Page 23 of Icing Hearts

“Will a song help?”

I grimace, rubbing at my dry eyes. My contact lenses have been in since this morning. Without the distraction of the party, I’m reminded at how uncomfortable they’ve gotten.

“Please don’t sing. I have a thing about people singing. It makes me incredibly uncomfortable, and I don’t know what to do with myself.” I rise and cross the room, flicking the light on in his bathroom. He protests but I wave him off. “I mean, do you look at them? Do you look away? Do you clap along?”

While I pull a travel-size bottle of contact solution from my purse, I marvel at the touches of cinnamon everywhere. Cinnamon diffuser. Cinnamon lotion. Cinnamon body wash. What guy uses body wash? “My rhythm is always off. Does anyone really want to hear my off-beat clapping while they sing? I’m borrowing this book, by the way,” I say as I detour past his bookshelves and return to my patient’s bedside wearing my glasses, contact lenses safely stowed in a case in my bag. It’s one of theShatter Menovellas that I wasn’t able to get my hands on.

Tory’s eyes are closed when I return, and I think he may have fallen asleep until he drawls, “Are you nearly finished with your diatribe? It’s entertaining but there’s no need to fret, I won’t sing. I’ll play a song.” He opens one eye, squints and searches his phone for a song. “Music has wondrous mood-altering capabilities.” He cues up Taylor Swift. When he looks up at me with that one bottomless, brown eye he says, “You’re wearing glasses,” as if it’s the most novel thing he’s ever seen.

I nod. “I didn’t know you were a Swiftie.”

“I’m not. But you are. Let’s not breeze over this glasse s thing. How long have you been wearing them? How come you don’ wear glasses at school? What’s your prescription?”

My eyes drift to my hands, twisting in my lap. “In order, I started wearing them in seventh grade. I don’t wear them in school because I was embarrassed about it as a kid. I’d take them off before I got on the bus. And now? I have contact lenses obviously. I mean, they kinda ruin my aesthetic. My prescription is one point five. Not sure why you need to know—”

“You’re not still embarrassed about having glasses, are you?” His sloppy question cuts me off.

I pause for a moment and throw my hands up. “I don’t know, maybe, my gosh, Tory. I’m just not comfortable wearing them to school. It’s stupid, but whatever. Leave me alone.”

“You’re not stupid,” he slurs, poking my forehead. “You’re smart. Nuts. But smart.”

A few seconds later I see the time and say, “I’d like to hear the joke. It’s getting late, I need to go.”

“Then I’ll be delaying the telling of the joke for the foreseeable future to ensure you never leave my side. Or at least until morning so you’ll stay all night.” He drawls the word all extra long.

“Tory,” I groan.

“Alright, alright, but only a small fraction of people actually understand this joke.”

“Try me.”

“There’s a fine line between a numerator and denominator.”

A smirk cracks at the corner of my lips, and I let out a small laugh. It grows, and he laughs too, seeming to relish the levity of the moment. “That shouldn’t be as funny as I’m finding it,” I tell him.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” I grab him a glass of water from the bathroom and leave a homeopathic hangover remedy on his nightstand. “Dissolve three tablets under your tongue every four hours.”

“Why did you bring this? Planning to over imbibe, were you? Did I miss out on drunk Clara?”

“I brought it in case someone else needed it.”

“That was kind of you.” His fingers drift dangerously close to my knee, and I stand to avoid his touch.

“I’ll see you at school,” I tell him, crossing my arms over my chest and squeezing hard.

“Must you go?” His eyes hold a type of desperation I’ve never seen from him before. It’s far more terrifying than his earlier hostility.

I nod.

He gives me a wan smile and asks with resignation, “Back to the old shtick on Monday, then?”

I smile back. “I certainly hope so. Night, Tory.”

“Goodnight, Charity.”

Tory rolls over and pulls the comforter tight around his shoulder. Just before my fingertips meet his doorknob, I hear his pained whisper.

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