It's much the same as our hallway. Doors all identical, no way to tell which is his, and it's not like I'm going to just knock on them randomly and ask. I'm standing there, heart pounding, regretting my stupid rash judgment for everything I've seen, when a door opens.
"Gwenna?”
Kingston. Dark joggers, dark T-shirt, the straps of his scapular just visible under the collar and the bruise on his inner elbow stark in the hallway light.
I almost melt with relief.
“Gwenna?” He frowns. “What do you?—”
I swallow hard and force the words out before I lose my nerve. “Can I come in?” I whisper.
The surprise on his face shifts to concern. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. No. I’m fine. I’m…” My fingers are at my waist, fidgeting. I force myself to stop. “I just wondered if I could see you.”
It takes a moment. But recognition dawns. Even in the dim light of the St. Ignaty’s hallway, I swear I can see his pupils dilate.
Please, Kingston. Don’t make me embarrass myself.
“Gwenna.” He lowers his voice. “You don’t have to do anything for…with me.”
“What if I want to?”
His golden eyes flicker, his lips part just a tiny bit.
“Unless it will throw off your game,” I add hastily.
“No,” he says quickly. “I mean, I can’t say for sure. But.” He presses his lips together. His whole body filling the doorframe.
And then he steps aside.
“Come in.”
I do.
The room’s as spare as mine is. Sand-colored walls, window seat, a small desk, a minuscule ensuite.
A double bed.
Now I’m nervous again. My fingers back to fidgeting, my eyes flicking back and forth to him, casting for words, for anything to say.
“You feeling better?” I blurt out. “From your…”
I point at the bruise. Kingston looks down at his arm.
“I’m fine,” he says, after a moment. Like he’s taken aback that I’d even ask. “It was…”
A distant look comes over his face, and I suddenly wonder if I’ve miscalculated entirely.
“Good,” I say, rushing on, babbling. “I hate needles. And blood. Anything like that. I get really woozy. It’s embarrassing, but?—”
Stop. Stop. I have to stop. I have to cut myself off and stop talking. I close my eyes, tense my fists, try to regroup.
Open my eyes.
Breathe.
“Kingston, I?—”
