Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 69018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
That’s the problem. It could be. If I let it. If he let it.
“Yes.” That’s the truth. “Even in the rough patches and hard times,” I mumble.
He swipes the alcohol-soaked cotton over the wound and then gathers up a handful of bandages. He’s quick with everything, getting them and the gauze secured in place. He wasn’t kidding when he said he had to triage, and I don’t even want to think about the worst he’s had to do.
I watch the way his spine arches and his shoulders tense. He has blood on his hands, but he didn’t get any on the bench. He was careful, even though it would have just wiped clean. He’s also being careful not to show how much he’s hurting, but I can see the sharp glint in his eyes.
When he’s done, he pulls his shirt down, stands up, and motions to the sink. “Is it alright if I wash up before I make those calls?”
“Yes. Please!”
I step back, even though everything inside me wants to get close. I didn’t realize I was so good at running from that. I didn’t realize I was so token inside, even though I have a reason to fear getting hurt. I thought I wasn’t half as cliché as I am.
“People care about you too,” I blurt when Thorn thrusts his bloody hands under the stream of water at the small sink. “Your family. Your team.”
“Yes.” The word is thick, and I can hear the effort it takes for him to keep his tone neutral.
It makes me feel half desperate and half feral with the need to go to him and just touch him somewhere. To put my hand on his arm, even. But I don’t. My fingers prickle, and my body burns with the strain of standing in one spot.
How does the world see me? How do I want it to see this person I am? How do I go from here to who I want to be? That’s the question I’ve asked myself so many times. I’m sure most people do. It’s good to never stop asking. But how does Thorn see the world? How do people see him? He didn’t try to buy anything from me, and he didn’t come here with that intention. He just wanted to make things right because he has a good heart and because he can, but it’s also because he cares. There’s no denying that it’s true. Under that hard, somewhat frightening exterior is a beautiful person.
Maybe we’re both a little wounded, just waiting for the right person to see the beauty and the soul and heart that doesn’t always come in token packages.
I raise my head and find Thorn watching me. It would seem he’s ceased washing his hands a while ago. They’re not even dripping anymore.
“Can I do something for you?” I want to. I need to. And not just as a distraction. I want to because my heart is aching, and I’m terrified.
I know time can’t be taken lightly.
I wasn’t taking anything that way when I left Thorn and left behind that note for him. That wasn’t me running. It was just something practical. It was the right thing to do.
It doesn’t change the fact that I’m suffocating with dread right now. Something could have happened. Something could still happen. Because life is not a guarantee. I did the responsible, adult thing and separated a special moment and a night of desire from everything else.
But Thorn’s here.
And he’s hurt.
He wipes his hands on his pants and pulls out his phone. He makes one call, and it sounds more like it’s to a dispatcher, and I realize it probably is. Probably someone central at his company. Someone who dispatches medical personnel or finds someone. He raises a brow at me, and I nod, and he gives the address and a description of the bus. Then, he thanks whoever is on the other end and hangs up.
“It shouldn’t be more than an hour,” he says, as though I’m the one who needs reassurance.
“Can I make you a sandwich?” I have to do something. Even if he doesn’t eat it… I got some fresh tomatoes at the farmer’s market this morning. Bread too. Uh, do you eat bread? Do you like tomatoes?”
“Do I eat bread?” he scoffs. Right, I’ve witnessed him inhale sandwiches at his house before. We kind of bonded over them. “Carbs are my best friend.”
I doubt that, but I get out the homemade loaf and the cherry red tomatoes from my tote. It’s a reminder that there are other things in there that should go in the fridge, so I get them situated and pull out the ham, cheese, mayo, and hot sauce. And then some pickles for the side.
Thorn sits back down and starts packing the leftover bandages and such back into the first aid kit. It’s only a little red canvas package, no bigger than a smaller makeup bag, and he does everything meticulously. The way he puts it back together is better than a factory.