Page 14 of 72 Hours of You

He nods like he’s about to embark on some great and noble quest and heads to the bathroom.

“Don’t try to pocket my opioids!” I yell after him.

I hear him rustling in the medicine cabinet and wonder if he’s the kind of guy who gets squeamish around tampons. I bet he’s the guy who walks into a CVS head held high, priding himself on knowing the exact brand his girlfriend uses. Nope, just this box of Playtex Sports Glide Medium Flow for me, thanks!

“I didn’t find any narcotics,” he says, returning to my room. “But I did find these.” He holds up a box of My Little Pony Band-Aids. A tiny smile creeps up on his face. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a horse girl.”

“Horses are cool,” I say. I don’t give a shit about horses. They’re basically just tall dogs. The Band-Aids are Jules’s, obviously. But I don’t want him thinking he can take me for anything. He doesn’t know me.

“Sydney Hoffman, horse girl. Got it,” he says. “I found some hydrogen peroxide too. So, I’m just gonna …” He holds up a washcloth and the bottle.

“If you say ‘This might sting a little,’ I swear to god I’ll throw you out the window.”

“It won’t sting a little. It’ll sting a lot.” He dabs the liquid with the washcloth and hesitates for just a fraction of a second before touching it to my forehead. I squeeze my fists together but I don’t flinch. I never flinch.

He unpeels the sparkly Band-Aid and squirts some Neosporin on it. “Let me just …” He takes his index finger and brushes some of my hair off my forehead. This whole thing is giving daytime soap opera doctor/patient. I look hard outside the window and not in his eyes as he too-gently puts the Band-Aid on my forehead, smoothing it down over my cut.

He crumples up the Band-Aid trash and slides it into his pocket. “Leave it covered for the next couple of days,” he says. As if he actually knows what he’s talking about.

“What’re you, a WebMD junkie?” I ask. “Or are you just one of those guys who thinks he knows how to do something after watching a YouTube tutorial?”

“No, I’m an Eagle Scout,” he says, holding up three fingers in what I can only assume is some fucked-up salute.

“Jesus fucking Christ I should’ve known.”

“I’m just kidding.” He laughs, that easy carefree laugh of his. “My mom was a doctor.” He shrugs. “You pick stuff up.”

“Was? Is she dead?”

“No,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “She’s just …” The shadow of some unnamed thing crosses his face, but it’s gone so quickly that I think I might’ve imagined it. “She’s just not a doctor anymore. Why? Is your mom dead?”

“Yeah, actually she is,” I say.

“Oh. Oh shit. Sorry. I didn’t mean— Sorry.”

I consider letting him squirm a little longer but he’s rubbing the back of his neck extra hard and giving me that shoebox-squirrel look again.

“It was years ago.” I shrug. “Everyone dies.” He’s going to give himself neck rug burn.

“Yeah, but a mom is different. A mom is—”

“Everyone dies,” I say. “Even moms.” I look him in the eyes, waiting for him to shove his hands in his pockets, to look away and mumble something inane like Ashes to ashes, or for him to allude to a grand plan or some shit. But he doesn’t. He just looks right back at me. Steady.

“Yeah,” he says. “You’re right about that.” I guess he doesn’t flinch either.

“Well,” I say, a little impressed and a little disappointed. “Good.”

The bathroom door swings all the way open, slamming against my wall.

“My my my, what do we have here? A boy? In Sydney’s room?” Jules looks Peter up and down. “A cute one too.”

“Jules,” I say. “You remember Peter. The new kid.”

“How could I forget?” She sashays over and grabs him by the arm, squeezing the muscle under his white T-shirt a little too hard. “Did Liam seem happy before he died?” Goddamn it, why is she like this? Why is literally everyone like this?

“Yeah, I think he seemed happy,” Peter says, without hesitating. Of course Liam seemed happy. For all he knew, he was about to get road head and french fries. He had no idea the guillotine was hanging over his neck. Only I was lucky like that.

“Is that my sister’s blood on your shirt?” Jules asks, her fingers still curled around his bicep. She turns back to me. “Did he do something bad? Do I need to do a murder? What happened?”