By some unexpected blessing, Nathan isn’t home when we slip in through the back door. The kitchen lights are on, though, and the dishes still on the table tell me that Clay left in a hurry. Quickly he deposits the plate and glass in the sink, then he gets his first good look at me in full light. He curses so colorfully that, despite the situation, I make mental notes.
“Sorry,” he mutters. “I’ll get the first-aid kit.”
Light-headed, I collapse into the nearest chair, waiting for him to return. Eventually I put my head on the table and rouse only when a warm hand settles on my shoulder. I jolt upright; Clay steadies me, but he doesn’t let go. Blearily I note that he’s got a basin of warm water, a pile of hand towels, plus the kit he mentioned before. Somehow, the fact that he doesn’t speak before he starts washing my wounds makes the moment more intimate. The silence builds with his eyes on mine, and it feels incredibly important that he’s willing to take care of me before I answer any of his questions, of which there must be, like, a hundred.
Even the water stings; I brace as he cleanses, rinses, and goes again. He sucks in a sharp breath when he reaches my back. “Your shirt has to come off.”
“I bet you say that to all the injured girls.”
A half smile quirks the corner of his mouth. “That makes me sound like a predator.”
In answer I shrug out of my torn tee. It’s not a huge movement, but I’m so tired and hungry that it makes me dizzy. He frowns at whatever he sees in my expression, yet he still tilts me forward so he can clean the scratches on my back. The window behind me is open, and between my lack of clothes and low blood sugar, I’m freezing. First the goose pimples pop out, then I can’t stop my teeth from chattering. It might also be reaction settling in, who knows?
“Are you almost d-done?”
“Are you scared?” he asks.
Quickly I shake my head. “Sorry. I’m just—”
“It’s okay.” His voice is so gentle, I could crawl into it like an afghan somebody’s kindly grandma knitted.
Clay works fast, taping gauze over all the sore spots like he’s done this before. If he’s raised his brother half as much as I suspect, then he probably is an old pro at this. The rumor mill didn’t make their mother sound particularly protective or maternal, even before she left for good. So I can imagine that he’s the one who blew on Nathan’s skinned knees and applied Bactine and Band-Aids as requested. Right now, his warm breath over a long scrape on my forearm is making me quiver in an entirely different way.
Finally, he finishes with the treatment and gets a shirt for me to put on. Like Clay, the hoodie smells of fresh air, sunshine, and simple detergent. Shrugging into it is like snuggling into his arms. But he’s not paying attention to my goofy smile; instead he’s boiling water on the stove, probably for a hot drink. As I watch, he makes black tea liberally laced with honey.
“I don’t care how you feel about sugar right now,” he tells me, setting the mug in front of me with an authoritative thunk.
I smile. “It’s fine. Even I’m willing to admit I could use the glucose.”
“You probably need to eat, too. But all I have is bean soup.”
“Sounds good.”
Clay stares as if I’ve grown a second head. “It’s made with chicken bouillon and smoked ham hocks.”
“I’m making a few dietary changes. Some things I have no choice to avoid. Allergies,” I add with a shrug. “But other things I could eat, I’ve just chosen not to.”
“Then I’ll get you a bowl.”
The soup is still warm, waiting in a covered pot on the back of the stove. I’m awed that Clay knows how to cook; it’s not something I’ve ever had to worry about—in either life. As Liv, my mom only asked me to chop stuff for her, and more because she wanted the company than needed my help. And since I’ve been Morgan, Mrs. Rhodes is always on hand to fulfill my every whim. I feel really young compared to Clay, even if he’s only a few years older, and that makes it even more difficult to say what I need to.
“This is delicious,” I say.
It’s a little saltier than I’m used to, but it has an excellent flavor, just a hint of heat. While he cleans up the kitchen, I devour the whole serving along with the tea. I feel better fast; even my wounds don’t hurt as much as they did, and the throb of prior injuries dulls to a bearable ache. The clink of him depositing the soup pot in the fridge rouses me from a near food stupor.
“Come on, you.” He wraps an arm around me, tugging me out of the chair.
I don’t ask as Clay leads me through Nathan’s bedroom into his own and shuts the door behind us. Then he locks both doors, the one from Nathan’s room and the one that leads to the living room. Though I’m not exactly nervous—I don’t think Clay will do anything tonight of all nights—I’m also locked in with him.
I distract myself by looking at the posters on his walls, abstract art instead of bikini girls. The space is sparsely furnished: full bed on a simple frame, brown-and-gold patterned sheets, a battered desk that has been painted multiple times so several assorted colors peep through, and a rickety side table with a rather industrial lamp on it. There are some books and magazines but no family pictures, no mementos of high school, like the awards that bedeck Nathan’s walls.
But one shelf catches my eye. The items must be priceless to Clay, though I’m not sure what two of them mean. He’s got a pair of laminated ticket stubs on the right, a broken watch on the left, and in the center, there’s a framed certificate. Despite the ornate font I can read the top two words from here: GENERAL EQUIVALENCY.
“You already got your GED?”
His careless shrug says this is no big deal. “I took the test last year over at the technical college in Macon.”
“That’s amazing.”
“Yeah, well. It’s unlikely I’ll be offered an apprenticeship without it. I’m working on my portfolio now and I need to take a few art classes before I’ll become an appealing prospect.”
“Can I see it?”
“What?”
“Your portfolio.”
“Are you seriously asking to see my etchings?” But he’s smiling as he opens the lower desk drawer and pulls out a black folder. “There’s nowhere to sit but the bed. Is that okay?”
In answer I crawl across carefully and prop myself against the wall with my legs stretched sideways across the mattress. Clay settles beside me and I don’t even notice when he wraps an arm around my shoulders, settling me against him, because I’m too absorbed in his pen-and-ink designs. Most are simple, geometric, and his eye for patterns is exquisite and precise. He’s also got a few images that seamlessly blend different mythologies, like a Celtic love chain entangled with an ouroboros. I imagine how lovely this would be tattooed around someone’s biceps and glance up to find his face really close.
“You’re super talented,” I tell him.
“Thanks. But you’ve stalled long enough. I feel like I’ve been patient, now it’s time for you to start talking.”
He’s right. But …
“What about Nathan?”
“He’s out with Braden, so he’ll sleep wherever he passes out. Pretty sure he won’t be back tonight.” His tone says he’d like to track his brother down and beat some sense into him but Nathan is intractable. “Even if he shows up, he’ll sneak in the back and collapse in his room.”
“Okay then.”
Apparently, Clay can read my doubts because he kisses me softly. “Maybe this isn’t the time to say it, but … no matter what you tell me, it won’t change how I feel. In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve fallen for you so hard and fast that it feels like there’s no bottom.”