Page 98 of Wild Hit
That’s when Miguel strolls into the room, carrying two bottles that everyone on earth probably recognizes.
“No,” I whisper in horror, staring at the electrolyte drink bottles for kids. One is pink and the other one transparent.
“Do I have to?” Marty asks, voice muffled as she puts on her pajama top.
“Yes, the two of you have to.” He raises both options. “Who wants which one?”
There is something incredibly restorative about these drinks—not only in the electrolyte sense, but also in that it restores every memory of feeling sick as a kid. The staff were always the ones who fed me these, not my parents. But here’s Miguel, probably tired and hungry after all the work this week, and making sure to take care of both of us.
Marty turns to me. “I’m fine with either,” she mumbles.
“Um, same.”
“All right.” Miguel sets one down on the night table, and works on opening the other one. He does it easily and without needing pliers too, hmph. “Marty, you get the berries and Audrey, you’re getting the tutti frutti.”
Various noises of reluctant agreement.
He waits until Marty’s done changing to give her the bottle, which looks massive in her hands. Then he motions at me. “Come with me.”
I guess there isn’t a molecule of sass left in my body, either, because I just get up slowly and follow after the man who carries a the bottle meant for me. “Where are we going?”
“To brush your teeth.”
“I can—” Turns out that’s a lie because my legs wobble.
I don’t know how Miguel catches me in time before I melt into the carpet, and I also don’t know why my body melds against his side so perfectly. Like lock and key.
Slowly, I raise my eyes to his face, and this time there’s no laughter there. Miguel is serious—intense even. He’s studying my eyes like they’re an open book and I want to look away, hide, but I also don’t know why I don’t. I stay frozen just like that, fully exposed in a way that should be uncomfortable, but isn’t.
Everything about this—and not just tonight, but the whole arrangement—is the kind of thing that would normally send me running for the hills. The lesson I learned after growing up in my twisted, gilded world is to never trust men. That even the ones who do love you will leave you when you most need them. And even when my brain screams that reminder to the rest of my body, it’s my soul the one who saysnot this time.
Notthisman.
I wonder if it’s because he just caught me easier than a tiny white ball rocketing into the outfield. Or if maybe this moment is just a metaphor of everything he’s done these past few months. Or simply, of who he is.
He really is the rock and I really am the hard place, huh?
“Why do you have so much trouble accepting help?” Miguel asks softly, not realizing that he’s getting so close to the core of the issue.
“I—Well, I caused all this, so I don’t deserve help.”
For the first time since I’ve known him, his eyebrows come together into a little wrinkle. He doesn’t comment anything on that and instead tugs me forward, his grip around me firm and speed gentle for my jelly legs. I don’t even pay attention to his room, all I know is that his scent does good things for my stomach, and that the room is too cold.
He also deposits me in front of his bathroom sink, and sadly I have to lean against it now that he’s stepped away. Afterrummaging in a drawer, he produces a new toothbrush and this one’s a struggle to open up. His hands are too big for the packaging, and he foregoes the pull tab and just rips the thing apart, offering me the brush like it’s sacred.
His eyes widen. “Wait, why are you crying? Do you feel worse? Should we go to the ER?”
“I’m crying?”
I have to look at myself in the mirror to confirm that I am, in fact, raining out of my eyes. Red splotches adorn my skin everywhere it can be seen, my hair is an absolute disaster, my blouse askew and sweaty, and my lips are pale.
“How are you not crying after this mess?” I ask in a completely level headed tone. Not.
“Frankly, I thought the whole thing was really funny until about now.” He sets the other drink bottle on the counter, his hands raising as if to touch me. But they hold themselves back. “Seriously, I’m worried now. Does something hurt?”
Yes, my heart.
My soul.
