Ben said no more, disappearing into the trenches of the night, but a chuckle came from Troy’s throat as he turned to leave. One that said, let the games begin.
William held his sentinel in front of me, in anticipation of Ben and Troy returning, or perhaps just not wanting to look at me. Judging from the blood crusting the pavement around me, I knew I looked like a horror movie victim who’d happened upon a deranged chainsaw aficionado.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a bandage on you, would you?” I said, hoping to get through the wall of man before me.
He shook his head, looking everything but amused.
“It’s a joke,” I said. “You can laugh, you know.”
He didn’t, he stood before me, rigid and looking regretful.
“Or loosen up,” I said under my breath as I leaned forward to tie my shoe, realizing the movement was a bad idea. Every square inch of my body throbbed or felt bruised.
“I heard that,” he said, his voice softer.
“Good,” I said, inspecting the damage from my head on collision with a brick wall. I ran my thumb down the center of my head, wincing.
“Let me see that,” he said, kneeling beside me. His fingers maneuvered mine out of the way, as he scrolled around the gash, exploring and inspecting as if he’d done it innumerable times before.
“I need to get you somewhere so I can get you stitched up,” he said, slipping out of his canvas jacket.
I shook my head with as little movement as possible. “It’s just a scratch.”
He barely rolled his eyes. “It’s just a scratch that requires stitches.”
“I don’t know about you, but I don’t let pre-med students use me as their guinea pig,” I said, trying to ignore his warm breath that fogged the space between us. “That’s what cadavers are for.”
He smiled, his mood finally lifting. “A twelve-year-old girl who can stitch a hem could manage ten measly stitches.”
“Then find me a twelve-year-old-girl.”
“You’re just going to have to make due with me,” he said, scooping me up suddenly. He rested his balled up jacket behind me, pressing it tightly against my head with his shoulder.
I was caught off-guard, too overwhelmed with being wrapped in his arms and the scent of him that was a dizzying concoction of cedar laced with cinnamon. He was halfway across the courtyard before I cleared my head enough to make a response.
“I can walk you know,” I said it because I thought I should, not because I actually wanted to.
“I’m sure you can.” His arms pulled me tighter against him, as if he was fearful I’d be pulled away from him by some invisible force.
“Then why are you going all Gone With the Wind on me?” I asked, although Rhett Butler didn’t hold a candle to him. And I certainly wasn’t a Scarlett O’Hare.
“Several reasons. One, we’ll get where we’re going faster,” he said, breaking into a run to prove his point. “Two, there is a possibility in your state you could stumble or lose consciousness and you really don’t need any more damage done to you tonight.”
I glared up at him, not amused at him making fun of my lack of grace.
“And three”—he shrugged—“because I want to.”
I tried not to smile like too much of an idiot. “Well those are your reasons, I guess,” I said. “Although they’re not good ones.”
He slowed back down, although not because he was fatigued or out-of-breath. His breathing remained unchanged, and from my agreeable positioning with my head against his chest, I heard every unhurried beat of his heart. He didn’t say anything else, just rushed forward into the night with me.
Silence didn’t bother me, it was actually where I felt most comfortable—in the things that didn’t need to be spoken—but this was a very pregnant silence that was starting to give me labor pains.
“Okay, so I’m going to address the elephant in the room”—I looked purposefully around us—“so to speak.”
His hint of a smile encouraged me onward.
“What the heck just happened?” I had no other way of summing up my loaded question.
His face was guarded—too guarded. “Big picture or microscope view?”
I managed something of a shrug. “I’m a details girl.”
He grinned. “I guessed that, too.”
I watched him, waiting for his mouth to open in response, and while I wouldn’t have really minded gazing at his mouth all night, I needed answers.
“So?” I asked, drawing the word out.
“So what?” he asked innocently.
I elbowed him in the ribs. “So now is as good a time as any to give me that microscope view.”
“Not now,” he said quietly, looking straight ahead in such a way I knew he was avoiding making eye contact.
“Yes now,” I demanded. “You know what they say, live in the now, there’s no time like the present, et cetera, et cetera.”
He was fighting a smile, that was a good sign. “Now”—he said it like it was a person—“is not the right time.”
“When is the right time?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “But I know it won’t be when you’re bleeding from the head and in desperate need of a good night’s sleep.” He looked pointedly at the dark hallows under my eyes—caused from sleepless nights trudging through homework that wouldn’t cooperate and thoughts of him that wouldn’t go away.