Page 48 of Concerted Chaos

fourteen

WhenIleftthe hospital, I didn’t go home. As the injured survivor of a terrible explosion there is only one place suitable for my recovery: my parents’ house. Sometimes a girl just needs her mother.

Also, I’m here because my mom is less annoying than Powell. It’s been a week, and he shows up every single day with his set of tuning forks and a pitch pipe. He tests my hearing with a series of questions that he keeps repeating over and over again: Can you hear this? What about this? Identify the note. Is it sharp or flat? Why are you walking away from me? Hey, give those back!

Fortunately, after this morning’s hearing test, Powell flew out to Los Angeles to do press for the concert. Poor guy is going to be stuck filming promos with Xander. I’m not sure which of us has it worse right now. Probably him, since he’s dealing with an overgrown man-child while I’m surrounded by loving support and being coddled. My wounds are at the stage where I have to leave them uncovered so they can heal properly, but mom is monitoring them and rubbing them with salve. She is also making sure I take my steroids and antibiotics on time and providing me with delicious homemade milkshakes as a reward for choking down all the pills.

If my body didn’t still ache so much from being blasted through the air onto the hard ground, I would kind of enjoy my current lifestyle. It’s nice having someone take care of me, for once.

At the moment, I’m on the living room couch, watching an old black and white detective movie from Hank’s collection and picking at my healing lacerations. I know I’m not supposed to, but the stitches are dissolving, and they itch. All I want to do is pull the thread fragments out.

The doorbell interrupts my DIY de-stitching and movie watching, but since it’s not my house, I don’t have to move. I lay there, like a scabby damaged log, until my mom comes in and claps her hands loudly, the slightly rude method she’s been using to get my attention lately. I look up, and immediately jump to my feet. Tanner!

As usual, he gives a good hug, though this time it’s slightly tentative due to our injuries. His body is warm and firm and somehow always smells faintly of cinnamon. Could it be something he eats for breakfast? Or his deodorant? I will solve this mystery someday, possibly with my partner in the Corbitt Siblings Detective Agency and our hypothetical hypoallergenic dog. I could just ask, but that would take the fun away.

The hug may have gone on a moment too long because I realize what I’m doing and take an abrupt step back.

“Can you hear now?” I ask.

“Yes. You?”

“Yep.”

“Good.”

And now we’re staring at each other like idiots.

“Go sit down and catch up. I’ll bring you a drink,” my mom offers. “Tanner, coffee, tea or soda?”

He requests water instead, and we go back to the couch. I move my blanket and pillow and pretend I haven’t left a Cass-shaped dent from lying stationary for days.

“I’m glad you came. You never texted me or anything,” I reproach him. I assumed that meant he was fine and busy, but it could have equally meant that he’d developed a raging infection from all his puncture wounds and slipped into a coma.

“My phone was destroyed, I only just now got a new one, but I don’t have any numbers in it yet. You could have texted me.”

Okay, he makes a valid point.

“Did Powell get it for you?” I ask, but only because he pulled it out of his pocket and it’s the exact same not-yet-released-to-the-public model that my brother bought me. Maybe I’m not as special as I thought.

“Well, yeah.” Tanner seems a bit sheepish. “He felt bad about his car almost killing me, so he replaced my phone. He offered to buy me new clothes too. Mine were cut off in the ambulance.” I bite my lip so I don’t laugh at the image of his clothes being sliced off his body. I guess it was the easiest way to get them off, because of all the cactus spines.

“Did he send you to Ramón?”

“Yeah, and that was awkward. When he gave me the address and appointment time, I assumed it was his favorite salesclerk at a store. I didn’t know he was sending me to a tailor.”

“Powell doesn’t buy off the rack.” My brother’s wardrobe consists of two types of clothing: the faded old comfortable things he wears around the house when it’s only us, and the made-exclusively-for-him couture that either arrives in a curated box from his stylist or is created by Ramón. Before Tanner can make another of his “ugh, rich people” comments, I continue, “If you have any other bills, I’m sure he—or his insurance—will cover them.”

“We’ve already worked those details out. Can I see your arms?” He carefully takes my left arm and examines it. “Wow, that had to hurt.” He tentatively brushes a finger on the skin between scrapes, and I break out in goose pimples.

“Not as much as landing in a prickly pear.” Little raised spots still coat the back of his hand. He’s in a long sleeve shirt, but I can imagine those bumps continue upward.

“Yeah, that kind of sucked. They couldn’t get all the spines out, so I have to wait for them to work their way through to the surface. When there’s enough poking out to grab, I pull it out with tweezers. Everything itches now.” He tugs at his sleeve. “That’s why I’m wearing this shirt, to keep me from scratching.”

“Doesn’t the material snag on the pokey bits?” I gently lift his hand and run my fingers across the back until I find one of them, a tiny sharp spike. I’ve gotten cacti in me before, but never quite so much.

“Sometimes. It’s not been pleasant. But I survived an explosion, so when the FBI finally grants us permission to talk about it, at least I have a cool story to share.”

My mom interrupts with a tray carrying our drinks—she generously got me a water too—along with chips and fresh guacamole. As she goes to set it down on the coffee table, I catch her eyeing my search for cacti bits, and I immediately drop Tanner’s hand. I don’t want to give her the wrong impression, but maybe it’s too late, because she retreats back to the kitchen with a knowing smile.

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