Page 120 of Falling Backwards
He says, “Dan’s hair kind of looks like Marcus’s, so that’s why I got lost in thought when he came into the breakroom.He reminded me of what happened.”
As I turn my eyes from him to the rainy windshield, all I can manage is a breathy, “Oh.”
What did Marcus say about me that upset him so much?How did he insult me?
Luke said he would tell me, but at the moment, I can’t actually bring myself to ask him to.Humiliation may not be the biggest thing I feel, but I do feel it; adding in how self-conscious I’ve already been when it comes to my ex doesn’t make me any more eager to hear the whole story.
So we slip into quietude and stay in it for the rest of the drive.
The next thing that gets said is his, “Sorry I don’t have an umbrella,” as we’re parking at my apartment building.Since it’s a Saturday night, there are better spaces available than usual, but we’re still going to get wet on the way to the door.
“It’s okay,” I reply, preparing to exit the car at the same time as him.“Ready?”
“Ready.”
We swing out into the rain, and it somehow feels colder now than it did when I was hurrying through it outside of Lucent.
“Ah!”I shriek, holding my arms above my head.They don’t shield me whatsoever.
Luke’s laughter is unexpected through the deluge.“Holyshit, it’s freezing!”
“Run, run, run!”
Our feet splash helplessly into all the miniature puddles that have built up over the day, sending that frigid water up over my poor pantyhose-clad legs.The rain seems to attack from every other side as a chaotic breeze sweeps through, and I notice Luke lifting his own arms above his head, and it makesmelaugh because I’m so aware myself of how pointless that is to do.
But my laughter turns into a gasp as he slips on the wet ground and pitches forwards, his feet going out from underneath him.
“Ow, fuck!”hits the air at the same time as my, “Oh my God!Luke!”
I hurry to him and crouch to where he’s on all fours on the concrete.He didn’t faceplant—his hands and knees caught him—but that can’t have felt good.
“Are you okay?”I ask over the rain.
He says, “Yeah, I’m fine,” but his tone leaves me unsure.I take his arm and stand with him, noting how he cradles one of his hands against his chest.“Ouch.”
Mmhmm.People don’t say,‘Ouch,’unless they’re hurt.I’ll bet he scraped his palm or something.
We continue on our way, still hurrying but not the way we did before.Based on how he’s moving, I’d also be willing to bet one of his knees is unhappy with him.
Once we’re in the building, wet and shivering and finally well-lit, I pull his hand from his chest by the wrist so I can look at it.I gasp again at the rough, red scrape that really is there.
“It’s fine,” he assures me.
“No, it’s not.I know that hurts.”
He hustles me towards the elevator, but I inspect the wound as best I can while we go.Even though there’s not a lot of blood, there is a bit—it’s one of those scrapes that are just deep enough to bother someone.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him.
“I’ll live.”
“Sure, but scrapes are a pain in the ass.”
He tsks and looks at his hand again too.“Yeah, they are.”
“Are you hurt anywhere else?”
By the time we’re upstairs, we’ve discovered he does have a slightly skinned knee and that his other hand, while not as bad as the first one, is a bit scraped as well.
