Page 43 of Swept Away

I can hear in Lexi’s voice that I’m not doing a very good job of looking unfreaked.

“It’s fine,” I say, repositioning the fabric so she can’t see.

“Zeke, you have to show me.”

It’s the stitch where Lexi started. It’s swollen and red, with a lump about the size of a garden pea. Maybe a petit pois. Important distinction, but either way too big, and it didn’t look like that a few hours ago.

“It’s OK,” Lexi says after a moment. “It’ll be OK. It’s not that bad.”

“No,” I say. “It’ll be fine.”

Eugene flaps his wings. I think he’s got a bullshit sensor—he always pipes up when we’re pretending things are all right. He’s still in his box, but he hops out a lot now. Checking for crumbs from lunch, that sort of thing. He even made it up onto the railing yesterday evening. We thought he might leave us, but he didn’t; he just stretched his wings out and lifted his beak. Very Kate Winslet.

“Do you think we should take out that stitch?” Lexi asks.

I thought she’d sew up the wound the way you’d stitch a torn piece of clothing or something, you know, in a zigzag, but she did each stitch individually. She’s smart like that. If she’d just knotted the thread once, we’d only have the choice to take out all the stitches or leave them.

“I guess they’ll need to come out sometime.”

“I think it’ll be a lot nicer than it was having them put in,” she says. “Can I?”

I nod. She runs a finger lightly over the wound. I breathe in sharply between my teeth.

“I’ll sterilize the scissors,” she says, swallowing.

“We should use a knife,” I say. “It’s sharp, and it’s got a fine point.”

I’m better at speaking up with Lexi when I have an idea now. Idon’t know what it is—maybe just because there’s only two of us, maybe because of the way she listens when I talk, maybe because she never rushes me.

“You want me to come at your stomach with that knife again?” she says.

“You’ve not been drinking this time, have you?”

“I wish. I’d kill for a vodka lemonade with ice.”

“Whisky and Coke, a pint.” Just saying it makes my mouth ache—it wants to water but I’ve not got it in me.

“Just a pint of Coke, to be honest. A pint of anything.”

We’ve started having these conversations—foods we miss, things we’re craving. At the beginning you think it’ll keep you sane, but it’s like…scratching a mosquito bite. Amazing for a second, way worse one minute later.

“Do you feel different?” Lexi asks worriedly. “Hot? Cold? Dizzy?”

I immediately feel all these things at once.

“I feel fine,” I say.

She doesn’t look convinced, but stands and heads inside to get the knife. I breathe out slowly, taking the time to clear my head. This is probably going to hurt.

I remember the bucket of water and slip out of my jeans, grateful that Lexi’s inside—this isn’t a sexy move to do sitting down, especially with the injury. My hand hovers over my boxers, but I leave them on. I don’t back myself to get dried and dressed quickly enough before she comes out again.

The water feels amazing—so cold it makes me hiss. It calms me down a bit. I turn as the door opens behind me.

Lexi looks different with her hair plaited. She almost always wears it scraped up in this big tight knot on the top of her head, and the low plait makes her look more relaxed. More at home. I like it. But then, I like the high bun, too. I like it all, way more than I should.

She takes me in: I’m stripped down to my boxers, wet, leaning back on one hand, the other holding the sponge. Her T-shirt is falling off her shoulder, and I know she’s not bothered with a bra today, and it’s driving me crazy—she’s driving me crazy. I absolutely will not touch Lexi again, I’ve made that promise, but she’s always so close, and it would only ever take one step to get there.

I reckon she knows what I’m thinking. Her eyes are hot and watchful. She does this: looking at me like she wants me even though we’ve agreed we’re not going there. It’s a headfuck, but I don’t really mind. I’d rather have those looks than not.

---