Very smooth of me.Very productive.
It’s too dark to see what we’re dealing with, so I grab Penn’s other wrist and pull him toward the hallway. We stand beneath a bright overhead light, and I take his face in my hands, angling it for a better look. The cut is small but deep, the skin around it already pink. The square edge of the laser gun must’ve hit him just so.
Gently, I press a finger to the skin around it, applying some pressure. Penn’s breath catches, and only when he glances downat me do I realize how close we’re standing, and how intimate the position feels, even under an LED spotlight.
I feel bad that he’s hurt. But perhaps this minor injury isn’t such a mood killer, after all.
“We should clean this up,” I say quietly, watching Penn’s throat bob.
“I—I can handle it,” he rasps.
“I once watched you duct-tape a paper towel to your knee.”
His lips curve. “My first-aid skills have improved since middle school.”
“Well, I have an official first-aid certificationandI know CPR.”
Penn lifts a hand, setting his fingers over mine, still pressed to his cheek. His teeth dig into his lower lip as he says, “You really think I need mouth-to-mouth, Wynne?”
A heady rush. A twist in my stomach.
I can’t even think of a proper comeback, distracted by Penn’s heavy-lidded stare and his bare arms, which are suddenly hogging the offensively strong spotlight. But then he winces, reminding me I need to address the injury before I can hope for anything else.
“The lair,” I blurt out, finally sliding my hand out from beneath his. “You go lie down, and I’ll meet you there with supplies.”
Penn squints down at me. “The lair?”
“The beanbag lair. That’s what I call the turret room,” I explain. “It’s nice and cozy in there. So, you go relax, and we’ll get you all fixed up.”
He stares, processing my outlandish request. Maybe I have the head injury to thank for him not fighting back.
“Okay,” he says, wrestling with a grin. “Lair it is.”
13
Straight Out of a Fairy Tale
I used tobe embarrassed when Bridget would brag about my SAT score as a weird party trick, but she could be right—I might actually be a genius. Because when I make my way upstairs, first-aid kit in tow, I find shirtless Penn stretched out on the beanbag, one arm propped behind his head, his skin glowing in the blue light of the aquarium that’s set into the wall, the tiny ceiling lights shining overhead like a constellation, stars winking just for us.
The scene aligns perfectly with how thirteen-year-old me pictured romance. “Kiss Me” by Sixpence None the Richer might as well be playing softly in the background.
In fact, that’s not a bad idea.
After covering Penn’s cut with ointment and a Band-Aid, I kneel beside the Bluetooth speaker on the floor and try to connect it to my phone. The speaker has too many buttons.Why are there always so many buttons?
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“We need music.”
“Actually, I need an ice pack.”
I toss a hand. “Yeah, yeah. One second.” Something blinks on the speaker, and I’m finally able to connect my phone. But music selection is another, more stressful story.
“Need help?” Penn asks.
“Nope!” I scroll and scroll through my music. I may or may not be stalling, terrified of what I’m trying to do here, but eventually I land on a playlist of teen movie soundtracks and press play. The first song is more of a cheesy-pop situation than I’d like, but it’ll have to do.
Penn huffs. “All that to ensure Hilary Duff was playing? Does her voice have magical healing powers I’m unaware of?”
