Another nod.
“I’m going to start here, then.” Direct pressure on the wound would be too much. I can tell from the stretched-tight tension in every single line of Leo’s body. One more dip in the warm water, and then I press it to that spot on his shoulder and rub in gentle circles.
A person bracing for pain will feel more pain. I don’t want that for him. I curve my hand over the washcloth and slide it down to his bicep.
His shoulders let down a little. Leo says something under his breath, so quiet I can’t make out the words. I don’t ask.
I repeat the process on the other side. Slow, even breaths. No shaking hands. I’m too far past his defenses for any wrong move. Leo breathes, his eyes closed, dark eyelashes skimming his cheeks. One fist opens, flexes, closes again. I take his hand in mine and move it to my waist. If he asks why, I’ll tell him that it’s because I want him to be able to feel what I’m doing.
I will not tell him that it’s because his hand there steadies me, too.
Fresh water on the washcloth. I put it on his shoulder above the wound and his hand tightens on my waist. “Just my hand.” I lift the washcloth away and bring it back, slowly, slowly, and press it against the broken skin with the flat of my hand. Leo hisses, turning his face away. Rivulets of blood run down from underneath the washcloth. I can feel the wild thrash of his heart. “One more time.” More water. The lightest pressure I can manage. His jaw works and my heart leaps outside my body. I wish it was easier. I wish, I wish.
The bleeding is less when I take the washcloth away, and then it’s time for a dry towel. Leo’s eyes catch mine the moment before I lay it over his skin and some inner part of me collapses. He doesn’t show fear, but sometimes it flashes through his eyes anyway. “Hold it there while I get the Neosporin.”
He laughs, anguish in the sound. “Why bother?”
I’m already rummaging through the first aid kid, plucking out a long bandage with a soft center, some gauze, and yes, the Neosporin. “So you don’t get a blood infection and die.”
“You’re right. The second one would probably kill me.”
I return to the business of taking off the towel and dispensing Neosporin. Leo puts his hand back on my waist. “Second? I thought Morellis had invincible blood.”
“They don’t.”
I hold up one hand so he can see it. Leo pulls me closer. I pretend the heat of the bathroom makes me blush and not his reflex. I pretend with all my might. “I’m sorry,” I say into his ear, and then I skim the cream over the wound.
Another hiss, and Leo pulls his entire arm in close, me along with it. He stays that way for several heartbeats before he can begin to relax.
“Gauze,” I narrate, trying to hurry without screwing it up. “Bandage. Done.”
I expect him to let go. To push me away, even. But Leo’s head is bowed, his eyes closed. His lips move but I can’t make out what he’s saying.
In the absence of knowing what to do, I put a hand on the back of his neck. “Is it the cut? Because if it is, maybe there’s someone we can call.”
“The cut is fine. You fixed it.” His voice sounds ready to snap.
I keep my hand where it is. “How long have you had the scars?”
The noise he makes is meant to be a laugh, but it’s tight and tortured. Leo holds me closer. I don’t know if he’s aware he’s doing it. “When I was fourteen, there was an older woman.” Cold horror spreads through the pit of my stomach. Fourteen. That’s too young. I must stiffen, because Leo barks another laugh. “Yeah. Fourteen. She came on to me. Seduced me. At first I thought it was pretty hot.”
I stroke the back of his neck. Gentle. Gentle. Please, let this thing not have happened to him. But it did. Pain streaks across his face, and he rearranges his expression. An old habit.
“Then she started to get...” A pause. A search. “Psycho. So I decided to end it. I told her it was over, and she cried. The smile—” He shudders. “She smiled while she was crying. One last time, baby. It was a stupid, obvious trick.” Leo takes a sharp breath. “She tied me up and whipped me to punish me, and prove her point.”
He doesn’t have to describe any more. The scars are visible evidence.
“Thought I might die, but I didn’t. I dragged myself home and let Eva patch me up. My sister. She was standing in the fucking foyer, otherwise I wouldn’t have told her either.”
It sounds like a lie. I think he would have told his sister. But I don’t interrupt, because the story isn’t over.
“I made her help me hide it from the rest of the family. Then it got infected. She’s the one who took me to the hospital and back home again after.”
The way he says hospital makes it sound bad. Unresolved. I run my fingers through his hair, then down over his neck, careful as I’ve ever been in my life not to touch any lower, where there are scars. “And it still hurts you, even now.”
“No. It feels great.” Another hiss, as clear and pained as it was when I cleaned his cut. He’s trembling with unreleased tension and hurt. “I don’t know if it was the whipping or the infection but my nerves are all fucked up. Stress can set it off, or touch...”
“Should I stop—”
“No,” he growls, and then his hand comes up to cover mine, pinning it to the back of his neck. One deep breath. Then another. And another. It grips him, this pain, in big, huge fists. I’m terrified it will last forever. Fear beats in my blood along with my pulse, but then it seems to peak. Leo takes another breath. Opens his eyes. Straightens. “Fuck.”
A long silence.
“I swore never to trust a woman again. Or anyone. And I swore I would get revenge.”
He hasn’t released me, but he pats at my hand on his neck and drops his hand to his side. “Of course you did. It’s awful.” My voice almost breaks. “That’s awful, what happened to you. I understand why you have to do that.”
“If you knew the whole story...” He shakes his head and stands up, and I don’t press him. I’m not going to. What I am going to do is find a hidden crying spot later so I can weep for the fourteen-year-old boy who became this man. Leo reaches down, takes my elbow, and lifts me to my feet. “Brush,” he says. “Clothes.” His voice drops back into his usual command. “Bed.”
17
Haley
Leo finds a hairbrush and works it through my hair. He dresses me in his own clothes, walks me to his bed, and puts me in. I’m ready to protest. Ready to insist that I’m not tired. Ready to provoke him, even. Anything to get more of this closeness. But the moment he pulls the covers up to my shoulders, my eyelids droop and I’m out. Sleep claims me.
I don’t know if he ever comes to bed. I sleep all night. It’s the sleep of a narrow miss. Of a near thing. My body dives in deep. Heat comes in waves over my cheeks any time I get close to resurfacing, but I can’t pinpoint why.
In the morning I wake up alone.
There’s a different kind of silence in Leo’s bedroom. A more expansive one. The room itself is bigger than the guest room, but more importantly, Leo is gone. I know he’s not here the instant I’m conscious. He always seems larger than life. Like he takes up so much space. Now I know that it’s not him, or not only him. The pain he carries with him is a stack of barbed, humming energy. That takes up space, too.