Page 29 of The Heartstrings of Harry
DEAN
I sawsparks coming from the socket in the wall, an electrical cord stretching from the socket into the toilet, shattered glass on the floor… blood on Harry’s hand.
“Oh my God, Harry, you’re hurt.” My voice was urgent, panic-stricken and firm. “You need to sit. Right now. Let me see your hand.”
“I’m okay. But if you know how to cut the power to your shed, that’d be great.”
I looked again at the sparks spitting from the socket. I raced around to the side of the shed and flicked off the electricity at the power board. From inside, Harry called out. “Got it! Thanks!” I turned the power back on then hurried back inside to see he’d removed the cord of my toothbrush charger from the wall.
A moment later he fished my toothbrush out of the toilet.
“Wow!” I uttered. “And here I was thinking rock stars were the ones with a reputation for trashing things.”
“I can explain.”
“Really?” I started laughing, kind of amused that he’d managed to turn my bathroom into a war zone in a matter of minutes. “I can’t wait to hear it. No, let me guess… you had visions of renovating my bathroom and couldn’t wait to get started.”
He laughed too, sighing defeatedly as he did so. “Yep, that’s it. And the first thing that needed to go was this toothbrush.” He laughed louder, caving into the sheer craziness of the situation, then winced and cradled his hand.
“Oh shit, your hand. Come with me.” I led him out of the bomb-shelled bathroom and sat him down on my bed. “Stay here a moment.” I returned to the bathroom, stepping carefully around the glass to fetch my First Aid kit from my bathroom cabinet.
I returned and sat next to Harry on the bed, opening the kit and pulling out some antiseptic swabs and a bandage. I took his hand in mine. It was cool and large, and I lingered over it as I looked for stray pieces of glass in the wound.
There was a stillness, a closeness, a silence between us that made my heart race.
As I nestled his hand in mine, I traced my finger over the bumps and creases of his big fingers. I tried not to quiver as I touched his calluses, most of which looked like they’d been there for decades, a signature of the work horse that he was. But then I noticed his fingertips, a more recent hardening of the skin. I knew those minute slices and scars. I knew them well.
Had Harry started playing the guitar?
If he had, then that man on my bed became all the more perfect in my eyes.
In that moment I wanted to push him down on the mattress.
I wanted to straddle him.
I wanted to kiss him.
I wanted what I knew I couldn’t have.
Jesus, Dean! This is Harry you’re fantasizing about! He’s… not… interested.
Of course he wasn’t interested. I was his best friend’s kid. We had nothing in common apart from my dad. And let’s not forget that Madeline seemed keen as hell on Harry, and for all I knew the feeling was mutual.
Suddenly Harry shifted awkwardly on the bed, and I realized all my touching was making him uncomfortable.
“I kinda made a mess in there, didn’t I?” he said, breaking the stillness between us. “I’m so sorry, I’ll clean it up. I guess I got kinda clumsy and—”
“Stop talking,” I said. “You move a lot when you talk, do you know that?”
“I do?”
“Uh-huh. Now keep still, this is gonna hurt.” He flinched as I wiped the first antiseptic swab along his cut to clean up the blood. It was a long thin streak that ran across his palm. “It’s shallow,” I reported. “I don’t think there’s any need to see Doc Morgan. Hopefully you’ll live.”
“I hope so too.” He took a breath, and it was shaky. Clearly, I was making him feel awkward.
I inched a little farther away from him as I began to wrap the bandage around his hand.
I tried not to look up at him, keeping my focus on the wound.
