I was concerned. I wouldn’t offer to help clean him up if I were that cold-hearted.

I couldn’t handle the deep stare he locked me in. It was too probing. Too honest.

Lowering my gaze, I wetted more tissues and moved on to the knuckles on his other hand.

I could be the bigger person. I could set my issues with him aside.

Nothing would ever convince me that the nice, sweet Eli I used to know so long ago would ever be back.

Only the bully.

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