“Here.” I jump at his voice as I look over, as he sits down a highball glass on the counter.
“There’s too much.” Still staring at the blood that’s covering me.
“No.” Shaking his head as he leans against the counter. “We’re not thinking like that.” His voice cracking as he says it, “We need to hurry. They said it’d take a while, but we need to be there when she comes out of surgery.”
“You can go ahead; I’ll be right behind you.
He says nothing at first, just looks at me, but I’m still just staring at the blood staining my skin.
And I laugh, surprising myself.
And I can’t stop.
Doubling over, bracing myself against the counter.
The water’s filling my eyes as it controls me.
“Uh, are you alright?”
“No, not even a little.” Reaching over, picking the glass up and tossing most of the whiskey back. “It’s just a little ironic.”
“What is?” I can see his protective brother’s side coming out.
“You don’t want to know.”
“Why would you say that?” he tosses his hands to the side. “Youknow now, if you don’t tell me, it’s gonna drive me crazy.”
“The day you showed up after Tate’s…” I trail off, not sure if I should bring it up or not. “You had just left, and she came out.”
“Wait, she was here?”
“Yes,” I chuckle. “So you know those period cups…”
“Yeah…” he nods. “I’m aware of at least what she used to use.”
“Did you know they can get stuck?”
He looks at me, shaking his head. “Get in the fucking shower.” Pointing past me.
“I told her I’d do more for her than get a little blood on my hands.”
I can’t help but laugh even harder, causing him to laugh as well before he forces himself out of the room. Muttering, “I hate you so fucking much,” as the door shuts behind him.
And I’m alone in the room, just me, the ghost of my memories, and the blood of the woman I love.
The shower makes me feel a little better, but still all I see are the flashes of Drew in my arms as I carry her through the halls. Her limp body as I come out the doors. Her on the gurney as they loaded her into the ambulance.
Pulling the shirt over my head, I move into the kitchen. Z sits, staring at the counter in front of him.
“What are these?”
Looking over, I see what he’s talking about: the photos sitting on the counter in front of him.
“I see you went through the drawers.”
“Can you blame me?”
“Nope,” shaking my head. “There weren’t many times we could go out. Tried once and ended up running into a coworker and you, actually.”
